LUO FAN
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The faint glow of a single lantern cast gentle, flickering shadows across the room as I stirred awake. A dull ache throbbed in my chest, but the sight before me swiftly eclipsed the pain.
Ruan Yanjun sat silently at my bedside, his tall figure half-veiled by the soft amber light. The usual cold sharpness of his features was subdued beneath the lantern's glow, lending an almost unreal gentleness to his face. His gaze—steady, unblinking—rested on me. I felt the weight of it before my eyes had even fully opened. He had been watching me for some time.
"Lord Ruan…" I murmured, my voice faint and my throat dry from the exhaustion of battle. I slowly pushed myself upright, though my limbs trembled with the effort. "What are you doing here?"
He didn't move. His eyes never left mine. After a long, still moment, his lips parted, and in a low murmur that felt heavier than any blow I had taken, he answered:
"To see a particular person."
My breath caught.
My chest tightened as my mind spiraled back to that moment during the congregation—when he had spoken those same words. I had asked who that person was, but he never answered.
But now…
The truth rose in me like a sudden, blinding light, crashing through doubt and denial, making my pulse thunder beneath my skin. So it had been true all along? That person he spoke of… had been me?
My lips parted, but no sound emerged. My throat constricted. I stared at him, desperately searching his expression for confirmation.
And there it was—the faintest curve of his mouth, as subtle as a breath, barely more than a shadow of a smile, but still enough.
My heart lurched. Warmth flooded through me, rising swiftly to my face. I turned away, my gaze dropping to the blanket as my fingers curled tightly into its edge, desperate for something solid to hold onto amidst the storm rising within me. The dim light was a mercy, hiding my flushed cheeks from his watchful eyes.
For all the countless days we had traveled together, for all the danger we had faced, nothing had ever unraveled me quite like this. This moment—this simple, wordless moment—felt far more intimate than any we had shared before.
Then his voice came again, low and steady, anchoring me.
"During the fight," he said, "you let your guard down."
I flinched slightly at the memory.
"Just because you managed to land one hit, you grew complacent." His tone wasn't scolding, but laced with that familiar, cool precision. Yet beneath it, I sensed something else—an undercurrent of concern. "If I hadn't held back, that blow could have killed you."
The words should have stung. Instead, they settled over me like a quiet reprimand laced with care. Beneath the sharp edge of his voice, I sensed his unwillingness to see me truly harmed. And for the briefest instant, I thought I glimpsed a faint flicker of guilt behind his eyes.
Lowering my head, my voice barely above a whisper, I murmured, "That was my fault. I'll take it as a lesson."
I couldn't see him, but I knew he was staring—just as he always had. I could feel it: the weight of his gaze, heavy and unwavering, searing into my skin in the hush of the room.
In my mind, I pictured that familiar smirk curving his lips—the one that always left me flustered and unsure. I imagined him leaning closer, fingers tilting my chin upward to meet his eyes. And perhaps—just as he'd done many times before—he'd steal a kiss before I had the chance to object.
The thought alone sent a flush rushing to my face.
Once, I would have shoved him away without a second thought. But now… now I wasn't so certain anymore. Everything between us had grown tangled and complicated.
From the corner of my eye, I saw his hand move. My breath hitched. My heart stilled. I braced myself, expecting him to do exactly what I had just imagined.
But midway, his hand stopped.
The world seemed to pause with it.
I waited.
The silence thickened between us, stretched taut with all the unspoken things we dared not voice. Then, a sigh escaped him—low, quiet, and laden with emotions I couldn't name. Slowly, he lowered his hand and rose to his feet. Without a word, he turned his back to me and walked toward the window. Moonlight spilled through the wooden shutters, casting a silver outline around his figure.
There he stood, tall and composed, his hands clasped neatly behind him as he gazed into the courtyard beyond.
The sight struck me with a strange ache.
I stared, unable to look away. And to my own quiet horror… I felt disappointed.
The moment the thought surfaced, I sat up straighter, flustered by the betrayal of my own heart.
What am I thinking?
His voice broke the heavy stillness, smooth but probing. "You should have breached the seventh level by now."
My eyes widened slightly.
"But something's… off." He continued to face the moonlit courtyard, as if speaking to the night rather than to me.
My lips parted, stunned by how accurately he described what had plagued me for months. "How did you know that?" I asked.
He turned just enough that the moonlight illuminated the sharp line of his profile. "I can feel your energy," he said. "It's restless—eager to ascend—but stuck."
My breath caught. His words mirrored my own unspoken fears. "That's true. I've felt it too. But I have no idea why it's happening."
Finally, he turned fully to face me. His gaze met mine, steady and unreadable.
"Nothing happened," he said. "It's just that… your tribulation isn't over yet."
I blinked, confused. "But I already went through my tribulation. I survived it."
"That was for your light core."
I froze, confusion mounting. "But… dark cores don't undergo tribulations at the grandmaster threshold. Am I wrong?"
"It's not for your light core," he said evenly. "It's for your dual-core."
The words stunned me into silence.
I stared at him, speechless, my mind racing to make sense of it. In all the books I had studied, in all the scrolls hidden in the deepest corners of the Storm Surge Temple, I had never come across such a notion.
"What kind of tribulation am I facing?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He smirked faintly, a glimmer of amusement in his expression. "Ask the Dark Wind Master. That's why he was heading south—he was searching for you."
I stiffened. A rush of guilt swept through me.
I hadn't known. I had wasted so much time trying to elude his pursuit, never realizing that he had gone looking for me… for my sake.
"Did he tell you that?" I asked, my voice faltering.
My thoughts drifted to my former master, Wei Yusheng. Despite being a natural-born light core cultivator with exceptional talent, he had never ascended to the grandmaster level. His foundation had been flawless—his control over qi impeccable—and that was why it had always puzzled me that he had remained stagnant at level six for so many years.
"What about Master Yusheng?" I asked hesitantly. "He once told me he was on the brink of ascending to level seven, but… it never happened. What do you think was holding him back?"
Ruan Yanjun's eyes narrowed slightly, the lantern's glow catching the edge of his gaze with a faint gleam. "Yusheng's case is entirely different," he said softly, though his words fell with chilling finality. "He knew exactly why he could not ascend."
I frowned, confusion deepening. "What was it?"
His gaze locked onto mine—unyielding and razor-sharp, like a blade pressed against my throat. "Have you forgotten?" he asked quietly, his voice turning into a low murmur. "He killed your father."
The words hit like a blow—sudden, cold, and ruthless.
My breath faltered. I clenched my fists beneath the blanket, struggling to absorb the weight of what he'd said.
"But… I've known light core cultivators who've taken lives," I said, my voice shaking. "Many have killed and still managed to advance. The sect leader of the Celestial Radiance Sect, for example—he murdered his own master to seize power, yet that didn't stop him from reaching grandmaster."
A slow, amused smirk curved Ruan Yanjun's lips. "What do you think is the difference?"
I stared at him, uncertain. My pulse pounded in my ears.
"Killing for power, for ambition, for self-preservation—those things can be rationalized," he said. "For a light core cultivator, whose energy thrives on clarity and intent, even twisted ambitions can form a stable foundation. But to kill someone you've sworn to protect... to kill someone you love... that is a fracture far deeper."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice colder now. "It corrupts the conscience—if there is any left to corrupt. And that corruption contradicts the very essence of righteousness that sustains the light core."
The air in the room thickened with his words, heavy and unrelenting.
"Yusheng knew this," he continued. "And it haunts him still. Every day, the weight of that guilt gnaws at him. He regrets it endlessly. But there is no redemption left. That guilt is poison. It seeps into his cultivation, stagnates his qi, binds his progress like iron chains."
I lowered my head, my mind swirling. Pieces of truth I had refused to acknowledge began assembling into something undeniable.
Ruan Yanjun's voice softened—but its edge only sharpened. "It is not the act of killing that halts advancement. It's the guilt over the act."
He let the silence stretch, letting the truth settle.
"The leader of the Celestial Radiance Sect feels no remorse. His heart is cold, fixed on ambition, and so his light core remains intact. But your former master…" He paused, his eyes darkening. "He has carried his guilt for years. And when you, his disciple, surpassed him—when you reached a level he could never attain—that guilt curdled into resentment."
Ruan Yanjun's tone dropped, weighted and grim. "And that resentment led him to betray you again. To take part in another murder. One that, thankfully… failed."
The words pierced deep, like barbs ripping open old wounds I had long tried to bury.
I stared at my hands, feeling the weight of my former master's sins settle heavily on my chest. But within that pain, I understood—perhaps for the first time—the true nature of the invisible wall that had kept him from rising.
I thought of Ma Huan.
He too had stagnated. For five years, he had lingered at the edge of grandmaster level, unable to break through. Perhaps the guilt he carried—the guilt of abandoning his family in pursuit of cultivation, the guilt that led to his wife's early death—had become a burden too heavy, though he never once showed it.
I sighed. The conversation had wandered into a place I didn't want to revisit—a place that left a hollow ache in my chest.
I decided to change the subject.
"Lord Ruan," I began cautiously, my voice gentler than before, "Chairman Xie has asked me to try to persuade you to reconsider joining their cause. The union no longer requires you to pledge half your disciples—only however many you're willing to send. Even a few would make a difference."
He exhaled sharply, his expression darkening.
"A-Fan," he said, his tone edged with quiet bitterness, "even if I sent a mere handful, they'd still twist it. They'd accuse me of scheming, of holding back, of saving strength for some imagined betrayal. It wouldn't matter how much I gave—those vultures would demand more. And still… they'd resent me for breathing."
I faltered, unable to deny it. He wasn't wrong. I had witnessed the hypocrisy of the sect leaders firsthand—their endless hunger for power, their fear of Ruan Yanjun wrapped in a thin veneer of courtesy. To them, he was both a symbol of dread and a reminder of their own inadequacies.
He spoke again before I could find words. "Are you planning to fight alongside them?"
I hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "In order for the Storm Surge Sect to thrive, I have to build its reputation. If I want my sect to survive among the great sects, I have to prove its worth."
His gaze sharpened. For a moment, something slipped through the cracks of his cold composure—something raw and deeply human.
Worry.
"And what if you die in the war?" he asked softly.
The words struck me like a sudden wind. My breath caught. My lips parted, but no answer came.
He sighed, tension curling in his voice. "A-Fan… for once, listen to me. Stay out of this. You don't understand what they'll do to you. They'll praise your name, use your skills, smile at your face—and the moment you're no longer convenient, they'll discard you. Just like that."
He stepped closer, his voice lowering. The weight in his tone thickened with every word.
"And your cousin… when the Crown Prince of Kan hears how far you've come, how admired you've become in foreign lands—he'll see you for what you truly are to him: a threat. You remember what he did last time. Do you really think he'll hesitate again? Because this time, A-Fan… he won't fail."
I lowered my head. The truths in his words cut deep, striking nerves I had long tried to bury. This wasn't just about politics or war. He was trying to protect me. And though his voice remained composed, I could hear the raw, unspoken fear beneath his calm.
"I understand," I whispered, barely audible. "But… we all have an obligation to protect people."
His expression softened, just barely, but his voice remained firm.
"By killing more people?"
The question unsettled me.