LUO FAN
The ride back to the inn had been far more exhausting than I expected—not physically, but emotionally. Ruan Yanjun had clung to me so tightly during the ride, leaning into me with such unrelenting intimacy, that I felt as though I'd been under siege the entire time. Now, back in the relative peace of our room, I sought solace in a bath, hoping to wash away not just the dust and grime but also the lingering heat of his proximity.
He had decided to bathe in the hot spring behind the inn—a place better suited to his grandeur, I thought bitterly. He had even invited me, with that sly smile of his, but I refused outright. There was no way I would willingly walk into another one of his schemes. His earlier "weakness" during the ride had felt contrived, a ploy to force that closeness upon me. The moment we arrived, he'd miraculously regained his strength. It was infuriating how easily he played me.
Sinking into the warm water, I allowed myself a moment of respite. The tub was fragrant with herbs I had added, their scent calming and grounding. I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. Finally, I thought, some peace.
The door creaked open.
My eyes snapped wide, and I instinctively submerged myself deeper into the water, the herbal mixture swirling protectively around me. "You've returned too soon," I said, keeping my tone as neutral as possible despite the flush creeping up my neck.
"I don't spend too much time bathing," came Ruan Yanjun's voice from behind the folding screen I'd set up earlier. His calm, unhurried tone carried an edge of mischief that put me instantly on guard.
I gritted my teeth. "If you don't mind, could you give me some time to dress?"
"Go ahead," he replied casually.
"I mean… I need some privacy."
He chuckled, a sound that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. "A-Fan, why so shy? We're both men. What's the harm?"
Both men? I thought bitterly. How could he say that when he treated me like some delicate maiden, his intentions so blatantly unrestrained?
Before I could reply, he stepped around the screen, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked down at me.
"Lord Ruan!" I gasped, my hands instinctively splashing the water to cover more of myself, though the herbs already obscured much. My face burned with humiliation.
He smiled, unrepentant, his eyes trailing over my exposed shoulders and collarbone. His gaze wasn't lecherous but intense, as if memorizing every detail. "Not bad," he said, his voice maddeningly calm. "But you're too thin. You should eat more."
"Lord Ruan," I began carefully, swallowing my irritation and mortification, "you must be hungry. The innkeeper offered to prepare dinner. Perhaps you could arrange for it to be brought up while I… finish here?"
His smile turned rueful, as though disappointed by my attempt to push him away. "Always so practical, my A-Fan," he mused. Then, as if to remind me he wouldn't leave without making a mark, he said, "The alchemist has given the flower a name—Pale Revenant. Fitting, don't you think?"
I seized on the change of topic, desperate to redirect him. "What's so special about it?"
"It's a revival flower," he said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "The old man we stole it from was likely trying to bring someone back from the dead."
My breath caught. Revival—a dark, forbidden magic that always ended in tragedy. The light cores and dark cores rarely agreed on anything, but both condemned revival as an abomination.
"And its use for the living?" I asked hesitantly.
"It strengthens a dark core," he replied simply. "Like the flower itself, you bloom beautifully outwardly, but inside, it nourishes darkness."
My stomach churned at the thought. To him, it was an advantage, but for me, someone whose dark core was already a fragile, unwanted part of my existence, it was a temptation I couldn't afford.
He caught my hesitation, his smile fading into something softer. "A-Fan," he said quietly, "your dark core is weak. It needs nourishment, or it will be overshadowed by your light core. It's dangerous to let them remain imbalanced."
I nodded quickly, hoping to end the conversation. "I understand. Leave it on the table, and I'll take it later."
His gaze lingered on me, doubt flickering in his eyes. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," I insisted, forcing a smile. "Just give me some privacy first."
He relented, albeit reluctantly, and turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "The Dual Bloom elixir will take time to refine. We'll retrieve it before heading to the capital." Then, with one last searching glance, he left.
The moment the door closed, I let out a shaky breath, my shoulders slumping. He was relentless, always probing, always testing.
Rising from the water, I dried myself quickly and dressed, my eyes flicking back to the vial on the table.
It shimmered in the light, deceptively harmless, almost as if mocking my resolve.
I picked it up, holding it between my fingers as I tilted it toward the light. For a fleeting moment, the temptation crept in—what would it feel like to take it? To experience that elusive balance and strength he had so confidently promised?
But the thought curdled almost as soon as it formed.
I wouldn't do it. I couldn't.
With a steady hand, I slipped the vial into my belongings, burying it beneath layers of cloth. Let him believe I'd given in, that I'd taken the path he so desperately wanted me to tread.