LUO FAN
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With Li Ai's help, the villagers' hostile glances gradually began to soften. Their suspicion gave way to cautious warmth, and before long, they treated me with unexpected kindness.
In the first few days, they brought me food—simple but nourishing meals of freshly caught fish, foraged vegetables, and wild fruits. When I tried to repay them, they waved me off with amused smiles.
To them, money meant nothing. Isolated from the world beyond the island, they had little use for silver or coin.
Ruan Yanjun's condition had stabilized, but his fate still hung in the balance. He remained in a coma, his body clinging to life by the thinnest of threads.
Eating was impossible for him. His swallow reflexes were gone, and trying to feed him by mouth risked choking him.
So I turned to the island's wild greenery in search for a solution. I foraged for plants, mushrooms, and roots with medicinal properties, relying on what little knowledge I had. Refining them into simple elixirs, I dripped the liquid carefully into his mouth, letting it slowly trickle down his throat.
It wasn't much, but it was enough to sustain him.
Day by day, his body showed signs of resilience. A week passed, and his wounds began to heal, the once-angry gashes knitting themselves together. His pulse grew steadier, and his breathing smoothed into a natural rhythm. Even the fracture in his skull, a wound that should have spelled his end, started to mend itself.
I was amazed—truly, beyond anything I'd expected.
I had been determined to do everything I could to keep him alive, even when the odds were against us. But in truth, I hadn't expected much. I had prepared myself for failure—for the slow, inevitable decline of a man too broken to survive.
Clearly, I had underestimated him.
I had forgotten that Ruan Yanjun was unlike the rest. Even poised on the brink of death, he remained an enigma—something not wholly mortal, as if carved from both heaven's light and hell's shadow. What would have killed anyone else, he seemed to endure by sheer force of will.
Or perhaps it wasn't just will.
Perhaps it was the ancient demonic core within him—an artifact of power that defied reason and logic. A force that stubbornly anchored his soul to his body and refused to let go.
But he was far from safe.
Death still lingered, hovering close.
He had lost too much blood. His organs were damaged beyond what any normal healer could repair. At any moment, his breath could stop. His exhausted heart might just stop beating.
And even if—by some miracle—he regained consciousness, I feared he might never be the same again.
The trauma to his skull had been too severe. He would need care. Constant care. Possibly for the rest of his life.
I found myself wondering… could I do it? Could I truly abandon everything—the life I once knew, the duties that still awaited me—and choose instead to remain by his side?
To become his keeper.
His shadow.
But it wasn't the time for such thoughts. Not yet. Not while his survival was still uncertain.
I would wait. A month, maybe two. And then... I would decide.
One morning, before the sun had fully risen, I left him in the cabin and joined the fishermen heading out to sea. Their numbers had dwindled recently due to illness and old age, so I offered to help as a way to repay their kindness. Since they refused to accept money, labor was the only currency they valued.
The sea was calm that day, the horizon painted in hues of pink and orange. The fishermen worked tirelessly, casting nets and pulling them back with practiced efficiency. I followed their lead, hauling in net after net of wriggling fish. By midday, the boats were so laden with the bounty of the sea that they sat low in the water, teetering on the edge of capsizing.
When we finally returned to shore, the villagers gathered to help unload the haul. Their astonished murmurs filled the air as they took in the sheer volume of fish.
"This is a blessing!" one of the fishermen exclaimed. "The gods must be favoring you, Priest Luo."
I smiled faintly, though I didn't share their belief. Still, I appreciated their gratitude and felt a quiet sense of accomplishment.
As I stepped away from the bustling shore to make room for the helpers, a child came sprinting toward me, his bare feet moving swiftly over the rough pebbles and broken shells scattered across the sand.
"Priest Luo!" he called, his voice high-pitched with urgency.
I recognized him immediately. "Hong'er," I said as he reached me, his small chest heaving from the effort of running.
This boy often played in the yard outside my cabin in the mornings, his laughter a rare comfort in my otherwise somber days.
"What's wrong?" I asked, crouching slightly to meet his eyes. "Why are you so anxious?"
"The… dead man…" he gasped, the words tumbling out in pieces. "He's awake!"
For a heartbeat, my mind went still.
Dead man. He had to mean—
"Did you see him?" I asked, barely able to breathe.
He nodded quickly, pointing back toward the cabin with both hands.
Without another word, I turned and ran, my feet pounding over the shore, heart rising into my throat.
Could it be true?
Could it really be possible?
The door to the cabin was ajar. The boy must have opened it, likely curious after hearing some noise. I pushed it open further and stepped inside.
There he was.
Ruan Yanjun sat upright on the bed, his dark eyes locked onto the door as though he had been waiting for me to appear. His face, though still pale, had regained some of its color, and his posture was steady despite his ordeal.
"Lord Ruan," I whispered, my voice trembling.
I took a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness in my chest. My mind was still reeling, caught between disbelief and cautious hope. I had never expected Ruan Yanjun to recover from his injuries, much less at such a remarkable pace. Yet here he was, sitting upright on the bed, a living contradiction to the shattered figure I had tended just days ago.
Slowly, I moved toward him.
Each step felt surreal, careful, as if any sudden movement might break the spell.
When I reached the bed, I stopped and looked down at him, studying his face—searching for recognition, awareness, anything.
"How do you feel?" I asked softly, breaking the silence.
He didn't answer. His expression remained blank, his eyes unfocused as they stared past me, seeing something—or perhaps nothing—in the distance. It was as though he hadn't even heard me.
I frowned, unease settling in the pit of my stomach.
Though he was awake in body, his mind clearly wasn't with him. He seemed trapped somewhere else, disconnected from the world around him.
Could his head injury have damaged his brain?
The thought was unsettling, but I couldn't dismiss it. If this state turned out to be permanent, what was I supposed to do with him? An injured Ruan Yanjun I could nurse back to health, but a man reduced to an empty shell…
I sighed, forcing myself to push those thoughts aside. At the very least, I could feed him now. No longer would I have to exhaust myself refining elixirs to sustain him.
That was a small mercy.
For the next three days, Ruan Yanjun remained the same—silent and motionless.
He sat in the same place, his posture rigid, almost unnatural.
At night, I had to guide him to lie down and rest, moving him gently like a puppet with cut strings. He never resisted, but each morning, I would wake to find him seated upright once more, staring blankly ahead as if the night had never happened at all.
On the fourth day, something changed.
As I fed him—carefully spooning the porridge to his lips—his eyes moved.
Slowly, they lifted until they met mine.
I froze. The spoon hovered midair as our gazes locked.
There was something in his eyes now—a flicker, faint but undeniable. A spark of awareness. It was as if a veil had been pulled back, even if only slightly.
"Lord Ruan," I said quietly, cautiously. "Do you recognize me?"
He didn't speak, but he didn't look away either. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, unblinking, studying me with a strange, unfamiliar intensity.
What unsettled me wasn't the silence—it was the look in his eyes. They weren't dark and piercing the way they used to be. There was no arrogance in them. No judgment. No fire. They were soft. Uncertain. Almost… tame.
It reminded me of how a child might look at a stranger who had just offered them something kind—wary, but quietly grateful.
I resumed feeding him, my hands moving slower now, more hesitant. He accepted each bite without protest, never once breaking eye contact.
His unwavering stare made my skin prickle—not out of fear, but something closer to discomfort. A feeling I couldn't quite name.
"Lord Ruan," I tried again, softer this time. "It's me. Luo Fan. Do you remember me?"
No answer.
But his gaze didn't drift. It wasn't cold or detached. It was… searching. Like he was trying to piece something together, and somehow I was the missing part.
I couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental about him had shifted. His gaze wasn't the playful or suspicious look I had grown used to from him. Gone was the calculating stare that seemed to see through every layer of my defenses. Instead, this look was raw and open, as if he feared I might vanish the moment he blinked.
The room was silent save for the soft clink of the spoon against the bowl. I forced myself to focus on the task at hand, one spoonful at a time. But his stare never wavered, and I couldn't help but feel exposed under its weight.
I had seen Ruan Yanjun in countless moments—proud, angry, smug, amused—but this was something new. Something I wasn't sure how to interpret.