LUO FAN

Before I could make sense of the situation, something blisteringly hot and fast hurtled past my head, grazing the tip of my left ear. The sharp sting and searing heat startled me. Unlike before, when my cultivation allowed me to dodge attacks instinctively, I was no longer swift or nimble enough. I hadn’t even sensed it coming.

A firebolt.

But not just any fire—its intensity told me it was blue fire, a technique only a skilled Dark Cultivator could cast.

The target wasn’t me. It was Lord Lan, who was seated across from me with infuriating nonchalance. I expected the firebolt to strike him, to see him react or counter, but to my astonishment, nothing happened. He remained seated, his expression untouched by concern, and raised a single hand lazily. The overwhelming heat and presence of the fire faded instantly.

How…?

A chilling realization hit me as I recalled the name shouted by the attacker moments earlier.

Ruan Yanjun.

Could Lord Lan truly be the infamous Devil of the South?

Lord Lan stood with a yawn, his movements slow and deliberate. “Another unworthy cultivator who overestimates his capabilities,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. His relaxed demeanor evaporated as he straightened, his posture radiating a commanding presence so formidable that even I, with my impaired sight, felt the weight of it. My breath caught.

“If you’re seeking death,” he continued coldly, “just throw yourself out of the window. It’ll be quicker.”

“You’re too arrogant, Ruan Yanjun,” a hoarse voice spat from behind me.

Before I could react, a hand gripped my arm and yanked me aside just as a shadow leapt onto the table. I stumbled back, nearly losing my balance, as a flurry of fists and strikes erupted between the assailant and Lord Lan.

“Let’s go!” Jinjing urged, grabbing my wrist and pulling me toward the stairs.

“It’s Grandmaster Wang Bei! He’s upstairs!” someone shouted from the chaos below. “He’s challenged another grandmaster!”

The diners downstairs erupted in panic, chairs scraping and tables overturning as people scrambled to leave or gather for a better view.

Jinjing and I pressed through the frenzied crowd, weaving between overturned chairs and frightened patrons.

The moment we burst through the doors into the open air, a deafening explosion rocked the building behind us. The ground beneath my feet trembled, and I heard the sharp, collective gasps of the crowd. I instinctively pulled Jinjing closer to steady her.

We stopped and turned to look back. Though my poor vision showed only shadows and outlines, the brightness of the blast was unmistakable—a massive flash of light lit up the horizon.

“The roof!” Jinjing gasped. “It’s been blown off!”

My breath caught in my throat. A duel of this magnitude—between two grandmasters—was a terrifying spectacle. I had never witnessed such raw, destructive force before. If this man truly was Ruan Yanjun, the notorious Devil of the South, and the other his challenger, the restaurant didn’t stand a chance.

And it wouldn’t end there.

The clash would inevitably draw a crowd of martial artists, curious onlookers, and opportunists. If we stayed, there was a risk someone might recognize me.

I wasn’t willing to take that chance.

“We have to go,” I said, pulling Jinjing by the hand.

While others surged toward the chaos, eager to witness a battle for the ages, we ran in the opposite direction, disappearing into the shadows.

A quarter of an hour later, we finally arrived home, both gasping for breath. The air felt thick, the tension from earlier still clinging to us like a heavy fog.

“That was terrifying,” Jinjing said as she sank into a chair, her voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have brought you there. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head, still trying to steady my breathing. “It’s not your fault. But… did you catch the name the intruder mentioned earlier?”

She frowned, puzzled. “No, what name?”

“He called him Ruan Yanjun.”

Jinjing froze, her eyes widening slightly. “Ruan Yanjun…” She lowered her gaze in thought before gasping. “When I was still working as a…” She hesitated, clearly unwilling to utter the word, but I understood what she meant. “I heard clients mention a Ruan Yanjun before. They called him the devil. They said he killed twelve people in one night, and no one dared hold him accountable because everyone was too afraid to confront him. Could it be… the same Ruan Yanjun?”

I hesitated, recalling the man’s intimidating aura and the raw power he exuded. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “He’s arrogant and obnoxious, but… I don’t think he’s as evil as the Ruan Yanjun everyone fears.”

Jinjing crossed her arms, visibly uneasy. “But if he is Ruan Yanjun, then what does he want from you?”

“He claims to need my help with someone terminally ill, but when I declined, he subtly threatened you. That’s what makes me suspect there’s more to his intentions. And if he really is Ruan Yanjun, then I have all the more reason to doubt him.”

Jinjing fell silent, her expression troubled. “If he’s truly that man,” she murmured, “then I don’t think he’ll let us go, even if I return the money.”

I nodded.

Something about my conversation with Lord Lan—Ruan Yanjun, perhaps—kept gnawing at me. There were too many parallels to ignore.

“Jinjing,” I said after a moment, “did you get a good look at Lord Lan? Can you describe him for me?”

She nodded slowly. “He’s tall and well-built. He moves like someone accustomed to wielding authority. And he wears an expensive brocade robe—he looks every bit a nobleman.”

“How about his face?”

Her voice grew hesitant. “I didn’t get a good look at his face. As a woman, it’s improper for me to stare at a man, especially someone of his stature. But I remember his eyes. They’re… intense. Deep and dark, like they’re piercing right through you. Honestly, they’re intimidating to look at. But overall, he’s… well, he’s handsome. No one would suspect him of being notorious, especially since he carries himself like a nobleman. His hair, his clothes, even the way he walks—everything about him screams wealth and status.”

Her words made my chest tighten. The height, the aura, and especially the eyes—those deep, penetrating eyes—fit the image I vaguely remembered from my childhood. But it wasn’t enough.

“Can you describe his hair in detail?” I asked.

She tilted her head, trying to recall. “Oh, his hair is… beautiful. Black, straight, and long—so long it reaches below his waistline.”

“Does he wear any accessories in his hair?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “He just lets it loose. It’s so sleek and shiny—it has that kind of luster you only see with the very wealthy.”

I felt a chill run down my spine. That matched the image etched in my mind—of the man who had visited Frost Mountain two decades ago. He had worn his hair loose as well, an unusual sight since everyone else, even outside Frost Mountain, adhered to the custom of tying their hair. Seeing someone with their hair down was so rare it had left a strong impression on me as a child.

I couldn’t ignore the mounting evidence.