CHAPTER 109: THE SMILE SHE SAVED FOR HIM

"Then we’ll climb together. I don’t mind waiting."

Those six words had burrowed into Lin Fan’s chest like a parasitic vine. He had dreamed of them, rehearsed what to say when he finally confessed. And now...

Now he watched her smile.

But it wasn’t for him.

Down below, in a clearing ringed with floating lanterns, Yue Ling was laughing at something Hei Long had whispered.

Her face glowed, eyes narrowed in delight.

She swatted Hei Long playfully on the arm. The young cultivator grinned, leaning just close enough to make her cheeks pink, then stepped away like a perfect gentleman.

Lin Fan’s hands clenched.

He had arrived at the matchmaking gathering an hour early. He’d rehearsed his confession under his breath until his tongue twisted. He had even worn the lavender-scented robe Yue Ling once said she liked.

But Hei Long had appeared as if the world had summoned him.

As always.

As if the laws of fate themselves were determined to cuck Lin Fan in every possible universe.

Down in the valley, the conversation continued.

Yue Ling’s hand brushed her hair behind her ear. "Hei Long, I... I don’t usually attend these things."

He tilted his head. "Then it’s fate you came tonight."

She blushed. Lin Fan watched from above as she nodded.

Fate.

That cursed word.

From behind a spirit-willow tree, a disciple of the Silent Frond Sect whispered to another:

"Is that Hei Long? The one who tamed a Phoenix Viper with his bare hands?"

"The same. And the girl—Yue Ling, the empathic sword cultivator."

"Poor Lin Fan doesn’t stand a chance."

Lin Fan stumbled down from the ridge, shoes sliding on the gravel. He reached the edge of the lantern field just in time to see Yue Ling gift Hei Long a red prayer bead.

A soul token.

A promise to meet again.

"Yue Ling," Lin Fan said, voice cracking. "Can I talk to you? Alone?"

She turned, startled. Her smile didn’t vanish. It simply faded, carefully folded away like a borrowed cloak.

"Lin Fan," she said softly. "Of course."

Hei Long stepped back. "Take your time," he said politely. Then he winked. WINKED.

Lin Fan wanted to set the forest on fire.

He led her to a quiet glade. Cicadas buzzed overhead. A small spirit fox dozed on a rock nearby.

"Yue Ling," he said, voice trembling. "I... I really like you. You were the first person to ever believe in me. I think about you all the time. Every night. I just—"

She reached out. For one glorious second, Lin Fan thought she would hold his hand.

But she placed something in it instead: a small, folded paper crane.

"You’re a good person, Lin Fan," she whispered. "But my heart... it moves toward someone else now. I didn’t expect it either."

He opened the paper crane.

It was a sketch.

Of Hei Long.

Flying a dragon.

With Yue Ling on the back.

He stared at the drawing for a long time.

Something inside his chest—the part that had held onto hope, desperately, stubbornly—cracked. Not shattered. That would have at least been loud.

No, it splintered like frost on glass: quietly, invisibly, until the whole of him felt cold.

Yue Ling bowed her head and left the glade, her footsteps nearly silent against the mossy ground.

Lin Fan didn’t turn to watch her go. He couldn’t.

The spirit fox nearby yawned, stretched, and padded over to nuzzle his ankle. He didn’t notice. He didn’t move for hours.

Later, someone passed by the glade and whispered:

"Is he cultivating in grief?"

"No," someone else replied. "That’s just heartbreak."

Hei Long, meanwhile, had returned to the main gathering.

Dozens of girls circled him like moths to flame. His golden robe shimmered with spiritual inscriptions. He offered polite bows, compliments that never sounded forced, and stories of valor so modestly told they came off as humble.

But only one person had his full attention that night: Yue Ling.

She had joined him again, quiet and dreamy, cheeks still rosy. He brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear.

Lin Fan saw it all from a hilltop—and that moment, more than anything, made him certain:

He had to stop them.

He didn’t care about pride. Or honor. Or sect rules about romantic pursuit. He couldn’t lose again.

He wouldn’t.

The next day, Lin Fan began preparing.

Not cultivating—he wasn’t fool enough to think he could close the power gap in a week.

No. He studied.

He tracked Hei Long’s movements.

He found old friends of Yue Ling and begged for their insights.

He read romance scrolls. He memorized her favorite foods, flowers, songs, and talismans. He rehearsed poetry. He practiced drawing her face by moonlight.

He knew it was madness.

But he didn’t care.

In his room, a hundred paper cranes littered the floor—each one a failed attempt to draw her better, to remember her smile.

He began writing letters. None of them were good enough. He burned them all.

But Hei Long was fast.

By the fifth day, rumors had begun to swirl:

Hei Long and Yue Ling had been spotted walking the Starlit Path together.

He had offered her his family heirloom hairpin.

She had smiled. Smiled.

Lin Fan broke a table in frustration.

He took to trailing them from the shadows, hiding his spiritual presence. Every time he saw them laugh, touch, or speak in soft tones, something in him twisted deeper.

He had reached the cliff of obsession, and he stepped willingly over the edge.

. . . . .

The moon hung low, shimmering like a shattered pearl across the lake where Lin Fan stood—alone.

The breeze tugged gently at his sleeves, whispering of a warmth that had already been stolen from him.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there.

That smile.

That damn smile.

She had saved it for him—he was sure of it.

For days, he had caught it blooming in the corner of her lips, like a secret only they understood. Not Hei Long. Not any other man. Him.

And now?

Now she was in Hei Long’s arms, laughing. Not even shy laughter. It was loud, reckless, real.

Her head tilted back against his chest, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if her entire soul trusted that place to be safe.

Lin Fan’s fingers clenched tightly around the jade slip he carried in his sleeve—a gift she had once given him during their first joint mission.

"To remember me," she’d said. And he did. Every night.

But apparently, she hadn’t meant it in the same way.

The spirit sect’s garden pavilion buzzed with soft flutes and fairy lights, hovering like gentle fireflies summoned by spiritual qi. It was a social mixer. A gentle word for a battlefield of hidden intentions.

Hei Long, charming as ever, stood with a drink in one hand and the girl Lin Fan had been chasing—Mu Shiqing—leaning slightly into his shoulder.

The two had just emerged from a dance, laughter spilling from them like twin streams.

"Shiqing," Hei Long said with a casual grin, "if I said you were the most radiant cultivator in the Realm tonight, would you duel me for flattery?"

She giggled. "I’d spar with you for lying, Hei Long. Everyone knows I’m only second most radiant."

"Oh?" Hei Long tilted his head, mock-wounded. "Then who dares to outshine you?"

Mu Shiqing turned, eyes shining like a spirit pearl. "Lan Yinyin."

The girls laughed together, clearly close.

Hei Long smiled. "Then I suppose I’ll have to seduce her next."

He said it lightly.

Too lightly.

Mu Shiqing only laughed harder—no jealousy, no warning. Only trust. Trust in him.

Lin Fan watched the entire scene from behind a garden pillar, spiritual robes pressed tight to the wall. He hadn’t meant to hide. He hadn’t meant to come at all.

He’d only come to return something—a pair of spiritual gloves Mu Shiqing had left behind during their last training session.

He still held them.

He had polished them. Wrapped them carefully.

And now?

They felt like iron shackles in his hands.

Earlier that day.

Lin Fan had spent the morning in the Mirror Lake, refining his sword technique.

He had done so because Mu Shiqing had praised it once. He had skipped meals, meditated longer, even bought a spiritual incense she said she liked.

He had even written her a poem. It was bad, but honest.

But he never got the chance to give it.

As he approached her room earlier that morning, he had heard her laugh—with Hei Long. The door hadn’t even been closed.

Hei Long was reading the same exact poem Lin Fan had written... but with better rhythm, bolder calligraphy, and two extra stanzas that somehow made it sound seductive.

And Mu Shiqing?

She had gasped. "Did you write this for me?"

Hei Long had grinned. "No. I wrote it for every girl I want. You just happen to be the one I want most right now."

Her smile had been wide.

Wider than the one she’d ever given Lin Fan.

Now.

Lin Fan stumbled back from the garden pillar, his knees weak.

He wasn’t crying.

He wasn’t.

But his breathing was shallow, and when he blinked, the world blurred around the edges.

Mu Shiqing had once told him she liked quiet cultivators—men who didn’t flirt. Men who were sincere.

But maybe Hei Long had rewritten the rules.

Maybe he always did.

"Brother Fan?"

It was Prince Wuheng.

Lin Fan turned, startled.

"Why are you standing in the bushes like a pervert?" Wuheng asked flatly, brushing aside a glowing spirit vine.

"I wasn’t... I was just—"

"You’re watching Hei Long, aren’t you?"

Lin Fan stiffened.

"Listen," Wuheng said, crossing his arms. "I’ve started an official rebellion. We’re called the Cultivation Order of Anti-Hei-Longism. You can be our reluctant poster child."

Lin Fan blinked.

Wuheng sighed. "You want revenge or not?"

Lin Fan hesitated.

Then nodded.

Later that night.

In a dusty shed hidden behind the beast-taming arena, Wuheng stood at a stone table, laying out scrolls.

"I’ve tracked Hei Long’s schedule. He bathes twice a day, flexes in the mirror for four hours, and somehow still seduces three girls before lunch. But we have a plan."

Lin Fan leaned in.

"Her name," Wuheng said solemnly, "is Xu Meilin."

Lin Fan perked up.

"She’s new. Transferred from the Northern Sword Sect. She hates flirts, loves loyal men, and has a weakness for tragic poetry."

Lin Fan nearly cried.

It was his moment.

His redemption arc.

Wuheng handed him a scroll. "Go to her. Be everything Hei Long isn’t. For once, win."

The next day.

Lin Fan met Xu Meilin at the edge of the forest garden. She was beautiful—quiet, soft-spoken, elegant. When he bowed to her, she returned the gesture with gentle grace.

They talked.

For hours.

He shared stories of training, his thoughts on sword theory, even a small, nervous poem.

She smiled.

Truly smiled.

And Lin Fan felt it.

That warmth again.

That gentle spark of something real.

Three days later.

Lin Fan arrived at the training ground with a gift for her: a rare spirit tea only brewed in the Western Mountains. It had taken him all night to barter for it.

He found her in the courtyard.

Laughing.

Sparring.

Smiling—

with Hei Long.

He stood in silence as Hei Long gently adjusted her stance from behind, murmuring something into her ear that made her face blush and her knees buckle with laughter.

Lin Fan stood there for ten full minutes before they noticed him.

Hei Long raised a hand. "Little Brother Fan! There you are. I was just showing Meilin your poem."

Lin Fan’s throat was dry. "My... what?"

"The one I found in your bag. It was too good not to share."

Meilin smiled. "It was beautiful. I didn’t know you were friends with such a poetic cultivator, Hei Long."

"Neither did I," Hei Long said, patting Lin Fan’s shoulder. "But he surprises us all."

That night.

Lin Fan returned to the Anti-Hei-Long shed.

He didn’t say a word.

Wuheng watched him slump against the wall, eyes hollow.

"...She’s gone too, isn’t she."

Lin Fan nodded.

"...Do you want to start again?"

Lin Fan didn’t respond.

But after a long moment, he whispered:

"Find me another."