LUO FAN
— ✦ —
For the first two days, silence hung between us like a fragile thread—taut, trembling, and too easily broken. Neither of us dared to tug at it. Lan Feng—or whoever he was now—remained distant yet unfailingly polite, his words sparse and measured. "Thank you for the food." "Good morning." "Goodnight." Beyond that, he kept to himself, speaking only when necessary, his presence as subdued as a scholar in a stranger's home.
I missed Feng'er more than I could bear.
I missed the way he smiled without hesitation, the way he clung to me without shame. I missed the laughter that burst from him like sunlight through cloud. That light was gone now, and in its place stood a calm, distant stranger who wore the same face but emanated a completely different aura.
It wasn't fair to him, I knew. This wasn't his fault. But grief doesn't listen to reason. It lingers where it pleases.
To distract myself, I buried my hands in the work Mao Hai had left behind—mending fences, pulling weeds, hauling water beneath the relentless sun. The labor dulled my thoughts, but only for a while. Inevitably, my mind would drift back to the house, to the quiet man inside. Sometimes, I would check on him, only to find him seated near the window in quiet contemplation, gazing at the trees or horizon as though he were trying to piece together the fragments of his mind.
Then, on the third morning, I woke to find his bed empty. My heart seized. Panic clawed up my throat as I searched the house and stepped outside, half-expecting to see him collapsed somewhere, too weak to call for help.
I spotted him near the riverbank, half-submerged in the rippling waters, his figure glistening in the early sunlight. He was bathing, the water lapping gently at his waist as he leaned back to wet his hair.
"What are you doing here so early in the morning?" I called as I approached, trying to keep my voice casual. "Isn't the water cold?"
He glanced up, his dark hair dripping. "Good morning," he said, his tone as polite and warm as ever. "The water feels just right. Don't worry."
As always, he greeted me first before saying anything else, as though it were some kind of ritual.
I stepped closer and crouched by the water's edge, dipping my fingers in. The river was cool but not unpleasant under the rising sun. "You're right," I admitted. "It's not as bad as I thought. Still, you should have told me you were coming out here."
"I didn't want to trouble you," he said, voice as soft as the breeze. "You've done enough for me."
There it was again—that calm deference, as if I were some revered figure he was indebted to. I wasn't sure how to respond.
I stood up, brushing my hands on my robe. "Alright," I said. "I'll go make breakfast. Come eat when you're finished."
He inclined his head slightly, water shimmering around him like a silk curtain. "Thank you. I won't be long."
There was a quiet dignity in his voice—composed, refined, and unmistakably noble. It wasn't the bright boldness of Feng'er, but the poised confidence of someone raised amid privilege and power. His heritage, the blood of emperors, was beginning to surface in the subtlest ways—the tilt of his chin, the cadence of his words, the ease with which he carried authority.
He was no longer the boy who needed protection, but a man born to lead.
It was unsettling.
And strangely captivating.
After a few steps, I turned back—just to check on him. Just to make sure he was alright.
But the moment I saw him, something shifted. Subtle. Immediate.
The river lapped gently at his waist, the morning light glinting off his skin. Water trailed down his shoulders, slipping over the sculpted curve of his collarbones, tracing the lean ridges of his chest. Each breath, each subtle motion of his arms, sent a ripple through his muscles like silk stirred by wind.
He wasn't bulky, not like the war generals of the north. His body was all discipline—shaped by years of battle and ruthless training. Strength without waste. Grace without softness. A quiet, terrifying elegance.
I had seen Ruan Yanjun shirtless before—dozens of times. I had dressed and undressed him to tend wounds, to cool fevers. But I had never truly looked. Not like this. Not with this strange, fluttering unease tightening beneath my ribs.
Feng'er's innocence had dulled the edge of that form. His sweetness had softened the impact. But now… now I saw the truth with stark clarity.
This was no boy.
This was a man. A dangerously beautiful one.
It was like realizing I had lived beside a marble statue all along… only to find the marble breathing.
With Feng'er gone, what remained was this—this hauntingly perfect man standing waist-deep in the river, with the poise of a prince and the presence of something far more dangerous. His narrow waist, his taut abdomen, the subtle taper of his hips beneath the water… even the veins on his forearms shimmered like fine etchings.
It was obscene—how a man so morally bankrupt could look so divine. If not for the wretchedness of his past—his soul, irrevocably stained—he would have been flawless. A creature of myth. A god, made flesh.
I didn't know how long I stood there, unblinking.
Then he tilted his head back.
I froze like a thief caught mid-heist.
"Is something wrong?" he asked calmly, voice smooth as the current, no louder than the river's hush.
Heat ignited in my chest, rushing up my neck in one merciless wave.
I tore my gaze away. "No," I replied too quickly. "I— I just forgot to mention… don't soak your head too long. Your skull hasn't fully healed."
The excuse slipped from my mouth so smoothly I surprised myself. And for once, the lie didn't taste bitter.
He nodded gently. "Thank you for the reminder."
I turned and walked off as quickly as dignity allowed, my ears burning all the way to the back of my neck. My fingers twitched. My jaw clenched. I could still see him—etched into my mind, impossible to erase.
What in the heavens is wrong with me?
Never once had I even considered looking at a man this way. Let alone him. Ruan Yanjun. The devil himself, the man who had razed sects, shattered lives, and betrayed me more than once. I had no business admiring his body—or being affected by it.
I reached the house and pressed a hand to my face, trying to cool the flush spreading down my neck. "Get a grip," I whispered to myself. "This is ridiculous."
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
For the first time since he had woken up as this new version of himself, Lan Feng joined me at the table for breakfast. He was fully dressed now, his dark robes neatly arranged, not a single fold out of place. It only added to the composed, dignified air that clung to him—graceful, measured, and stately. He carried himself with quiet refinement, nothing like the carefree, flirtatious youth he had been just days ago.
Honestly, I was relieved. If I'd seen even a glimpse more of the skin below his collarbone, it might summon back the confusion I'd felt watching him bathe in the river. I didn't want to feel that way again. Not toward him. Not toward any man. We were both proper men.
I served him as I always did, filling his bowl with vegetable soup and eggs, and placing bread and cheese on his plate. The fare was simple and repetitive, but it was nourishing enough to help him regain his strength.
"You must be getting tired of eating the same food every day," I remarked lightly, trying to fill the silence. When he didn't respond, I glanced up and found him staring at me.
His gaze was soft but intent, as though he were studying me carefully, searching for something he couldn't quite name.
Our eyes met, and for a brief second, his composure faltered. A flicker of embarrassment passed over his face before he quickly looked away.
"Forgive me for staring," he said quietly. "It wasn't my intention."
I froze, taken off guard by the softness in his voice and the fact that he even apologized. The younger Lan Feng wouldn't have looked away. He would have smiled and said something outrageous without hesitation. But this man—he was far more reserved. Humble, even. His courtesy disarmed me.
"It's fine," I said after a pause, brushing off the moment. "You were probably just lost in thought."
He nodded, his hands resting neatly on either side of the bowl. He moved with a kind of careful gentleness—as if even the simplest objects deserved reverence.
"I'll go to the market later," I said, shifting the subject. "We're running low on supplies. I'll buy some meat, maybe fish, some spices if I can afford them. Mao Hai's rice and flour won't last much longer."
He looked up again, thoughtful. "I'll accompany you," he offered.
I shook my head immediately. "You're not well enough to walk that far."
"I can walk," he said. Calm. Steady. "I feel much stronger now."
"Even so, it's better for you to rest," I replied, my tone gentle but unyielding. "It's a long walk, and the roads are uneven. I'd rather not risk it."
He paused. For a moment, I braced for resistance—a retort, a challenge, anything familiar. But he simply nodded. "I understand."
His compliance surprised me. The Ruan Yanjun I knew would have challenged me at every turn, refusing to let anyone dictate his actions. The younger Feng'er would have pouted or pleaded, tugging on my sleeve until I relented. But this Lan Feng simply accepted my decision with quiet grace, trusting that I had his best interests at heart.
The more time I spent with him, the more I found myself wondering if this was truly the man Ruan Yanjun had been in his youth. Could he really have been so polite, so gentle, so unassuming? It was difficult to reconcile this version of him with the devil I had known. And yet, there was something so genuine about his demeanor that I couldn't bring myself to doubt him entirely.
"Thank you for understanding," I said, offering him a small smile.
His lips curved into a faint smile of his own, one that was so fleeting I almost missed it. "You've taken care of me without hesitation. The least I can do is trust your judgment."
He had spoken with such quiet conviction that for a moment, I didn't know how to respond. I cleared my throat, returning my attention to my own breakfast to avoid the strange warmth creeping into my chest.
We finished the rest of the meal in silence. But it wasn't tense. It was… companionable. Familiar, in a strange, fragile way. I found myself glancing at him more than I meant to, studying every difference. His posture was impeccable. Every movement measured. He sipped his soup with the quiet grace of someone raised in a palace. The storm I once knew—the chaos and danger that had clung to him like a shadow—was gone.
And what remained… was a man of quiet dignity.
Perhaps this isn't Ruan Yanjun at all, I thought. Perhaps this is the man he once dreamed of becoming. A softer, nobler version of himself. Born from the wreckage of a fractured soul.