LUO FAN
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I sighed as I looked down at Ruan Yanjun, still asleep in the bed.
Last night, no matter how many times I guided him to lie down, he kept getting up. Eventually, I'd been forced to give him a pill to make him sleep.
It was already dawn. I had to head out to sea with the villagers again. By the time I returned, he would likely be awake.
I stepped outside and found Hong'er already waiting near the path, eyes bright with excitement.
I hadn't asked him to come, but I was sure his mother had sent him to keep an eye on Ruan Yanjun while I was gone.
The villagers had been nothing but kind to me—so generous, in fact, that their warmth sometimes made me feel guilty. I tried not to rely on them too much, choosing instead to repay their hospitality through labor and quiet acts of service.
"Did your mother ask you to come over?" I asked.
He nodded, a small, innocent smile tugging at his lips.
Just as I thought.
"Priest Luo," he said suddenly, eyes lighting up, "could you make me another one of those pills? The kind that makes bubbles in water?"
I couldn't help but smile.
A few days ago, I'd found a wildflower in the woods—one I hadn't seen in years. When ground and added to water, it released harmless bubbles. If refined properly, the reaction was stronger and more playful.
That had been the first pill I ever learned to refine during my novice days at Frost Mountain. To my surprise, it had become popular among children across the Kan Empire, even earning the sect a fair bit of profit.
I had refined some here and handed them out to the children in the village. They'd spent hours playing with the bubbles, some even using them in their baths.
I reached out and gently brushed Hong'er's hair. "I'll search the woods again later and gather ingredients to make more for you."
His smile bloomed into a grin. "Thank you, Priest Luo!" he beamed. "I'll watch your brother again while you're out!"
I blinked.
Brother?
Why did he think Ruan Yanjun was my brother?
Before I could ask, a voice called out from the shore.
"Priest Luo, let's go!"
I glanced toward the sound. One of the fishermen was waving.
"Coming!" I called back, then turned to Hong'er. "Make sure he doesn't leave the cabin," I said gently.
"Yes, Priest Luo!" he chirped, full of enthusiasm, his small frame practically bouncing as he followed me halfway down the beach.
The fishermen greeted me warmly as I joined them, their camaraderie a welcome distraction from the weight of my responsibilities. We set out to sea, the boats gliding smoothly over the water as the sun began to rise, casting golden light across the waves.
Midway through the morning, one of the boats sprang a leak. The others, their vessels already full, continued onward while I stayed behind to assist with the damaged craft.
With a focused breath, I released a small burst of energy, channeling it into the worn wood. The leak sealed temporarily beneath my touch, just enough to hold us together until we reached shore.
By the time we returned to land, the sun had climbed high into the sky, its heat pressing heavily on our backs. I helped unload the catch as quickly as I could, sweat slicking my skin, my thoughts already drifting elsewhere.
I was thinking of the cabin.
Of Ruan Yanjun.
He would be waiting for his morning care.
I took the shore path leading back toward the village, the familiar curve of it half-swallowed in sea mist. As I neared the outskirts, I spotted Hong'er crouched in the sand, his small hands busily shaping a lopsided castle with damp handfuls.
When he saw me, his entire face lit up in a bright grin.
"Priest Luo! Your brother is still sleeping," he called out cheerfully, pointing toward the cabin.
That word again—brother.
It gave me pause, just for a moment, but I shook it off. There was no point in correcting him.
"He didn't wake up?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even, though concern had already begun to creep in.
Hong'er shook his head with innocent certainty. "He's been asleep the whole time. I checked on him, but he didn't move."
I reached out to ruffle his hair, masking my unease with a small smile. "Thank you, Hong'er. You've done well. Go home and eat something now. Don't keep your mother waiting."
"It's okay," he said brightly. "Mama's still cooking."
"Still, don't stay out too long. The sun's too strong today," I cautioned gently.
"Yes, Priest Luo!" he replied with his usual energy and turned back to his castle, humming softly to himself.
I continued toward the cabin.
The door was slightly ajar—left that way by Hong'er, no doubt. Inside, the air was quiet.
Ruan Yanjun still lay exactly as I had left him, his body unmoved, his expression untouched by time.
Something felt wrong.
I stepped closer, dropping to my knees beside him. My fingers reached instinctively for his pulse.
The rhythm beneath his skin was uneven. Erratic. It beat with a frantic tempo that sent a chill through me. His skin was cold, yet his forehead bore no sign of fever.
"Lord Ruan," I said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
When he didn't stir, I gave him a gentle shake, my worry growing heavier with each breath.
Still no response.
Reluctantly, I gathered a small measure of energy in my palm and pressed it into his body. Just a spark, enough to stir the nerves without causing harm.
He gasped awake, his chest heaving as he drew in a ragged breath.
A low moan slipped from his lips, and his head tossed weakly from side to side. His brows knit together in an expression of pure agony, and his fingers twitched faintly against the sheet.
"Lord Ruan," I said again, my voice firmer now, my worry sharper. "Tell me what's wrong. What hurts?"
"My head," he whimpered, barely above a whisper. "So painful…"
I froze.
It was the first time he had spoken since awakening.
But his voice was different. Higher-pitched. Weaker. Almost childlike in its fragility. It lacked the deep, commanding tone I had grown so used to.
It sounded vulnerable.
His body jerked again as another wave of pain wracked through him, and his features contorted with raw torment. The sight was almost unbearable. It wasn't the type of pain that passed quickly—it was the deep, consuming kind, born from injury and confusion, the kind that stripped a person of dignity.
But I saw it as progress. Pain meant his body was beginning to feel again. That his nerves were reconnecting, his senses stirring from dormancy.
He was alive. And his mind, though fractured, was beginning to return to the surface.
I placed a steady hand on his shoulder, grounding him. "Stay still," I murmured. "Moving will only make it worse."
As I tried to think through what to do next, the sound of approaching footsteps caught my attention.
Ping, one of the fishermen, appeared at the door. He carried a netted basket brimming with fish—my share of the morning's catch.
He stepped inside cautiously, his gaze drifting toward the bed. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Ruan Yanjun shifting and moaning in discomfort.
"Priest Luo, I can take care of the fish for you," Ping said gently, his tone kind but earnest. "You should stay with him. He looks like he needs you."
I looked back at Ruan Yanjun—his face pale, his body tense with pain—and then back at Ping.
The offer was generous. And I was grateful. But I couldn't allow myself to impose further. The villagers had already done so much.
"Thank you, Ping," I said with a shake of my head. "But I'll manage. He just needs rest. I'll prepare the meal after."
Ping hesitated, clearly wanting to insist, but eventually gave a small nod. "Alright. Just let me know if you need anything."
Once he left, I turned back to the bed.
Ruan Yanjun's breathing had begun to steady, though a shadow of tension still lingered across his features.
I sat beside him and reached for the cloth resting near the basin. After dipping it into the cool water, I wrung it out and pressed it gently to his brow.
He flinched—just barely—but then, slowly, the tightness in his face began to ease beneath my touch.
I let the cloth rest there, my hand lingering lightly against his skin, as if willing the pain to ebb away.
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
An hour later, the cabin was filled with the comforting aroma of fish stew simmering over the fire.
I stirred the pot one final time before ladling a portion into a bowl. The simple dish wasn't much, but it would keep Ruan Yanjun nourished while his body continued to mend.
Earlier, I had given him a pill to dull the pain, and it seemed to be working—for now. The restless groaning had ceased, and his breathing had settled into a slow, even rhythm. Still, I knew the relief wouldn't last. The effects were temporary, and the agony would return soon enough.
I needed a more sustainable solution. The woods beyond the village were rich with herbs and wild plants. With some luck, I might find something that offered longer-lasting relief.
But first, I had to feed my patient.
Setting the bowl on the table, I turned to Ruan Yanjun, who lay propped against the pillows I'd arranged earlier. His eyes were half-closed, their usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion.
Though he appeared calm, his stillness was deceptive. Faint lines of tension around his mouth betrayed the discomfort he still endured.
"Lord Ruan," I called softly, leaning over to shake his shoulder. "It's time to eat."
His eyelids fluttered open, but there was no recognition in them. He blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused, as though it took effort just to register my presence.
With a sigh, I slipped an arm behind his back and carefully lifted him into a sitting position. His body was heavy—his muscular frame a cumbersome weight against mine—but he didn't resist.
Instead, he slumped into my hold, his head resting lightly against my shoulder.
"You could at least try to help," I muttered, half-heartedly.
Of course, I wasn't expecting an answer.
Balancing him with one arm, I reached for the bowl and spoon. I scooped a small amount of stew and brought it to his lips.
"Here," I said, my voice softer.
He didn't react at first. His eyes remained distant. But after a moment, he parted his lips slightly.
Carefully, I fed him the first spoonful, watching as he swallowed with effort. His throat moved slowly, and for a second I feared he'd choke.
But he managed it.
"Good," I murmured, offering another.
It was a slow, painstaking process. I fed him one spoonful at a time, pausing between each to let him swallow.
All the while, I kept him upright, my arm beginning to ache from the strain.
Why had I taken it upon myself to mother this man?
Of all the paths my life could've taken, this certainly wasn't one I'd imagined.
I sighed again, caught between frustration and a kind of quiet surrender.
"You'd better make up with me when you get better," I muttered, shaking my head.
Despite my grumbling, I didn't let up. I fed him every last drop I could manage, careful not to spill a single spoonful.
Looking at him like this—so still, so vulnerable—it was hard to reconcile him with the man I once knew. The Ruan Yanjun who stood at the summit of the cultivation world, feared and revered in equal measure.
That man had vanished.
And this fragile version of him, barely clinging to life, was all that remained.
When the bowl was nearly empty, I set it aside and gently lowered him back onto the bed.
His eyes were still half-open, watching me with something like awareness.
I paused, caught by the faint flicker in his gaze.
Was he seeing me?
Really seeing me?
But the flicker faded just as quickly as it came.
"Rest now," I said softly, adjusting the blanket over him. "I'll be back soon."
He didn't reply. His eyes drifted closed, and a moment later, his breathing deepened once more.
I lingered for a few breaths, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Then I turned, gathered my things, and stepped out into the quiet air.
The woods awaited, and I was hoping to find something to ease his pain.