LUO FAN
— ✦ —
The next day passed without incident. The monster did not return—likely still nursing the wound I had inflicted. Its absence gave us a fragile moment of peace, but the threat of its return lingered like a shadow I couldn't shake. I remained restless, my ears attuned to every creak of wood and rustle of leaves, waiting for another growl in the dark.
By the fourth day, Lan Feng had regained much of his strength. Though the gashes on his arm were still healing, he insisted he was ready to travel again.
That was when I made my decision. I couldn't risk leaving the beast alive—not when it might return and threaten Mao Hai after we were gone. It had to be dealt with.
Lan Feng followed without protest. There was no hesitation in his step, only a quiet determination in the way he moved beside me. His eyes scanned the woods with intent, as though he, too, had claimed this hunt as his own.
We spent hours combing through dense undergrowth and climbing uneven trails, but found no sign of the creature. The forest was eerily still—unnaturally so. Even the birds had grown silent, the wildlife driven off by the monster's lingering presence.
Exhausted, we took shelter beneath the sprawling limbs of an old oak. I leaned against the trunk, catching my breath. Lan Feng sat beside me, head tilted upward toward the canopy. Sunlight spilled through the branches in fractured beams, painting his face in shifting gold and green, softening the edges of his features.
"Luo Fan," he said, breaking the silence. "If you're a priest, why don't you wear priest's robes?"
The question caught me off guard. I turned toward him, trying to condense a long, painful history into something simple. "It's a long and complicated story," I replied.
He leaned closer, his curiosity evident in the way his eyes searched my face. "I have all day."
I sighed, knowing there was no use deflecting. "To make it short… I was banished from the temple I once served."
His brow creased. "Does that mean you're no longer a priest?"
"I still am," I said, offering a faint smile. "The Frost Mountain Temple was just one of many under the Light Path. Only the Light Path Alliance can strip me of priesthood, and they never did."
He nodded, taking in the information. "Why did they banish you?"
I exhaled slowly. It was a fair question, but one I rarely answered. Still, if I wanted him to open up to me, I had to offer something in return.
"At first, I believed it was because I accidentally poisoned my master," I began hesitantly. "But later, I discovered he's still alive, and everything was just… a setup." I paused, shaking my head as the bitter truth settled in once more.
Lan Feng's gaze didn't waver. "Why would they do that to you?"
His sudden curiosity surprised me. "You didn't use to ask questions like this. Why are you so interested now?"
"Because I want to know more about you," he said simply, his sincerity disarming.
I looked away, brushing a thumb over my wrist. "My story's not something most people want to hear. It's… tragic."
"I don't mind," he replied. "I want to understand. Why would they set you up?"
I sighed deeply, reluctant to delve into memories that still stung. "I don't know for certain," I admitted. "But someone, a very cunning person, once told me it was probably because I brought shame to my master by surpassing his cultivation level. And the second reason…" My voice trailed off as I chose my words carefully. "It was likely political."
"Surpassed your master?" he repeated, his brows knitting together in confusion. "You're at level six, so does that mean your master was only level five? I thought one had to be at least level six to take disciples."
I shook my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "I wasn't level six back then. I was level seven. My master was level six."
His lips parted in surprise, his gaze searching mine for confirmation. "Level seven?" he whispered. "You're a Grandmaster?"
"I was," I replied quietly. "For a time."
His lips parted slightly, his expression troubled. "What happened? How did your cultivation drop back down?"
"They nullified it," I replied. "As punishment."
He frowned deeply, his disbelief evident. "Nullified? Isn't that far too harsh for something as minor as accidental poisoning? Especially if the whole thing was staged?"
I shrugged, trying to keep the bitterness from rising. "It is harsh. That's why I don't like talking about it."
He fell silent, leaning back against the tree. His eyes drifted upward to the canopy, as if searching for an answer in the rustling leaves.
"I understand," he said after a moment. "I won't push you to talk about it now. But… I might ask again someday."
I chuckled quietly despite myself. "You're starting to sound like Feng'er."
His head tilted. "Really?"
"Really."
A flicker of warmth crossed his face, and he leaned forward slightly. "If I'm becoming like him… does that mean you don't miss him anymore? Since you already see him in me?"
I smiled—though there was an ache behind it. "That may be true."
He smiled back, warm and genuine, as if my answer had given him immense comfort. "I'm glad."
A quiet ache lingered in my chest. While there were pieces of Feng'er in this version of him, the playful innocence, the unrestrained affection, and the unassuming charm were gone. And no matter how much I told myself this version of him was enough, I still missed Feng'er—the way he had made the world feel just a little brighter.
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
Night had fallen by the time we returned to the house, exhausted and empty-handed. The following morning, determined not to leave the beast alive another day, we set out again—this time heading in the opposite direction. Hours passed as we trudged through thick wilderness, scanning every rock, every tree hollow, every shadow. Just as I began to think the creature had fled far beyond our reach, it struck.
The monster leapt from behind a jagged rock with startling speed, its three snake-like tails writhing and hissing as they lashed through the air. Its eyes, glowing molten orange, locked onto Lan Feng with unmistakable recognition—and murderous fury.
"Watch out!" I shouted.
But Lan Feng had already seen it. He darted to the side with surprising speed and grace, narrowly avoiding the swipe of a tail.
I grabbed his arm and pulled him behind a massive boulder, positioning myself as a barrier between him and the beast. "Don't move," I ordered, planting my feet and gripping my bamboo stick.
The creature wasted no time. Despite its visible injuries, it lunged again with savage intensity. Its heavy paws slammed the earth, jaws snapping wildly. There was a feral hunger in its eyes—one that wouldn't be satisfied until it tasted blood.
I met its claws with the full strength of my weapon, parrying each blow with sharp, controlled strikes. The force of each impact rattled up my arms, but I held my ground. One of its tails whipped toward me like a striking viper—fangs glinting with venom—but I spun and sliced through the appendage with a crack of my bamboo stick. The tail fell to the ground, writhing, and the beast roared in agony, reeling back.
Lan Feng peeked from behind the boulder, his expression stricken. "Be careful!" he called out.
The monster circled, panting, its breath coming faster now—its fury barely concealing its mounting fatigue. It was still recovering, but its hatred seemed to fuel it, driving it forward again.
This time, it lunged sloppily, its form twisted with pain. I dodged, stepped in close, and struck its side hard. The creature tumbled to its knees with a grunt, thick blood seeping from its wounds. Its body trembled as it struggled to stay upright, snarling through blood-stained teeth. Then, finally, it collapsed.
But I didn't move.
I watched as its sides heaved with ragged breaths. Its head sank lower, the fire in its eyes dimming. Still, I kept my weapon ready.
"Is it… dead?" Lan Feng asked softly, creeping closer.
"Stay back," I warned. My voice came out low, guarded. I knew better than to believe a predator like this would go quietly.
And I was right. The beast let out a wet, guttural growl, its frame twitching as it struggled to draw one last breath. It wasn't a hunter anymore—it was just a wounded animal now, fighting death with instinct alone.
A strange pang stirred in my chest. I'd seen this before in other creatures—desperation, not malice. There was no dignity in a death like this. It wasn't fighting anymore. It was just suffering.
I stepped closer and lifted my bamboo stick. The monster didn't react. Its eyes were barely open.
"Forgive me," I whispered.
Then I drove the weapon through its chest.
The sound of the impact—the crack of bone, the muffled whimper as it exhaled a final breath—echoed louder in my ears than it should have. The beast fell still.
A sharp gasp tore through the silence. I turned and saw Lan Feng standing just a few steps away. He had frozen in place, his face pale, his eyes wide with disbelief. His hands trembled slightly as he stared—not at the beast—but at me.
It hit me that this was likely the first time he had witnessed such violence. And I had been the one to deliver it.
For a moment, the roles between us seemed reversed. I was the ruthless killer, and he was the innocent observer, the naïve priest who once believed in the sanctity of all life. It was a cruel irony.
I pulled my bamboo stick free, the sound of it scraping against bone sending a chill through the air. Blood dripped from the end as I turned to face him fully, shame weighing heavy in my chest. "I'm sorry you had to see that," I said softly, unable to meet his eyes.
For a long moment, he didn't respond. The silence stretched between us, and I felt the weight of his gaze on me. I was certain he must see me differently now. No longer as someone who had cared for him but as someone capable of cold, merciless acts.
"It's for the best," he said at last, his voice steady but subdued.
Surprised, I looked up to find his expression had softened. The horror was gone, replaced by something calmer—almost resolute. He even managed a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Sometimes, there's no other choice," he added, as if trying to reassure me.
His words felt like an act of mercy. A kindness he didn't have to offer—but did.
"Did I scare you?" I asked, my voice soft as I watched him try to compose himself.
He shook his head, though his expression was strained. "No, not exactly. I was just… shocked. I've never seen something like that before. Even seeing my uncle butcher a dog when I was a child traumatized me. I still can't get over it." He rubbed his forehead as though a headache was building. "Do you think I'm weak?"
I stilled at his words, a strange familiarity tugging at my chest. Feng'er had spoken of the same event, his voice trembling as he described the fear and confusion he'd felt as a child.
Slowly, I approached him, choosing my words carefully. "If you were weak, you wouldn't have agreed to follow me. You knew there were risks. You've seen enough now to understand what kind of dangers we face. And yet… you stayed. That takes courage."
He looked at me, the doubt still clouding his eyes. "I wanted to protect you," he confessed, his voice low. "I truly did. But that monster—" He broke off, shaking his head. "It was too strong for me. And you… you didn't even need me out there. You could handle everything by yourself. I just stood there. I feel like… I'm just a burden."
My heart ached at his vulnerability. It wasn't the first time he had expressed feelings of inadequacy, but this time, they cut deeper. He was no longer the carefree Feng'er, quick to dismiss his own shortcomings with a grin. This man carried the weight of insecurity in every word.
I reached out and patted his arm, the gesture as comforting as I could make it. "You're not a burden to me. And you're not weak. In fact, you're far stronger than you realize—stronger than I could ever be."
He frowned, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"
I gave him a quiet smile. I wanted to tell him the truth—that within him lay the dormant core of an immortal cultivator, perhaps the strongest the world had ever seen. But I couldn't. He wouldn't understand. And I wasn't sure he was ready for that truth—not when he still flinched at the sight of blood and questioned his own worth.
"Let's bury this creature," I said instead, gently steering the conversation away.
As I prepared to dig a hole, Lan Feng crouched beside the beast, inspecting its massive frame. His hand hovered over its chest.
"Luo Fan, look at this," he called.
I stepped closer and followed his gaze. Etched into the creature's leathery skin was a dark mark, faint but unmistakable. My jaw tightened. I'd seen it before—on the mutated snake Ruan Yanjun had killed months ago.
"Another one of his creations," I muttered. "He's relentless."
"Who is he?" he asked.
"I don't know much about him, only that they call him the Breeder—for obvious reasons."
Lan Feng's brows furrowed. "Why would someone create such monsters? It's cruel."
"Power," I said simply. "Control. Men like him don't care about cruelty."
His expression darkened, a flicker of something sharp passing through his eyes—disgust, maybe, or sorrow. Without saying a word, he crouched lower beside the beast. From his belt, he drew a knife. With quiet precision, he worked at the beast's jaw, prying loose one of the long, curved fangs. It came free with a dull snap, slick with blood and gleaming faintly, its surface etched with a strange natural sheen.
"What will you do with that?" I asked, watching as he studied the fang.
He glanced up at me, his fingers absently tracing the curve of the tooth. "To remind me of this moment," he said softly, resolutely.
I couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at my lips. For all his calm and composure, there was something endearingly young about the gesture—like a child claiming a memento after a great adventure. I chuckled under my breath and shook my head.
"Even when you try to act all grown up, you're still a boy at heart."
He met my gaze, a faint, almost bashful smile tugging at his lips. "Perhaps," he admitted, slipping the fang into his pouch. "But even boys need reminders of the moments that shape them."
His words struck deeper than I expected, and for a flicker of time, I saw the man he was slowly becoming—or perhaps, the man he had once been, hidden beneath all the broken pieces.
When the grave was filled, I stepped back, wiping the sweat from my forehead. But before I could catch my breath, Lan Feng moved toward me, his gaze narrowing as he studied my face.
"What is it?" I asked, unsettled by his sudden focus.
"Luo Fan," he said, his voice tight. "The snake bit you."
I froze. My hand flew to my neck, and sure enough, I felt two small punctures on my skin. A chill crept through me. I hadn't even noticed in the chaos. One of the beast's tails must have struck me.
"So far, I don't feel—" I broke off mid-sentence as dizziness swept over me like a wave. My heartbeat surged, and the edges of my vision swam.
Lan Feng didn't hesitate. In a swift, fluid motion, he scooped me up into his arms.
"Don't carry me like this," I protested, my voice barely a whisper.
"This position is best," he said, his tone firm but gentle. "I can keep an eye on you this way. Just breathe. The more anxious you are, the faster the poison will spread."
He was right. I forced myself to inhale slowly, evenly, though my limbs had begun to tingle, and focus came harder with every step.
"When we get back to the house," I murmured, "there are antidote pills on the window ledge. Give me two."
"Understood," he replied. His voice was like a hand steadying me in the dark. "We'll be home soon. Hold on."
I could feel the urgency in his stride—the long, determined steps, the way his arms tightened around me with every jolt of movement. Even through the haze, I knew this grip well. It was the same one that had held me before.
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
When I opened my eyes again, the dim light of the house greeted me. I was lying on the bed, the familiar scent of herbs and wood smoke filling the air. Beside me, Lan Feng sat quietly, his shoulders tense, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"Luo Fan," he whispered, his voice trembling with relief. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of Feng'er in the way he looked at me—raw, unguarded, full of overwhelming emotion.
"Lan Feng," I murmured, my throat dry.
He leaned in, his hand gently brushing across my forehead to check for fever. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as though he feared breaking something fragile. "You're awake," he breathed, his voice quiet but laced with emotion. "I was so worried. You… you wouldn't wake up for hours."
I swallowed hard, the weight of his concern pressing against my chest like something tangible. "I'm fine now," I said, though my voice sounded frail even to my own ears. "Thank you."
His lips curved into a faint, trembling smile. "I'm glad," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what I'd do if…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening as though forcing the thought away.
For a long moment, silence settled between us—thick, tender, and filled with everything we couldn't quite say. His gaze lingered on mine, steady and warm, and I felt it like a balm against the dull ache in my limbs. There was no flirtation, no teasing in his expression—only sincerity. Only care.
"Lan Feng," I said again, softer now. "Thank you for saving me."
He shook his head slowly. "You're the one who's always saving me."
I let out a faint breath, something like a laugh, though it caught in my throat. "Maybe we're just saving each other."
His hand hovered near mine—hesitant, uncertain—but he didn't pull it away. That simple closeness, the barely-there brush of his knuckles, felt more intimate than any embrace.