CHAPTER 66

Distant

LUO FAN

When I woke, the room was quiet, the bed empty save for myself. Ruan Yanjun wasn’t here. Again. I stared at the hollow space beside me, a place where his presence had become an unspoken constant. For a moment, I wondered if his return had been a dream.

Night had fallen. The soft glow of lanterns painted shadows on the walls. My body, though still frail, felt better than it had in days. My breathing was steady, the sharp pangs of pain dulled to a manageable throb. Carefully, I pushed myself upright. To my surprise, I managed to stand without much effort.

Someone had helped me. Someone had stayed by my side. Could it have been him?

“Has Lord Ruan returned?” I asked the staff who came to deliver my dinner.

The young servant bowed. “He returned two days ago, but you likely did not notice. You’ve been resting.”

Two days. I blinked, taken aback by the time I’d lost.

As I sat at the table, eating alone, an unfamiliar heaviness settled over me. The meal was warm and comforting, but the silence was suffocating. I had spent countless days longing for solitude, wishing for space from Ruan Yanjun’s oppressive presence. Now that I had it, everything felt... wrong.

Am I missing him?

The thought startled me, and I shook my head.

No, that couldn’t be it. How could I possibly miss that devil? Surely he had grown bored of me and found something—or someone—else to occupy his time. Perhaps he had finally decided I wasn’t worth the effort.

I should be relieved.

But the empty silence gnawed at me, and I couldn’t stop the unease creeping into my thoughts. My mind wandered back to the bouts of weakness I had witnessed in him, the moments he brushed off with irritation or a sharp word. The timing of those episodes wasn’t lost on me. They always seemed to follow a battle. He had been careful to avoid confrontations recently, often thrusting me into situations where I was forced to fight in his stead.

I wondered what kind of burden he was hiding.

The warmth of the room felt distant as my thoughts spiraled. Perhaps it wasn’t just worry. Perhaps I was lonely.

Back in Frost Mountain, I had grown accustomed to solitude. Those frozen peaks were my sanctuary, a place where silence brought peace instead of unease. But since leaving, I had been adrift, untethered. The security I once found in the mountain's cold embrace was gone, and I had been searching for something to replace it ever since.

I thought I had found it with Jinjing.

Even during my travels with Ruan Yanjun, the knowledge that she was waiting for me had kept me grounded. She had been my anchor, my home. But now...

Now, she was gone.

The emptiness she left behind was unbearable, a chasm I couldn’t hope to fill. And though I could never call Ruan Yanjun a friend, much less family, he was all I had left. The devil who had saved me, tormented me, and tethered me to this uncertain journey was the only constant in my shattered world.

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Trust wasn’t the word for what I felt toward him. I didn’t trust him, not truly. But I knew he wouldn’t abandon me, at least not yet. And that knowledge—that frail assurance—was enough to keep me tied to him, for now.

Perhaps it was pathetic.

Or perhaps it was just survival.

I willed myself to see him. The lingering ache in my body didn’t deter me as I walked toward his room. The door was ajar, allowing the faint glow of a single lantern to spill into the hallway. I didn’t bother knocking.

Inside, Ruan Yanjun sat by a low table, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a thick, leather-bound book in the other. His silhouette was calm, almost serene, as if the world outside couldn’t touch him.

“Lord Ruan,” I called softly.

He didn’t lift his gaze. “Mm.”

“May I bother you for a moment?”

There was no response, but he didn’t tell me to leave, so I stepped inside. I sat across from him, the table a barrier between us. His eyes never left the book, his attention fixed on the pages as though I weren’t there.

It was unlike him.

Ruan Yanjun was never indifferent. Whether he was teasing, mocking, or berating me, his attention was always sharp, almost suffocating. Now, his silence cut deeper than his words ever could.

“You’ve been gone for a while,” I ventured. “You said one week, but it took you two.”

His lips curved into a faint smirk, his eyes still on the book. “Did you come here to say you missed me?”

The directness of his words startled me. My face warmed, but I managed a quiet nod. “I probably did.”

His smirk widened, amusement flickering in his expression. “A-Fan, don’t think you can deceive me. The moment I was gone, you were likely running around the city like a stray dog freed from its leash. That’s probably why you fell ill.”

I stiffened, unable to deny the accusation. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t missed him. I just didn’t have the courage—or the desire—to admit it outright.

“What are you reading?” I deflected, hoping to shift the conversation.

“It’s about the evils of politics,” he replied, finally taking a sip of his tea. “I’m sure it wouldn’t interest you, so don’t bother asking.”

I forced a smile, though his curt response stung. This man had always been difficult, but at least his taunts felt like attention. This cold indifference was unbearable.

Still, I couldn’t let this strange tension linger. Our contract bound us, and despite everything, I owed him much. The least I could do was mend the strained thread between us.

“Lord Ruan,” I began, fidgeting with my hands under the table. “Recently, I’ve been thinking... I realized I’ve been ungrateful to you. Everything that’s happened—losing Jinjing, learning the truth about myself—it’s left me bitter and distracted. But none of that excuses the way I’ve treated you. I apologize.”

Finally, he looked up from his book. His eyes met mine, sharp and calculating. “Are you saying you’re now willing to do as I’ve asked? To nourish both your cores and strengthen them together?”

The question hit me like a blow. My throat tightened, and I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

Feeding my dark core was an impossible choice. For a light cultivator, walking the righteous path meant suppressing darkness, keeping anger, hatred, and other negative emotions at bay. To nourish the dark core meant doing the exact opposite—inviting wickedness, indulging in anger and despair. It would mean fundamentally altering who I was.

Seeing my hesitation, he sighed, setting his book down. He reached for a small bottle on the table and slid it toward me.

“This is the refined essence of the legendary flower we found in the forest,” he said. “Take it. By morning, I expect to see an improvement in your health.”

I stared at the bottle, its contents gleaming faintly under the lantern light. It was the essence of the Dual Bloom, unmistakably potent. I could feel its energy even without opening it. But I knew the truth of what it would do. It wouldn’t strengthen just the light core—it would feed both, dark and light alike.

And that went against everything I had resolved to do. My plan had always been to weaken my dark core until it dissolved completely. Even if it put my life at risk, I couldn’t sustain both cores. It wasn’t just a matter of survival—it was about staying true to who I was.

“If there’s nothing else, go back to sleep,” he said, his tone sharp with dismissal.

I hesitated, the weight of my dilemma pressing against my chest. The words hovered on the tip of my tongue, begging to be spoken, but fear silenced them—fear of his disappointment or, worse, his anger.

Ruan Yanjun’s gaze darkened. “What’s wrong, A-Fan? Do you need me to carry you back to your room like a blushing bride for the staff to see?”

I shot to my feet, heat rushing to my face. “That won’t be necessary.”

He smirked, clearly amused by my reaction.

“Good night, my lord,” I said stiffly, bowing before I hurried out of the room.