NOTE: If you still haven't read Book 2, this chapter is a major spoiler. Reader's discretion is advised.
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LUO FAN
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I sat in silence beside Ruan Yanjun's body, my head bowed, my fingers absently combing through his hair. His face, usually so commanding, so vividly alive, lay pale and still.
This man, who had betrayed me, hurt me, humiliated me more times than I could count... had somehow become the center of my grief.
Despite everything, I had never wanted him to die.
The weight in my chest was suffocating. My throat ached with unshed cries. Though no tears fell, the darkness within me churned like a storm held back by brittle walls. It was as though my body refused to release the full force of my sorrow, trapping it deep inside like a beast behind iron bars.
His death was a bitter truth I struggled to accept.
Eventually, after what might have been hours, I forced myself to rise. My limbs moved sluggishly, as if gravity itself had turned hostile. I searched the area, hoping to find a place where I could bury him. Somewhere worthy of his stature, yet hidden enough that no enemies might ever disturb him.
I spotted a villager heading my way. It was a frail old man, hunched and slow, approaching with a wooden bucket in hand. He looked as though he had sprouted from the very soil, worn down by time and wind and silence.
I wasn't sure if he had noticed me. Still, he continued his steady pace, eyes cloudy and unfocused.
I waited. When he drew close, I bowed with both hands cupped before me.
He halted, peering at me with narrowed eyes, as if trying to recall a name he'd long forgotten.
"Good morning, sir," I said softly, keeping my tone low and respectful. "My name is Luo Fan. I'm a priest from the West. My companion and I were caught in an accident and washed ashore here."
The old man squinted harder, his milky eyes scanning me from head to toe with mild curiosity. He reminded me, painfully, of what I had once been not long ago. Sightless. Wandering.
He said nothing at first. Then, in a rasp like brittle paper, he croaked, "Yes?"
I swallowed and pointed gently toward Ruan Yanjun's still form.
"My friend... he didn't survive. I'd like to ask your permission to bury him here. On your land."
He leaned closer, cupping a hand to his ear. "What was that?"
"My friend is dead," I repeated, slow and careful. "I'd like to bury him—"
"What?"
I paused. His face remained blank. His head tilted again, expectant.
That was when I realized he was nearly blind and almost entirely deaf.
Now, I had no idea how to communicate with him.
Suddenly, a woman approached from the path beyond the trees. Her embroidered robe swayed softly with each step, and though she moved with grace, there was authority in her bearing—a quiet strength that marked her as someone of importance in the village.
"There's no use speaking to him," she said gently, nodding toward the old man. "He's my father. He'll be eighty-five this winter. His sight is fading, and he can barely hear at all."
I inclined my head respectfully. "My name is Luo Fan."
"I heard," she replied, voice calm and laced with curiosity. "A priest from the West, you said. I'm Li Ai." Her eyes drifted toward the still form lying on the grass. "What happened to your friend?"
"He fell from a cliff," I said quietly.
Her expression shifted—barely—but she didn't press. Instead, she nodded, silently inviting me to go on.
"May I ask for your permission to bury him here?"
Li Ai stepped forward and studied Ruan Yanjun's body. "Do you mind if I check him first?"
"Not at all," I said, stepping aside.
She knelt gracefully beside him. Placing two fingers on his vitality gate, she closed her eyes. Her expression tensed with concentration, a subtle furrow forming between her brows.
Moments passed in silence. Then her eyes opened, and her voice was calm, but firm.
"You cannot bury him."
I blinked. "Why not?"
Her gaze met mine, steady as stone.
"Because he's still alive."
The words struck me like lightning.
"Alive...?" I echoed, barely a whisper.
I dropped to my knees, trembling as I reached for his neck with unsteady fingers. I held my breath.
I felt it. Faint. Fragile. A pulse, buried deep beneath skin that had long gone cold. So thin it was almost an illusion. But it was there.
I stared at him, mind spinning.
His body had lain still for hours. His skin had chilled. I had accepted it. I had mourned him. And now...
Now he was alive.
My thoughts spiraled. I didn't understand how it was possible.
I glanced at Li Ai. She was watching me quietly, arms folded, her expression unreadable.
"I... I might've made a mistake," I said, though the truth was—I still didn't understand what was happening. I was adrift, lost in disbelief.
Li Ai didn't respond right away. Her gaze drifted between me and Ruan Yanjun, eyes steady and thoughtful.
"If there's even a sliver of a chance he can survive," she said softly, "then you should try to save him."
"Of course," I replied, my voice firmer now.
Whatever bitterness still lingered in my heart—whatever pain, betrayal, or confusion—I could set it all aside. Right now, none of that mattered. Even if his survival was impossible, I had to try. Anything was better than doing nothing.
I couldn't just walk away. Not when fate had given him this fragile, flickering chance.
"Unfortunately," she continued, her tone tinged with apology, "there's no healer in this village. I only know how to treat common sicknesses—fevers, wounds, colds. I'm afraid I can't help your friend."
"I understand," I murmured. I wasn't expecting much either. I knew that Ruan Yanjun's survival entirely depended on me now.
Li Ai hesitated, as though choosing her next words with care. Then she sighed. "To be frank... I don't think he'll make it. His spirit is barely hanging on. But even so, we have a tradition here."
She paused, studying my face as if gauging how much I could bear.
"It's considered taboo to bury someone while they still show signs of life, even the faintest. Even if death seems inevitable."
I said nothing.
"In our village," she continued, "we wait three days before a burial. We believe that in those three days, the soul might return to the body. If it finds no vessel... it will wander forever, unable to cross to the next world."
I drew in a slow, ragged breath.
This was their land. I had no right to challenge their traditions. And even if I could... I didn't want to. Because despite everything, I couldn't bring myself to give up hope. Not when even the slimmest thread of life remained in Ruan Yanjun's body.
"Is there a house or room I could rent nearby?" I asked, steadying my breath.
Li Ai nodded. "Of course. Bring your friend—I'll lead you there."
I crouched beside Ruan Yanjun and, with effort, lifted his body once more onto my back. His weight pressed down on me like a final burden, like the weight of unfinished words and broken memories. Still, I held him tightly, one arm hooked beneath his knees, the other gripping his wrist.
Li Ai led me to a small house near the edge of the village, not far from the sea. It stood slightly tilted on a rise, its wooden walls bleached by salt and time, the thatched roof weathered but intact.
"The family who lived here left last month for the city," she said, pushing the door open. "They were looking for better prospects. Most of their things are still here. It should be enough for now."
Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and salt. There was a single bed against the wall, a small table with uneven legs, and a few storage cabinets with chipped paint. Sparse, but solid. Quiet.
"I'll leave you for now," Li Ai said. "I need to inform the village chief and let the others know who you are. People here... they're cautious of outsiders. I'll do what I can to ease their concerns."
I bowed. "Thank you."
She stepped outside and shut the door behind her.
I lingered by the window, peering through the narrow gap between the slats. A few villagers stood at a distance, their eyes fixed on the house—suspicion and unease etched into their faces.
With a quiet sigh, I turned away and shut the shutters. The room dimmed. Only the distant murmur of the sea broke the silence.
I eased Ruan Yanjun down onto the bed. His body lay unnaturally still, pale against the worn sheets. His wounds needed immediate attention. I couldn't afford to delay.
Just as I turned toward the corner cabinet, the door opened.
The old man from earlier stepped inside, carrying a wooden bucket brimming with water.
"My daughter said you needed this," he said as he set it down with a grunt.
"I do. Thank you," I replied, forgetting for a moment that he couldn't hear me.
He tilted his head, turning his right ear toward me. "What?"
I hesitated, then simply bowed deeply in gratitude.
He caught the gesture and gave a faint, knowing smile before turning and leaving.
Returning to Ruan Yanjun's side, I soaked a cloth in the cool water and began tending to his wounds.
They were severe—long, jagged gashes that still oozed faintly, dirt and blood clinging to torn flesh. I worked slowly, carefully, each movement deliberate. I didn't dare rush.
If he had been conscious, he would've groaned in pain. Maybe even cursed me for touching him.
But he lay silent. Still. So unnaturally motionless that it was almost unsettling, as if even pain had forgotten him. I couldn't tell if it was a curse… or a mercy.
Once the wounds were clean, I reached into my satchel and pulled out the last of my ointment. It wasn't much, barely enough for a few deep cuts, but it was all I had. I spread it over the worst of the injuries, then searched the cabinets until I found a folded, half-forgotten sheet.
It was clean. That would have to be enough.
With no bandages, I laid it gently over him, shielding his body as best I could. A makeshift shroud not for the dead, but for someone clinging to life by the faintest thread.
When I finally sat back, the weight of exhaustion sank deep into my bones. My hands ached. My shoulders throbbed from the strain of carrying him.
My gaze drifted to his head.
The fracture in his skull was the most daunting of all—an injury so delicate, so perilous, I had no idea how to treat it.
How was I supposed to mend something broken from within?
I exhaled slowly and leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees.
My eyes lingered on his face—pale, still, untouched by breath or sound.
For all his pride, all his power, Ruan Yanjun looked almost fragile now. Like something that might shatter for good if I dared to look away.
"Can you really come back from this?" I whispered, the words meant more for myself than for him.