LUO FAN
— ✦ —
A week had passed since Lan Feng began showing signs of recovery. With his strength returning, he had started helping with the chores around the house and in the field. Despite his courteous demeanor, the way he sometimes looked at me was… unsettling. His gaze lingered too long, brow furrowed, as if he were quietly trying to piece together fragments of a past buried deep in his mind.
The thought that he might remember his time as Feng'er made my stomach twist. I wasn't ready for that—especially not the possibility of him recalling how he used to cling to me, declaring me his lover with such cheerful innocence. What would he think of me then? What would he expect?
Feng'er's affections had been easy to dismiss—charming, even. A kiss on the cheek, a playful peck, spontaneous words of devotion. He had been more boy than man. But if Lan Feng—worse, Ruan Yanjun—remembered those moments through an adult's eyes… That would be something else entirely. His feelings, if they endured, would carry a weight I wasn't prepared to confront.
That morning, I woke to find the bed empty again. I assumed he had gone to the river as usual, but when I stepped outside to call him for breakfast, I spotted him in the field instead.
He stood with his back to me, watering the plants in slow, deliberate arcs. His posture was relaxed but purposeful, and the morning light caught the line of his frame—tall, straight, composed. But it was his hair that truly caught my eye. He had tied it back using the band I had made for him—not in the youthful ponytail Feng'er favored, but in a half-up style that let the rest fall loose in dark, silken waves down his back.
The style suited him. It gave him an air of maturity and quiet refinement, a soft authority that was strikingly different from the vibrant, boyish charm of Feng'er. That cheerful ponytail had always made him look like a wayward teenager who hadn't yet learned the burden of time. This—this was a man.
"Lan Feng," I called as I approached, my voice cutting gently through the stillness. "You shouldn't be doing chores just yet. You're still recovering."
He turned to look at me, a soft smile curving his lips. "Good morning," he greeted, voice serene and composed. "Don't worry. This isn't strenuous. I'll be careful not to overdo it. But thank you for your concern."
I sighed. This man is just too nice, I thought dryly. So nice, he's starting to bore me.
"Come eat your breakfast first. It's not going to stay warm forever."
He turned back to the plants, watering them with maddening calm. "I'll join you shortly. I'm almost finished."
I scanned the field, noting how little ground he had covered. "You've barely made a dent in the plot. You can finish it later. Breakfast first."
"This won't take long," he replied, still polite, still maddeningly unwavering.
I narrowed my eyes at his back. Stubborn. Still, it wasn't the smirking defiance of Ruan Yanjun. If it had been Feng'er, he would've dropped everything the moment I called, chirping, "Yes, Gege!" with that bright, eager grin.
"I insist," I said more firmly. "Come eat before the food gets cold. Right now."
To my surprise, he complied immediately. He set the watering pot down without protest and walked to the well. Rolling up his sleeves, he began to wash his hands in silence.
I smiled faintly to myself, a flicker of triumph rising in my chest. At least he wasn't completely unyielding. Compared to the true Ruan Yanjun, this version was still someone I could live with.
I retreated to the house to wait for him. Sitting at the table, I idly traced the grain of the wood with my finger, my thoughts drifting toward the subtle changes I'd noticed in Lan Feng over the past few days.
It wasn't long before he joined me, his footsteps measured but assured. He had taken the time to compose himself, even for something as ordinary as breakfast.
He had washed his hands and face, his dark hair freshly tied back with the same silk band. Every detail, from the way he crossed the threshold to the way he took his seat, felt deliberate. There was a composed elegance in his movements—graceful, unhurried—that made me question, not for the first time, if this truly was the same person I had traveled with.
"I didn't mean to nag," I said as he settled across from me. "But in your condition, I can't let you work before eating."
He gave a small, sincere smile and, with gentle care, picked up a piece of meat and placed it into my bowl. "I understand," he replied. "And I truly appreciate the care you've shown me. I am fortunate to have you here."
For a moment, I stared at him, caught off guard by the warmth in his voice and the calm radiance in his gaze. It wasn't the innocent sparkle that once lit up Feng'er's face. This was something deeper. A soft, luminous tenderness that settled quietly in his expression and tugged at something in my chest.
Realizing I had looked too long, I quickly lowered my gaze and focused on my meal. "You're welcome," I murmured, unsure what else to say.
He had a way of unsettling me now—not with teasing or flirtation, but with sincerity. With presence. His manner was unfailingly polite, his gratitude unshakable, and the quiet ease with which he existed beside me had become almost unbearable. He hadn't once asked me to explain where we were or why I had stayed. He never demanded to know who he was or who I was to him. And yet, in every small gesture, I could feel the weight of his trust settling around us like an invisible thread.
That trust made me uneasy in a way I couldn't explain. Perhaps it was because I knew who he really was—or who he might become again. This man who spoke so gently now, who deferred to my command without resistance, might one day look at me with nothing but cold contempt.
Still, I told myself to be thankful. This version of Lan Feng was a blessing compared to the torment I'd known before. There were no cutting remarks, no self-indulgent arrogance, no sly smirks hiding daggers beneath.
After breakfast, we went out together to finish watering the field. His strength had returned enough that he could handle the task without tiring quickly, and we managed to complete the rest before the sun grew unbearable. The air was hot and dry, beads of sweat clinging to our foreheads as we worked side by side in silence.
When it was done, I glanced toward the house, then to the large tree just beyond it. Its shade looked impossibly inviting now, a refuge from the glaring light.
We settled beneath the sprawling branches, letting the gentle breeze cool our skin. The silence between us stretched—not uncomfortable, but laden with unspoken questions. I had been holding back my curiosity for days, but now I could no longer resist.
"Lan Feng," I said, breaking the quiet. "Are you not going to ask me questions?"
He turned to glance at me, tilting his head ever so slightly. "About what?"
"About… how you ended up here. Where we are. Who I am to you."
He paused, then gave me a faint, apologetic smile. "It doesn't matter."
I frowned. His indifference caught me off guard. "It doesn't matter? How can you say that?"
He lowered his gaze, his expression calm, reflective. "Whatever happened to bring me here is already in the past. What matters is that I'm alive—and you've shown me nothing but kindness. That's enough."
His words stirred something in me. Admiration, perhaps. Or pity.
"Don't you want to know what happened? Don't you want to understand?"
He looked at me again, his gaze lingering this time, as though weighing his response.
"What was your last memory?" I asked, unable to hide the urgency in my voice.
He leaned back against the trunk, his eyes drifting skyward. "I remember walking across a bridge. Then... collapsing. When I woke up here, I knew time had passed. Years, at least."
"You knew?"
He nodded. "I saw my reflection in the mirror. My body's different. Older. I used to be slender, and there was a scar on my forearm—from a duel. It's gone now. A scar like that doesn't fade easily. Not in a few months. Not even in a few years."
I sat in silence, caught off guard by how quietly he'd pieced things together—asking nothing, demanding nothing.
"And you're… fine with that?" I asked at last.
"What choice do I have?" he replied, voice soft but steady. "Time has passed. I can't reclaim it. If I spend the days ahead chasing what I've already lost, I'll just lose more. So I choose to move forward."
His words carried a calm, distilled wisdom that unsettled me. It reminded me of Ruan Yanjun—not in his cruelty, but in that quiet, unwavering clarity. The thought made my stomach tighten. The devil was still there. Not in form, but in fragments. Not in name, but in essence.
I forced a small, bitter smile. "You're stronger than most."
"It's not strength," he said, shaking his head. "It's necessity. We adapt, or we break. That's all."
There was no pride in his tone, no false bravado. Just honesty. A kind of resigned wisdom that felt too old for someone in their twenties.
I pitied him for it.
He didn't know what he had truly lost—not just a handful of years, but an entire century. A life. Would he still speak with such quiet acceptance if he remembered all of it? Or would that composed exterior begin to crack?
I studied him carefully. He looked serene, content even. But behind his stillness, there was something else—something flickering at the edges of his gaze. A yearning, perhaps. A quiet ache he hadn't yet named.
"I have one question, though," he said, his voice low and steady.
I glanced at him, already bracing myself. "Go ahead."
He hesitated, as though the words had to be wrestled from someplace deep. "Are you… and I… in a relationship?"
I froze. My breath caught. The question hit harder than expected—blunt and unflinching. His sharp eyes didn't waver, and I realized then that he wasn't the type to tiptoe around uncertainty. He wanted clarity, not comfort.
It took me far too long to answer. "N-no," I stammered at last, heat flaring up my neck. "Why would you think that?"
A flicker of disappointment crossed his face—so brief it might've gone unnoticed if I hadn't been watching closely. "I must have misread things."
I couldn't let it end there.
"What made you think that?" I asked, trying to sound composed. But even I could hear the tremble in my voice.
He sighed and lowered his gaze to the grass. "You seem to know me very well—better than I know myself. You speak to me like I'm not a stranger… but someone you've known for years. And the way you care for me—it feels like you've done it for a long time."
His words struck a nerve I hadn't wanted to touch. Because they weren't wrong.
I swallowed, forcing a smile. If I wanted to steer us away from dangerous ground, I had to tread carefully.
"I found you a little over four months ago," I said, offering the part of the truth that wouldn't hurt him. "You were gravely injured, and people were hunting you down. I couldn't just leave you. So I took you with me."
His brows furrowed, puzzled. "And I've been conscious this whole time?"
"You were," I replied, cautiously. "But you told me you were seventeen."
His expression darkened. "Then why don't I remember any of it?"
"That's the same question I've been asking myself," I murmured, leaning back against the tree.
A heavy silence stretched between us. He stared toward the horizon, and I found my gaze drifting to him again—the light catching his hair, the silk band I had made for him glinting in the sun. He looked serene, composed. But the questions haunted his eyes.
"Is that why you were crying when I woke up?" he asked suddenly.
I nodded, unsure I could trust my voice.
He turned toward me, something raw flickering in his expression. "Do you blame me?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I don't blame you. It's just that… I miss him."
"Him?" he echoed, frowning faintly.
I hesitated, then spoke the truth as gently as I could. "The younger you. I called you Feng'er."
He blinked, brows furrowing deeper. "And I… called you gege?"
I stiffened. "How do you know that?"
"There are moments," he said slowly, "when the word almost slips out. I don't know why, but… it feels natural. Like I've said it a thousand times before."
My heart tightened, and a bittersweet smile touched my lips. "It's nice to know that part of Feng'er still lingers in you. You can call me gege if you like. I wouldn't mind. In fact, I'd quite like it. Besides, I am older than you."
He gave me a skeptical look, his lips quirking faintly. "You look like you're barely twenty."
"I'm way older than that," I replied, smirking despite myself.
He studied me, eyes widening slightly. Then, to my surprise, he smiled—a genuine, warm, breathtaking smile that reached all the way to his eyes. "So it's true, then. They say once a cultivator reaches a certain level, aging slows down. It's… remarkable."
I chuckled under my breath, though it came out softer than I intended—tinged with irony. "Wait until you find out your real age," I muttered to myself, turning my face toward the field. "You might just pass out from disbelief."
Lan Feng's gaze was steady, his voice calm but tinged with curiosity. "I have one more question."
He seemed more at ease now, more comfortable asking things that had clearly lingered on his mind. I took that as a good sign—he was slowly opening up to me.
"Go ahead," I said, doing my best to sound nonchalant.
"Did I… I mean, did Feng'er ever feel a strong admiration toward you?"
I froze for a heartbeat, unsure how to respond. Finally, I gave a small nod and a faint smile. "Yes. He never even tried to hide it." Then I waved it off with a half-laugh, hoping to ease the tension. "But don't worry about that. He was young and bold. It was… harmless."
Lan Feng's lips curved into a wry smile, and he rubbed the back of his neck, visibly embarrassed. "That explains why… when I woke up and saw you, I immediately felt this kind of attraction. He must've left his feelings behind for me to pick up."
My heart skipped. The warmth rushed to my cheeks before I could stop it. I looked away, flustered. "Let's not talk about that anymore," I muttered, my voice low and uneven.
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded graciously. "You're right. I'll get you a cup of water. You're sweating."
As he turned, I instinctively lifted a hand to my forehead and, sure enough, felt the heat there. He was right. I was sweating—and not from the weather. I took a long breath, forcing myself to calm down.
He returned a moment later, holding a cup of cool water in both hands. He offered it to me with a small, gentle smile. "Here."
"Thank you," I said, accepting it. The chill of the water helped, though it did little to steady my heart.
"Did Feng'er ever give you a hard time?" he asked as he settled beside me again. His tone was light, but his gaze remained fixed on my face, as though genuinely curious about the past he couldn't remember.
I shook my head, a fond smile tugging at my lips. "Never. He was incredibly obedient. The only trouble was getting him to eat food he hadn't watched me cook. He didn't trust anyone else's cooking. Not even the village auntie."
"Were you like that as a child?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation toward something neutral.
He tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. "No. It was the opposite. I trusted people too easily back then."
That surprised me. It didn't match the cautious but clingy nature I'd come to know in Feng'er. "Really?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "I always thought your younger self reflected who you were as a child."
He met my gaze with a softened expression. "I don't remember enough about the last four months we spent together, so I can't answer that honestly. Maybe the Feng'er you met wasn't a reflection of my childhood at all… but something else. A simpler version of myself. Or a part I had long buried."
I went quiet, his words swirling in my mind. Could Feng'er's innocent attachment and subtle hesitations have stemmed from more than just memory loss? Had I been caring for a fragment of a much more complex whole?
"And now?" I asked. "Can you trust people?"
He thought for a moment, then said, "I don't know. I haven't seen anyone else aside from you. But I trust you. That much I'm certain of."
His voice was steady, almost too calm. The certainty in his words struck me harder than I expected, and I felt something tighten in my chest—something painful and warm all at once.
I nodded, swallowing against the lump rising in my throat.
His trust felt like a burden, but it was also a blessing I never asked for—but could no longer bear to lose.
"Luo Fan." He shifted a little closer to me, his voice gentler now. "Do you wish for Feng'er to come back? Would you rather have him here than me?"
The way he said my name caught me off guard. It felt distant—too formal. After growing so used to Feng'er's soft, affectionate Gege, hearing my full name from his lips struck me with unexpected force.
I exhaled slowly, closing my eyes for a moment. "Whether it's you or Feng'er… it doesn't make a difference. Sooner or later, you'll get better. You'll regain your memories. And when that happens…" I swallowed, forcing the words out. "You'll disappear, just like he did."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, his eyes met mine, steady and unwavering. "I won't disappear," he said. "I'll just… become whole. My memories will return, yes—but I'll still be me. A part of me will remain."
His words felt like a knife twisted in my chest.
He didn't know. He had no idea what he would become—what he was. I wished I could tell him, prepare him for the truth. That none of this sincerity, none of this warmth or tenderness, would survive. That once Ruan Yanjun returned in full, not even a shadow of this gentle man would be left behind. Only the devil—cold, cruel, calculating—would remain.
And I… I wasn't ready to face that again.
At least, I thought, he didn't remember how, as Feng'er, he had clung to me, called me Gege with such innocent affection, and declared me his lover without hesitation. That memory, I prayed, was buried too deep to resurface.