LUO FAN
— ✦ —
The next morning, Ruan Yanjun did not stir.
I tried gently calling his name, placing a hand on his shoulder, but there was no response. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm, but his stillness worried me.
I considered using a small burst of energy again, just enough to stir him awake—but I decided against it. His heart had been under tremendous strain lately, and I couldn't risk weakening it further.
Instead, I sat on the stool beside his bed and resumed grinding the herbs I'd gathered from the woods. The rhythmic motion was soothing, even as my mind churned with unease.
By the time the sun reached its peak and the warm glow of noon filtered in through the cabin windows, I heard a faint rustle.
I looked up to see his eyes slowly fluttering open.
I didn't speak. I only watched.
His gaze was clearer than it had been in days. The dullness that had clouded them before was gone, replaced by a quiet glow.
Slowly, he began to sit up, each movement sluggish and unsteady, as if his body had forgotten how to obey him. His breath caught as he finally propped himself upright, and he exhaled a long, shallow breath, visibly drained.
But his expression had changed. The pain that once twisted his features was gone, replaced by something calmer. Almost serene.
When he turned his head and our eyes met, he didn't look away.
This time, his gaze wasn't empty. There was something sharp in it now, something alive. Not the fierce calculation I had once known, but a quieter, more searching intensity that made me pause.
"Do you still feel pain?" I asked.
He didn't answer. His gaze remained locked on mine—steady, unblinking, and strangely… entranced.
There was something unsettling in the way he looked at me, as though I were some otherworldly being he couldn't quite comprehend.
I pushed the thought aside and asked again, "Are you hungry?"
This time, he blinked slowly. His lips parted.
"Gege," he whispered.
I froze.
Gege?
The word echoed in my mind, striking something deep and strange.
Gege—elder brother.
"What did you call me?" I asked, my voice steady, but my pulse quickening.
He blinked again, his expression softening. "Gege," he repeated, as though it were the only word he truly remembered. "What is your name?"
For a moment, I couldn't answer.
He didn't know me.
That realization landed like a blade between my ribs.
Could it be… had he lost his memory?
"My name is Luo Fan," I said at last, carefully watching his face.
His eyes lit up—genuinely lit up—at the sound.
As though that name had been waiting for him in the darkness.
"Luo Fan," he murmured, almost reverently.
I nodded. "Now, tell me your name," I said, to see if he remembered anything.
There was a pause, and then, with the same soft voice, he said, "It's… Lan Feng."
My eyes widened.
Lan Feng?
I had heard that name before, long ago. The servants in his mansion and the manager of the restaurant where we had dined together for the first time had referred to him as Lord Lan.
Was this his true name? Or had his muddled brain conjured up a false identity in the wake of his injuries?
I needed to understand more. "How old are you?" I asked cautiously.
"Seventeen," he answered, without the slightest hesitation.
I stared at him, stunned.
Seventeen.
It seemed to me his memory was fractured, and the pieces that remained were incomplete. In his mind, he was still a teenager, a far cry from the powerful sect leader who had loomed over me for so long.
"That explains why you called me gege," I said softly, more to myself than to him.
His lips curved into a faint smile. It lacked the sharpness and knowing smirk I had come to associate with Ruan Yanjun.
"I see," I said aloud, nodding as I forced a small smile of my own.
I studied him—this man with the form of a grown cultivator and the mind of a boy.
Strangely, I felt… relieved. This version of Ruan Yanjun—Lan Feng, as he called himself—was vastly different from the demon I had known. There was no menace in him. No arrogance. He seemed almost… harmless.
Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise. I wouldn't have to contend with the arrogant, manipulative man who could be tender and caring one moment, only to tease me mercilessly the next—and in the end, betray me without hesitation.
Instead, I had a confused, vulnerable boy to care for.
It was strange… but I found myself thinking it might actually be easier this way.
Suddenly, something about his hands caught his attention.
His gaze, which had been fixed on me moments before, finally shifted downward. He stared at his palms, turning them over slowly, brow furrowed in deep thought. After a long pause, his eyes moved lower, taking in the rest of his body as if seeing it for the first time.
I watched him quietly, unsure of what to say.
He was processing something. He had likely realized, on some instinctive level, that he didn't look seventeen. That the body he now inhabited was older, stronger, changed.
I braced myself for the questions I was sure would follow, questions I wasn't ready to answer. But to my surprise, none came.
He remained silent, studying himself, lost in some private thought.
And for once, his attention wasn't on me, and for that, I was grateful. His intense stare earlier had unsettled me in ways I couldn't quite explain.
Still, curiosity gnawed at me. What was he thinking? What fragments were beginning to stir behind those quiet eyes?
"What is the last thing you remember?" I asked softly, breaking the silence.
For a long moment, he didn't respond.
His fingers flexed slightly against the blanket, as if testing the strength of his grip. Finally, he lifted his head and met my gaze.
"I was on my way home," he said, his voice hesitant and low. He paused, the words coming slowly, as though he were sifting through fragments of a dream. "Guo Xing pushed me off the bridge."
His expression darkened as he continued. "I fell into the river. Drowned."
I frowned, his words triggering more questions than answers. "Who is Guo Xing?"
"Neighbor," he replied curtly, his speech clipped and uncharacteristically simple.
"Why did he push you?"
He hesitated again, his eyes flickering with faint emotion. "He liked a girl… She did not like him."
"She liked you instead?"
He nodded once, confirming my guess.
I leaned back, processing the pieces of his fragmented story.
"The moment you drowned—was that the last thing you remember?"
Another nod.
I sighed, a tightness pressing into my chest.
That moment must have been one of the most traumatic in his life, etched so deeply into his mind that everything beyond it had faded into oblivion.
His memory had stopped there, frozen at the peak of pain.
"Gege," he said, his voice softer now.
I turned to him, startled by the gentle endearment. "Yes?"
His gaze was steady—filled with an odd blend of innocence and hope. "Were you the one who got me out of the river?"
I shook my head slowly. "No. I found you unconscious along the road."
He stared at me for a moment longer, then lowered his gaze to his hands again. His expression shifted—contemplative, almost resigned.
"Gege, may I borrow a mirror?"
Although I hesitated, I understood his curiosity.
I reached into a nearby drawer and retrieved a small mirror the previous occupants had left behind.
I handed it to him, watching as he took it with trembling fingers.
He held raised it to his face, his eyes widening as he took in his reflection. For a long time, he stared, his expression shifting between confusion and recognition. "Years have passed since," he murmured, his voice tinged with disbelief. "I've slept for so long."
I didn't respond. What could I say? It seemed better to let him draw his own conclusions for now. I wasn't equipped to explain the truth—not to someone in such a fragile state.
"Gege, how long ago did you find me?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
"Two weeks ago," I replied, keeping my tone even.
His brows furrowed, the confusion in his eyes deepening. He turned back to the mirror, his reflection still holding him captive. "So many years… forgotten," he murmured.
I sighed and leaned forward slightly. "Don't think too much about it right now. When you get better, maybe your memories will return."
He looked up at me again, and to my surprise, his eyes lit up with something that resembled hope. The faintest smile tugged at his lips—a genuine, sincere smile. It was so unlike the smug, taunting smirk Ruan Yanjun had once worn like a mask.
"Gege is right," he said with quiet conviction. "Someday, I will recall."
I couldn't help but smile back, though everything still felt slightly surreal. "Are you hungry?" I asked.
He nodded, and a small spark of eagerness lit his eyes. "Fish?"
I let out a soft chuckle. It seemed he had taken a liking to the fish stew I'd made yesterday, bland as it was.
"Yes," I said, rising to my feet. "I'll cook more fish for you."
His smile widened just a bit more, and I turned toward the small kitchen to begin preparing the meal.
As I moved around the space, gathering ingredients and stoking the fire, I found myself reflecting on how strange all of this had become.
Here was Ruan Yanjun—or Lan Feng, as he now called himself—reduced to a state of near-childlike innocence. The arrogance, the cunning, the oppressive aura that once defined him were all gone, like smoke chased away by morning wind.
In their place was something simpler. Someone vulnerable. And somehow, in his presence, I felt calm.
Perhaps this new version of him wasn't so bad after all.
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
I woke abruptly to the sound of muffled moans echoing in the stillness of the night. Instinctively, I sat up and turned toward Ruan Yanjun's bed. His face was contorted in pain, his brows knitted tightly as his head moved from side to side on the pillow.
The pill I had given him earlier had clearly worn off, and the sight of his discomfort sent a pang of worry through me. I hurried to his side, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Lan Feng," I called softly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. His body twitched slightly at the contact, but he didn't wake. The pain had consumed him completely.
I sighed, my thoughts racing. The pills I had been giving him were losing their effectiveness. Each dose seemed to last a shorter period of time, the relief fleeting. I couldn't understand why.
Carefully, I reached behind his head, my fingers brushing against the area where his skull had been fractured. The bone was healing—faster than I had expected—but instead of easing his pain, it seemed to be intensifying it.
"This doesn't make sense," I muttered under my breath.
Closing my eyes, I channeled a thread of spiritual energy into his head, allowing it to flow through his body in search of abnormalities. Almost immediately, I felt resistance—a foreign presence buried deep within his brain. My breath caught.
It was a mass of dried blood, compacted into a lump that had been overlooked during his initial recovery. As his skull mended, the pressure inside his head was increasing, compressing his brain against the encroaching object. It was no wonder the pain was worsening. The lump was causing significant damage.
I clenched my fists, frustration and determination warring within me. There was no time to waste. If I didn't act now, the damage could become irreversible.
I placed both hands on either side of his head, allowing a steady stream of spiritual energy to flow from my palms. Using precise control, I focused on the lump, carefully breaking it apart into smaller particles. It was delicate, painstaking work. Too much force, and I could cause further harm. Too little, and the process would take far longer than he could endure.
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I worked, my breaths coming in shallow pants. Slowly but surely, the lump began to disintegrate. The dried blood broke apart into particles finer than dust, dissolving into near-nothingness.
But I knew this wasn't a permanent solution. The particles would eventually clump together again, causing the same problem to resurface. For now, I had relieved the immediate pressure, but I needed to find a way to expel the impurities from his body entirely.
The hours dragged on as I worked tirelessly, my spiritual energy draining with each passing moment. By the time I was finished, the first light of dawn was beginning to creep through the cracks in the shutters.
Exhausted, I barely managed to lower myself to the floor before my body gave out completely, and I collapsed in an ungraceful heap beside the bed.