Dream and Dinner (Part 2)

Back in the cabin, Lan Feng headed straight for the bed. He climbed on top, sat cross-legged, and rested his hands on his knees. At first glance, he looked as though he were preparing to meditate, but I could tell it wasn't cultivation he was after. His gaze kept flickering toward me as I straightened the mattress on the floor—only to snap away the moment I looked back.

I watched the pattern repeat a few times before I broke the silence. "What's wrong, Feng'er?"

He shook his head, still avoiding my eyes. "It's nothing, Gege."

But I wasn't convinced. He'd been acting oddly ever since waking up that afternoon. Quiet. Hesitant. As if something weighed heavily on his mind.

With a sigh, I sat down beside the bed. "If something's bothering you, you can tell me."

"I can't," he mumbled, lowering his head even further.

"Why not?"

He glanced at me briefly, then looked away again. "Gege will get mad if I say it."

His answer puzzled me. I didn't press him further—instead, I gently shifted the topic.

"Feng'er," I said, leaning in a little closer, "can I ask you something else? Where did you learn to fight like that? You were impressive out there today. That Shuiyan didn't know what hit it."

He looked up at me—and just like the child he still was, a simple word of praise was enough to chase the shadows from his eyes. They lit up with quiet pride, the weight on his heart briefly forgotten.

"My father hired a trainer for me," he said, his voice gaining strength. "But it was only for self-defense. I'm still nowhere near gege's level."

"Did you ever have a master?"

He shook his head. "No. My trainer was only at level five, so he wasn't allowed to take disciples yet."

I nodded thoughtfully. "And what was your level that you remember?"

"Level one," he said, his tone tinged with disappointment.

"Only level one?" I tilted my head. "You looked much stronger when you came to save me. I'd have guessed you were at least level three."

He frowned slightly, as though confused by his own abilities. "I don't know. Maybe I reached level three, but I don't remember. My memories feel... fragmented. There are pieces, but they don't fit together. They're like parts of a puzzle I can't solve."

"What do you mean by fragmented?" I asked gently.

Lan Feng's brow furrowed as he tried to explain. "There are things I remember, like moments from my childhood, but I can't connect them to anything else. It's as if there are gaps... or maybe they aren't gaps. Maybe they're just too tangled for me to understand."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "And thinking too much about it makes my head hurt."

"I understand," I said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to force it. Just give it time. Your memories will come back when you're ready."

He turned to look at me, eyes wide with a kind of vulnerable sincerity. "But I'm sure my cultivation isn't as strong as yours," he added. "Earlier, when I tried to save you... it felt like something inside me just exploded. I didn't know I could do that. I think it only happened because... I was desperate."

His words stirred something in me. "Were you afraid of losing me?"

He nodded without hesitation. "Of course. You're my gege. I don't have anyone else. I only have you."

For a moment, I couldn't speak. His words sank deep, stirring an ache I hadn't realized was there. This version of him—Lan Feng—was so open, so fiercely loyal in a way I wasn't sure I deserved. He trusted me completely. Loved me without conditions. And all I could do was sit there, unsure if I could carry the weight of that love when I wasn't even certain who he'd become once his memories returned.

I decided to shift the conversation, hoping to uncover more about Ruan Yanjun's mysterious background—hoping that perhaps, by threading through the tangled fragments of his memories, I might finally understand what had shaped him into the man he became. What had driven him down such a dark path? What had turned the favored child of some unknown household into the cold and ruthless cultivator I once feared?

"How about your family?" I asked gently. "Do you remember anything about them?"

He nodded without hesitation. "I have two brothers, and I'm the youngest. I wanted to have a sister, so my mother gifted me Moxue. She gave me two nieces, and three grandnephews, and one grandniece. I remember my grandniece was pregnant when—"

"Wait, wait," I interrupted, my brow furrowing in confusion. His narration had gone off the rails before I could even find the thread. "How old is your sister?"

"She's ten," he replied, utterly serious.

That only deepened my confusion. "Ten? And she already gave birth twice?"

"Yes," he said with a confident nod. "And my nieces gave birth when they were three."

My mouth opened slightly. I stared at him, momentarily speechless. My first instinct was to think he was teasing me, or worse—making things up. But the sincerity on his face made it clear that wasn't the case. He believed what he was saying.

Then it dawned on me.

"Is your sister… a pet?"

"No!" he said indignantly, frowning. "She's not a pet. She's my sister."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, already bracing myself for whatever absurd truth was about to come.

"What is she?"

"A horse," he replied proudly. "She has a black and white coat. That's why I called her Moxue."

I dropped my hand from my face and let it rest on my lap. "Of course she's a horse," I muttered under my breath, trying not to sigh too loudly. "Alright, let's talk about something else. Tell me about your parents."

"Father or mother?" he asked.

"Start with your father," I said, leaning back a little. I had long suspected that Ruan Yanjun's family hailed from the Xue Empire. His unusual height alone was a dead giveaway—he was far too tall and broad for someone native to Xianru.

"My father's hometown is in Donghai," he said. "He's the son of the Duke of Gamani."

I stiffened.

The name Gamani struck a deep chord within me. I remembered clearly the time Ruan Yanjun had told me he had protected me because I had "cleansed the filth off Gamani." That filth he had referred to was the incumbent marquis of Donghai, a city within the province of Gamani. Kong Mingli—the very man I had mutilated.

Was I mistaken?

Could it really be that Ruan Yanjun hailed from the east, and not the north?

But his features said otherwise. That tall, statuesque frame, the sculpted bone structure, the naturally cold temperament—those were hallmarks of the northern bloodline.

"My mother is from Xueyao," he added.

I froze again. Xueyao.

That was the old name of the Xue Empire's capital, before it was renamed Xuetian.

"Your mother is from Xue?" I asked slowly.

He nodded. "Yes. She's a princess. The sister of Emperor Ruchen. That makes him my uncle."

My thoughts reeled. I hadn't been wrong after all. He did carry the blood of the north. And not just any northern lineage—he was the nephew of an emperor.

I had long suspected he came from nobility, but this was beyond anything I imagined. The blood of royalty flowed through his veins. And yet, he had turned his back on that path, straying into the shadows of demonic cultivation. Why?

The Xue Empire had always been known to favor light-path cultivators. Its rulers were revered for their purity and righteousness. How had Ruan Yanjun, born into such a lineage, become what he was now—the most reviled and feared dark cultivator of his age?

"Were your family and relatives good to you?" I asked, gently prodding, hoping for insight into what had fractured him.

"Of course," he said brightly. "I'm the youngest son, so naturally, I was everyone's favorite. My brothers are much older than me, so they always brought me gifts whenever they returned home from their travels."

His tone was filled with fondness, the kind that only came from truly cherished memories. I felt another pang of confusion. This didn't add up. A boy so beloved, so doted on by his family—what could have gone so terribly wrong?

"And I'm also my uncle's favorite," he added. "He said I should've been the crown prince. But my father didn't want that for me."

Something shifted in the air then, a crack in the perfect picture.

"Did your uncle's sons like you?" I asked cautiously. "Were they… kind?"

He fell silent, his brows furrowing slightly as though peering into the fog of a dream.

"I don't remember anything about them, Gege," he said at last.

That made sense. His memories were fragmented, tangled beyond repair. Likely, the only people he remembered vividly were his immediate family—those who held the most space in his heart.

I leaned back, my thoughts swirling. It felt like we were slowly assembling the pieces of a puzzle, but every new revelation only brought more questions. A prince loved by his parents, adored by his emperor-uncle, perhaps envied by his royal cousins. A boy who grew up with horses and laughter… who had somehow become the terrifying Ruan Yanjun, scourge of the cultivation world.

I sighed. We were no closer to understanding how the boy had become the man. But at least now I had something—fragments of his truth, little shards of the person he once was.

"Tell me about that girl who liked you," I tried again, keeping my tone light, almost teasing.

"I didn't say I liked her," he replied without missing a beat, adjusting his position on the bed with that same casual air he always wore when deflecting.

"Ah, so it was one-sided?" I leaned forward slightly, pressing just a little more, amused by his indifference. "What was her name again?"

His brows furrowed faintly—as if the memory required effort to recall. "I think it's Ji Yelan."

I nodded. "Beautiful name. Why didn't you like her?"

His frown deepened. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, the silence stretching, until he finally said, "Maybe because she's not as pretty as Gege."

I froze.

A rush of heat surged up my neck and bloomed across my cheeks. I blinked, stunned by how naturally the words had fallen from his lips—like it was the most obvious truth in the world. There was no teasing in his tone, no hesitation. Just pure, unfiltered honesty.

"Lan Feng," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, "being pretty shouldn't be your only requirement when choosing a partner."

He tilted his head at me, entirely unbothered. "But Gege isn't just pretty," he said matter-of-factly. "Gege is kind, and gentle, and takes care of me... and Gege can fight really well. He can summon wind and blow anything away."

I sighed, waving a hand in quiet exasperation. "Alright, alright," I muttered, cutting him off before he could pile on more compliments. His praise was heartfelt, but his admiration had an intensity that left me flustered. Was this truly how he saw me? Like some unattainable figure? It was equal parts sweet and troubling.

"And there's one more thing," he added, his voice soft but persistent.

"What now?" I asked, half-dreading whatever innocent bombshell he was about to drop.

He smiled then. A small, genuine smile that made him seem even younger than seventeen. "When Gege kissed me," he said, "it felt nice."

The words hit me like a slap of cold water.

My eyes widened, and I felt the blood drain from my face only to return in a heated rush seconds later. My ears burned.

"Lan Feng!" I snapped, my voice sharp, a little louder than I intended.

He flinched, immediately lowering his head, his hands wringing the edge of the blanket. "I'm sorry, Gege," he said quickly, his voice small and apologetic. "I won't say such things again."

I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, steadying myself. He hadn't meant anything lewd—he was only speaking his truth with the same unfiltered sincerity he always carried. Still, hearing those words out loud, spoken in that soft, adoring tone, had left me completely unmoored.

"Just… don't say things like that, alright?" I said more gently, my tone softening.

He nodded at once, obedient as ever. "Yes, Gege."

I gave him a faint smile, just enough to let him know I wasn't truly angry. "Now, lie down and sleep."

His eyes brightened immediately. "Can I sleep beside Gege?" he asked, hopeful.

"No," I said firmly. "You're a grown man now, remember? You need to stop being so clingy."

His smile vanished, and his shoulders slumped. He nodded again, quieter this time. "Yes, Gege." Then, without another word, he lay back down on the bed and pulled the blanket over himself.

I watched him for a long moment—his face turned toward the wall, his expression barely visible in the low lantern light. I felt a twinge of guilt for being so curt, but I needed to draw the line. The more he clung to me, the harder it would be to keep our boundaries intact—especially when his feelings were already growing more complicated by the day.

Still, seeing him like that—so subdued, so heartbreakingly earnest—I couldn't help the ache that settled in my chest.

With a quiet sigh, I stood and extinguished the lantern. Darkness enveloped the room, and I lay back on my mattress, the soft rhythm of Lan Feng's breathing lulling me into uneasy stillness.