"Isn't this… a little too much?" I asked, holding up the pouch of silver coins Mao Hai had handed me. We were packed and ready to leave, but this unexpected gesture had caught me off guard.
"You've taken such good care of my crops, they turned out better than I could've hoped," Mao Hai replied with a proud smile. "I sold them for a high price. Consider this a gift from an old man to help with your journey ahead."
I smiled, bowing my head. "You have our deepest gratitude."
Lan Feng, standing beside me, also lowered his head respectfully. "Thank you for your generosity, Lao Mao."
"No need for all that," Mao Hai said, waving his hands as if embarrassed by the attention. "We've done each other favors, so we're even. If you ever find yourselves passing through, you're always welcome here. Life on the mountain can be lonely, and I'd truly appreciate a visit from you both."
"We'll definitely visit you again," Lan Feng said, his voice sincere.
I turned to look at him, mildly surprised. His tone wasn't just polite—it held a warmth I hadn't expected. He truly meant it. But I wondered, if Ruan Yanjun resurfaced, would he still honor that promise?
"That would be wonderful!" Mao Hai's face lit up with joy. "Just send word ahead so I can prepare a proper feast to welcome you."
After bidding him farewell, we turned to leave. A quick glance over my shoulder caught the wistful expression on Mao Hai's face, and my chest tightened. It must have been hard for him, living alone in such an isolated place. No wonder he'd taken the opportunity to visit his son while we were here.
We followed the path Mao Hai had pointed out, leading toward the eastern mountains known for rare herbs. The trail was rugged, winding through dense trees and rocky outcrops. It took us three days to reach the area, and by the time we arrived, Lan Feng had grown unusually quiet, his gaze distant and thoughtful.
"What's on your mind?" I asked, breaking the silence.
He didn't answer immediately. His brows furrowed further, as if my question had only deepened his inner turmoil.
I crouched to inspect a root protruding from the ground, attempting to lighten the mood. "You remind me of Feng'er when you think so hard," I teased. "You're starting to look like your seventeen-year-old self—confused and uncertain."
Lan Feng's gaze snapped to mine, confusion etched into his features. "I'm trying to decide," he admitted quietly, "whether I want to recover my memories and become Ruan Yanjun again… or stay as I am now. Just Lan Feng, an ordinary man with ordinary skills."
I stood, disappointed to find the root wasn't what I'd hoped for, and faced him. "Whether you want to or not, you'll eventually regain your memories. It's inevitable. I can already see traces of Ruan Yanjun in you."
He hesitated. "But… if I stopped taking the medicines you've been giving me, would it delay the process?"
"Why would you want to delay it?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
He avoided my gaze, staring off into the distance.
I sighed. "The medicines I've been giving you are to heal your skull and clear impurities in your brain. They don't directly affect your memory recovery."
Still, he remained silent.
"Lan Feng," I pressed, my voice softening, "why do you want to delay regaining your memories?"
"…Because I'm afraid of what I've become," he whispered.
His words struck a chord in me. I could only imagine the weight of his fears. If I were in his position, I'd likely be terrified of myself as well.
Before I could respond, he pointed to a patch of plants off to the side. "Luo Fan, that one looks like the herb you described."
I followed his direction and spotted a peculiar plant with coiled leaves dotted with red, as though splattered with blood. Excitement surged within me as I approached it, Lan Feng close behind.
"This is the Bloody Fern," I said, crouching to examine it. "It's extremely rare. I've read about it but never thought I'd see one in person. Luck seems to be on your side."
Lan Feng didn't share my enthusiasm. His shoulders tensed, his expression clouded with guilt. "Is this for my memory recovery?" he asked quietly.
"Not necessarily, but it has healing properties," I explained. "If this can heal the damage in your brain, then perhaps it will help you regain your memory. Isn't that a good thing?"
He turned away, his silence louder than any words he could have spoken.
I smiled softly, recognizing the inner conflict that plagued him. "Let's find a place to camp for the night," I suggested gently.
Lan Feng nodded without a word, and we continued walking.
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
As night fell, we set up camp beneath a canopy of trees. Lan Feng insisted on cooking, and I didn't protest. While he worked near the fire, I prepared the small clay pot that Feng'er had once gifted me.
Carefully, I added the Bloody Fern and a handful of selected herbs, my fingers moving with practiced precision. The pot felt warm and familiar in my hands as I channeled spiritual energy into it, initiating the delicate alchemical transformation.
Refining without a proper cauldron was always a challenge, but I had grown used to relying solely on spiritual control. Once the ingredients were sealed and the energy balanced, I corked the pot and set it aside. The mixture would need three days to settle—during which I'd have to carry it with me, never letting the energy falter.
When I turned back toward Lan Feng, I expected to find him tending the cooking pot over the flames. Instead, I found him watching me—quietly, intently—his expression unreadable in the shifting firelight.
"I used to think alchemists were just stories," he said from where he sat on a smooth rock. "But now I've seen one with my own eyes."
I smiled and moved to sit beside him. "It's not as mystical as it looks," I replied. "For someone with your potential, it's not hard to learn. But alchemy requires light energy—and yours is dark. There's a branch of dark alchemy too, but it's long been forbidden."
He tilted his head, the faintest smile forming. "It's hard to imagine you knowing anything about forbidden practices."
I let out a quiet laugh. "Only from books. I wouldn't dare attempt them."
His gaze lingered—steady, warm, and searching. Not intrusive, but deep enough to make my cheeks warm under the weight of it.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked, attempting to keep my tone light. But I could hear the slight catch in my voice.
He didn't look away. "You're remarkable," he said simply. "You possess so many gifts… and yet, you remain humble."
I shook my head, smiling faintly. "If you knew who you were, you'd think differently. When you were Ruan Yanjun… you didn't think much of me."
His expression shifted. A shadow crossed his features. "Then I must have been a fool," he said quietly. "Only a fool would see you as anything less than extraordinary."
I sighed, reaching out to gently pat the hand resting on his lap. "It's not your fault. Ruan Yanjun held impossibly high expectations—for himself, and for others. He was... brilliant. Powerful. Ruthless. He expected nothing less than perfection. When I couldn't meet those standards…" I hesitated, choosing my words with care. "…he gave me away. To the Emperor of Silang. I was meant to be his—"
I stopped, unable to say the word.
Lan Feng stiffened beside me, his body going taut with disbelief. "He… did that?"
I nodded. I tried to smile, to ease the blow. "It's over now. Don't let it burden you."
"But you—did he…?" He couldn't finish the sentence. His voice was raw, choked with quiet horror.
"No," I said firmly. "I refused. I chose to end my life instead. I jumped from a cliff. But fate… or maybe the heavens… had other plans. An abbot found me before I could die."
The guilt in his eyes was palpable—dark and consuming. He absorbed every word like a blade that had been sharpened just for him. He didn't look like the Ruan Yanjun the world feared. Not now. Not here. This was Lan Feng—a man who felt deeply, even for sins he hadn't yet remembered committing.
"Don't look at me like that," I said gently, the weight in his gaze pressing harder than I could bear. "None of this is your fault. I'm only telling you this because I want you to understand just how different you are from Ruan Yanjun. And when your memories return… I hope this part of you—the man you are now—remains."
He turned his face away, jaw tightening as his eyes drifted into the shadows beyond the firelight. "Did Ruan Yanjun ever apologize to you?" he asked quietly.
I let out a soft breath, a bitter smile pulling at my lips. "Ruan Yanjun doesn't apologize. He doesn't regret. Even when he's wrong, he doesn't see it that way. He believes that everything he does serves a greater purpose. And if he causes pain… he focuses only on the outcome, on the strength it forges in others. Never the cost."
My hand curled slightly in my lap as old memories surfaced—sharp, cold things that hadn't dulled with time.
"Like when he traded me to Emperor Gao for a scroll," I said, my voice low. "After that, I had to learn to stand alone. I stopped relying on anyone. And because of that betrayal, I survived a near-fatal illness, regained my sight, and reclaimed the cultivation I'd lost. In his mind, all of it was thanks to him. He believed that if he hadn't betrayed me, I wouldn't have grown strong enough to endure any of it."
I met Lan Feng's eyes then, steady and unflinching. "That's how he sees the world. And maybe… maybe that's why he's so far above the rest of us. He doesn't wallow in guilt. He rewrites pain into purpose—even when he's the one who caused it."
Guilt flickered behind Lan Feng's eyes like a candle dimming in the wind. He tilted his head back, gazing at the stars. "So when I recover…" he whispered, "you'll hate me."
I reached out, resting my hand gently on his arm. "I'll always remember you as Lan Feng," I said softly. "Even when your memories return, it will be impossible for me to pretend that you and Ruan Yanjun are the same. I could never hate you."
His lips curved faintly into a wistful smile, touched by something distant and aching. For a long moment, he was silent, staring at the ground, lost in thought.
Then, at last, his voice broke through the stillness.
"You asked me once if I was married."
I tilted my head slightly. His tone had changed—quieter, more vulnerable. "I did."
He nodded. "I wasn't. But I was once engaged… to a childhood friend."
"Was her name Yelin?" I asked gently, remembering the name Feng'er had murmured to me once, almost reluctantly.
His smile turned bitter. "That's right."
I gave a quiet chuckle. "Funny. Feng'er made it sound like you didn't even like her."
He shook his head, his expression unreadable in the firelight. "Whether or not I had feelings for her didn't matter. The marriage was arranged between our families. I didn't have the right to refuse."
There was no anger in his voice—only resignation. The weight of duty that had once bound him was still there, lingering like an old scar.
"So what happened?" I asked gently, not pressing, only offering a thread should he choose to follow it.
He drew in a slow breath, as if gathering the strength to unearth something long buried. "We were supposed to be married by New Year," he began, voice soft but steady. "But… the demonic core inside me—the one I'd kept dormant for years—started acting up."
I listened, silent, watching the firelight flicker across his face.
"My behavior changed. It started subtly—flashes of anger, moments of darkness I couldn't explain. Then I began hurting animals… then people." His jaw tightened, eyes darkening with memory. "My family did everything they could. Even His Majesty summoned the finest cultivators in the empire to try and help. I was confined to a tower, drinking dozens of concoctions a day to suppress the core. I spent years trying to keep my mind intact, trying to hold on to who I was."
He paused, the weight of those years hanging heavy in the air.
"The wedding kept being postponed," he said. "But my betrothed… she waited. For three years, she waited. She refused all other offers, said she would marry no one but me. Eventually, I was deemed cured. They let me return home. The wedding was rescheduled. His Majesty even wanted it to be a royal celebration, to honor what he called my 'resilience.'"
A bitter smile flickered on his lips.
"But just days before the wedding, the core awakened—with vengeance."
His voice faltered, and for a moment, I thought he might stop there. I didn't push. I simply waited, letting the silence speak of patience, not pressure.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "I almost killed my mother."
The words struck like a blade. His gaze dropped, his shoulders rigid.
"I was so horrified I couldn't stay," he continued. "I left. I broke the engagement. I told myself it was to protect them, but the truth is—I was running. I wandered. For a while, I tried to live normally, but the core… it would take control. I'd wake up in a different place, no memory of what I'd done. Then I'd hear rumors—someone murdered, someone left half-alive. Wherever I went, violence followed. I started to suspect it was me."
His fingers curled against his knees.
"So I isolated myself. I stopped going near towns. I lived in uninhabited places. There were times I wanted to give in, to just let the core consume me. It would've been easier. But I couldn't. I knew what would happen. That kind of power… unchecked… it wouldn't just destroy me. It would destroy everything."
He closed his eyes. "So I kept holding on. To the last pieces of myself. Searching for a cure I never believed I'd find."
He inhaled slowly, then continued. "When I woke up here, and I couldn't feel the demonic core anymore, I was grateful. I thought someone had defeated it—injured me badly enough to kill it. I thought… maybe the nightmare was over. Maybe I could finally live as a normal person."
He turned his head toward me, eyes shadowed. "So can you imagine the blow when Lao Mao accidentally told me I was a fugitive?"
I reached for his hand and took it gently in mine, squeezing once—firm, steady, grounding.
"That's why I never asked you questions," he whispered. "Because I was afraid you'd ask me in return. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want you to know what kind of person I might've been. I was afraid you'd look at me differently. I didn't realize… that I was holding a secret the whole world already knew."
His voice broke a little at the end, the shame and fear buried beneath that single confession.
I didn't speak. I didn't need to. I only held his hand tighter.
Just then, the scent of roasted vegetables and savory broth drifted toward us, softening the mood like balm on raw skin. I turned toward the fire and smiled faintly. "Dinner's ready."
Lan Feng rose to his feet and extended a hand toward me. For a brief moment, I hesitated—unsure if I was ready to touch him again after everything he'd revealed. But then I took it, letting his warmth ground me as he pulled me gently to my feet.
We walked back to the fire together, side by side in quiet companionship. No more words were spoken, but something between us had shifted—settled into a deeper, quieter understanding.
We sat down again, this time facing the fire. As we began to eat in silence, I found myself watching him through the curtain of my lashes. The flickering light painted his features in gold and shadow, his expression calm, his movements unhurried.
His confession had unraveled a mystery I'd long tried to untangle on my own. For so long I had wondered—how could someone like Lan Feng, born with such potential, such presence, become the Devil of the South? How could a man who once knelt by a riverbank and said "I just want to be Lan Feng" have commanded the slaughter of entire cities?
Now, I understood.
This man beside me—gentle, thoughtful, quietly wounded—this was the person Ruan Yanjun had once been. Before the demonic core took hold. Before the world twisted his kindness into something dangerous. Before power, fear, and isolation had rewritten him into a myth cloaked in terror.
It wasn't fair.
He hadn't deserved this fate. He hadn't deserved to be branded a monster for something that had consumed him against his will. And yet, the world only saw the aftermath—never the man beneath the ruin.
My hand curled slightly around my bowl.
The real tragedy wasn't what he had done, but what had been done to him.
And now that I had seen him like this… I wasn't sure I could ever forget.