One of the elder sect leaders stepped forward to organize the formation. With brisk instructions, he divided us into three groups to maximize coordination. The first wave would probe his defenses. The second would press harder. The third—where Huang Wen and I were assigned—would deliver the final, full-force assault.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the growing hum of nervous energy in the air. Every man here understood the truth. This wasn't just a spar. This was an impossible trial. A test against a man whose existence defined the peak of power.
And for most of us, it would be a lesson in humiliation.
The plan was set into motion.
The first wave lunged forward, followed swiftly by the second—each group moving in perfect synchronization, surrounding Ruan Yanjun with rapid, coordinated assaults. The courtyard erupted with a symphony of motion and power: the clash of blades, the hum of qi techniques, streaks of light and shadow tearing through the air.
At first glance, it looked as though they were gaining ground. Ruan Yanjun appeared fully engaged, parrying from every direction. His black robes flared with every pivot, his movements crisp and unhurried. He defended with flawless precision, never overexerting, never losing control.
Then it was our turn.
Huang Wen and I leapt into the air alongside two other cultivators, forming a precise cross-formation overhead. Without hesitation, we unleashed concentrated bolts of spiritual energy from four directions, the converging blasts surging toward him like a collapsing net.
But he had already foreseen it.
With a blur of motion, Ruan Yanjun twisted mid-step and deflected all four attacks with effortless flicks of his sleeves. The redirected energy scattered harmlessly into the dark sky like dying fireworks. And before any of us could react, he released a sweeping pulse of force—an invisible shockwave that rippled outward with crushing weight. The cultivators closest to him were thrown back violently, their bodies thudding against the ground.
I barely held my footing when he lunged.
One moment he was several paces away, the next his palm was already at my chest. Instinct took over. I raised my staff in time to intercept the blow. The impact sent tremors through my arms.
He pressed forward, unrelenting. Every attack was exact—measured to wear me down without finishing me off. Even in this, he was deliberate, as though forcing me to learn something while being overwhelmed.
Behind him, Huang Wen saw an opening and hurled his wheel blade with pinpoint accuracy.
Ruan Yanjun didn't even glance back.
Without breaking rhythm, he snatched the spinning weapon from the air with one hand and flung it back with double the force. Huang Wen barely dodged in time, rolling aside as the wheel embedded itself halfway into a nearby tree, slicing through bark with a sharp, resonant crack.
The others rushed in, trying to capitalize on the moment. I staggered backward, gasping for breath, desperately recalculating.
"I'll cast a wind to disorient his senses!" I shouted. "You and the others—attack from all sides!"
Huang Wen nodded, eyes blazing with renewed resolve.
Drawing from my core, I summoned a spiraling gust of wind that whipped around Ruan Yanjun like a miniature storm. The blast wasn't strong enough to throw him off balance, but it filled the air with a deafening howl, distorting sound and limiting his spatial awareness.
For the first time, I saw his eyes narrow. He pivoted sharply, adjusting his stance. The noise had thrown off his usual precision.
The cultivators seized the window. From all sides they surged in, blades raised, techniques unleashed. For a fleeting moment, it felt like we had cracked his armor—forced him to react rather than dominate.
But that moment shattered just as quickly.
Stripped of his usual senses, Ruan Yanjun responded with raw force. His attacks turned brutal, his strikes pounding with the weight of a landslide. The gentleness he'd once shown vanished—replaced with ruthless, calculated violence. Cultivators dropped one after another, their defenses shattered, their bodies tossed aside like broken puppets.
Groans of pain echoed through the courtyard.
Within seconds, the formation crumbled.
When the last of the attackers hit the ground, Ruan Yanjun finally turned toward me. His eyes found mine—steady, unreadable, and terrifyingly calm. It was the kind of gaze that stripped everything away. The courtyard, the audience, the fight itself—all fell away until only the two of us remained.
The wind I'd summoned faded into silence.
I stood alone.
Hands tight around my staff, heart pounding in my ears, I met his gaze and swallowed hard.
I knew it was now my turn.
I struck him with successive bolts of energy, each one calculated to keep him moving—to prevent him from reading my rhythm. He waited, calm and perfectly still, likely anticipating a direct assault.
But I wasn't that foolish.
Feinting forward to draw his attention, I shifted mid-air at the last second and landed silently behind him. My heart pounded—this was my best chance. Without hesitation, I thrust another energy bolt toward his back.
But I had underestimated him.
In a blur of motion, he pivoted—so quick, so precise, it was as if he had known my intent from the beginning. His palm deflected my bolt effortlessly, sending it crackling into a tree with a sharp burst. Before I could even recover my stance, his counterstrike came. A concentrated blast of qi slammed into my chest like a hammer. The shockwave tore through my body, and pain exploded in my ribs as I stumbled backward, gasping.
Huang Wen and a few of the remaining cultivators surged forward, flanking him with synchronized attacks to buy me a precious moment to breathe. Their efforts forced him to adjust his footing, though his calm never wavered.
Li Yao and Xiao Delun rushed to my side. Worry painted their faces as they grabbed my arms to steady me.
"Luo Fan, are you okay?" Li Yao asked anxiously.
I pressed a hand against my aching chest, my breaths shallow and uneven. "What did you say earlier?" I rasped, glaring at him through the haze. "That he'd be gentle with me? Does this look gentle to you?"
Li Yao gave a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his head. "Ah… my mistake."
Xiao Delun, ever unhelpful, grinned like a devil. "Or maybe he wants to injure you so he'll have an excuse to tend to your wounds afterward. You know… personal care."
I shot him a glare sharp enough to slice through bone. He recoiled with a laugh, hands raised in surrender.
"Stand back," I said, forcing myself upright. "I'm not finished yet. I want to land at least one solid hit."
The two stepped back immediately, knowing better than to argue.
I steadied myself. My limbs screamed in protest, dizziness tugging at the edges of my vision. Around me, the courtyard was a battlefield—groaning cultivators sprawled across the stone, defeated and dazed. Ruan Yanjun's power had left none unscathed.
Before I could launch another attack, Ruan Yanjun raised his hand and unleashed a sweeping horizontal blast. A violent surge of energy rippled outward like a crashing wave, sending everyone flying backward.
Silence fell again.
When the dust cleared, only Huang Wen and I remained standing. We locked eyes—bruised, breathless, and refusing to yield.
At the center of it all stood Ruan Yanjun. Unshaken. Untouched. The hem of his robe swayed gently in the breeze, his breathing undisturbed, his expression calm as ever. And then, that familiar smirk curved his lips—a subtle edge of challenge and amusement.
"Still not giving up?" he called, his voice as smooth as silk, laced with an unmistakable bite.
Gritting my teeth, I raised my staff again. "Not yet."
Huang Wen mirrored my stance. "Let's do this."
We launched forward together.
I summoned another cyclone of wind, letting it spiral around him once more. Its force howled, compressing the air, blurring his spatial senses. Huang Wen's wheel blade flew like a streak of silver lightning. As it carved toward him, I angled a sharp gust into its arc, boosting its speed just enough to disrupt Ruan Yanjun's timing.
For the first time, his expression sharpened. The wheel grazed his arm before he caught it with a flick of his wrist, the momentum still splitting the sleeve of his robe. A faint tear fluttered in the breeze.
Seizing the narrow window, I surged forward and thrust my bamboo staff directly toward his chest. I poured every last shred of my energy into that strike.
It landed.
Solid. Sharp. A clean, direct hit that forced him to take a single step back.
His eyes flickered—not with pain, but with something far more dangerous: approval.
But in that fleeting heartbeat of pride, I let my guard down.
His palm flashed upward. I saw the movement too late.
The force struck me square in the chest with the weight of a collapsing mountain. My body was flung backward like a rag doll. The breath was ripped from my lungs as I slammed into a thick tree trunk. The world blurred—sky, lantern light, and the spinning shadows all bleeding into one dizzying smear.
Then, through the haze, a dark figure approached. My vision wavered, and slowly, the familiar face of the Dark Wind Master came into focus. He loomed above me—his features a mixture of restrained fury and disappointment.
His eyes locked onto mine, cutting straight to the core.
And for a moment, I didn't know which was more terrifying:
Ruan Yanjun's brutal strike… or my master's gaze.
Then the light dimmed.
And the world went black.
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
RUAN YANJUN
— ✦ —
The courtyard had fallen quiet again, the echoes of battle still clinging to the stones like a fading tremor. My gaze settled on him—crumpled at the base of the tree, his slender frame limp, his breath faint and uneven.
For a long moment, I stood still.
The tightness in my chest refused to ease.
Foolish man.
Just as the Dark Wind Master bent down to lift him, I stepped forward.
"Dark Wind Master," I said, voice low but firm. "Allow me."
The old man straightened with a knowing smirk, brushing off his hands as if relieved. "He's all yours," he said. "For now."
As murmurs rippled quietly among the spectators, the world around me receded. There was nothing left but him.
I knelt beside him, brushing the loose strands of hair from his pale, sweat-slicked face. A fine trail of blood curved down from the corner of his mouth, clinging to his lower lip like a dewdrop to a petal. His lashes fluttered faintly—still fighting, even in unconsciousness.
My fingers hesitated, hovering just above his skin. But the pull was too strong. Gently, I swept the blood away with my thumb.
"You fool," I whispered, too quietly for anyone else to hear. "Always pushing past your limits… for pride. For others. Never for yourself."
Without further hesitation, I slid an arm beneath his knees, the other cradling his back. Lifting him came effortlessly. His body curled against me as if it had always belonged there—his breath warm against my throat, his head nestled near my shoulder.
The cultivators standing nearby parted instinctively, making way. No one dared speak. No laughter followed me this time. They all knew better.
Let them see. Let them whisper.
This man in my arms—this delicate, reckless, maddening man—was the only one I would ever carry with such care. The only one for whom I would ever forfeit pride, power, and reputation without regret.
As I walked through the corridor leading to the inner residence, the lantern light danced across his bloodied robes, casting golden shadows along his face. Even now, even in this bruised and battered state, he was unearthly in beauty—lips faintly parted, lashes brushing his cheeks like soft feathers, as if caught in the middle of some dream.
And something inside me stirred again.
Possessive. Fierce. Unforgiving.
At the threshold of his room, I paused for a moment too long—just looking. Memorizing. The faint cut on his cheek had already begun to dry, but I vowed it would never scar. No blemish would be allowed to remain on this face. Not while I still drew breath.
The servants moved quickly to open the doors, but I dismissed them all with a single glance.
This was something I would do myself.
Inside, the chamber was quiet, lit by the steady flicker of a single candle. I laid him on the bed with care, adjusting his robe, brushing the strands of hair from his brow, ensuring no discomfort touched him.
And then, I sat beside the bed, unmoving.
He looked impossibly peaceful—fragile, luminous, like something born not of this world but of moonlight and snow.
Reaching into my sleeve, I drew out the handkerchief. The same one he had used to wipe the blood from my hand. His blood now stained its cloth, dried along its edge like a brand. I ran my thumb over it slowly.
His blood.
His breath.
His everything.
Mine.
From the moment I first saw him six years ago… I had already claimed him.
And yet… he didn't know.
Or perhaps he did—and that was what frightened him. Why he always tried to slip through my grasp. Why he ran.
I smiled faintly, bitterly, my voice a whisper lost to the stillness of the room.
"My A-Fan… no matter how far you go, you will always find your way back into my arms."