"That's better," Su Ran said, his sneering expression melting into satisfaction as he stood and patted Ji Chun's shaved head. "You should always be this obedient."
Ji Chun stiffened at the touch, his ears burning. To hide his discomfort, he took another bite of the dish and changed the subject. "How does Sect Leader Su know how to cook?" The question had gnawed at him since Su Ran took over the wok.
Su Ran moved to the stove, chopping vegetables with practiced ease. "I wasn't born a sect leader. After my parents died, cooking became survival." His tone was casual, but the words lodged in Ji Chun's chest like shards of ice.
Memories surfaced—Su Ran weeping in the rain, the fractured confession of his past. Ji Chun had been raised in the temple's warmth, sheltered by his master's care. But Su Ran? Forged in the Demonic Cults crucible, every step to power paved with unseen wounds. The thought weighed on Ji Chun's heart like stone.
He stared at the half-eaten plate. If eating meat could ease even a fraction of Su Ran's loneliness, it was no sacrifice at all. He finished the dish in silence, then crossed to the stove. "Rest," he murmured, nudging Su Ran aside. "I'll prep the vegetables. You just cook."
Su Ran froze, knife suspended mid-chop. When he turned, Ji Chun's gaze held something new—softness, sorrow—and it unnerved him more than any defiance. Wordlessly, he surrendered the blade and retreated to the table, where he watched Ji Chun's broad back bend over the counter.
The kitchen filled with the rhythmic tap of knife against wood. They moved in quiet tandem, trading places at the stove, their earlier sharpness dulled to something gentler. By dusk, the house smelled of braised pork and roasted herbs.
When Doctor Liang and the villagers arrived, laughter spilled through the door before they walked in. Ji Chun welcomed them with practiced courtesy, while Su Ran served dishes with a wooden face. None dared comment on his demeanor—how could they know the man ladling soup was the martial world's most feared demon?
As wine flowed and voices rose, Su Ran's patience frayed. By night's end, his jaw ached from clenching. He loathed crowds, loathed pretending, and the mess left behind—grease-smeared bowls, scattered bones—made his skin crawl. Never again, he vowed silently.
Ji Chun, reading his mood, cleaned without complaint. He scrubbed pots, stacked chairs, even fetched water to wash the grime from his own feet before returning to the bedroom.
There, Su Ran lounged on the recliner, flipping idly through a book. At Ji Chun's entrance, he barely glanced up. "Massage my shoulders."
Ji Chun obliged, kneading the tension from sinew and bone. His martial artist's hands knew just where to press.
"Good. Now fetch water to wash my feet."
Ji Chun's eyes dropped to Su Ran's swollen belly. Without protest, he brought a basin, knelt, and peeled off Su Ran's socks. The feet beneath were unexpectedly elegant—pale as jade, toes delicate as brushstrokes. He cradled one ankle, guiding it into the water.
Then—
A splash. A kick.
Cold water slapped Ji Chun's cheek as Su Ran's sole connected with his face.
He blinked up, stunned, to find Su Ran collapsed on the bed, shaking with silent laughter. The man yanked his foot back, dripping onto the blankets, and offered a shameless grin. "Too ticklish."
Ji Chun wiped his face, tossed the towel at Su Ran's belly, and sighed. "Dry your feet."
Su Ran made a show of patting them dry before flinging the cloth back. "My apologies," he said, not sounding sorry at all.
Ji Chun shook his head, retrieving the basin. Some battles weren't worth fighting.
"Blow out the candles," Su Ran commanded, extinguishing the candle with a flick of his fingers. He crossed to the bed, lying down in the silver moonlight, and was asleep within moments.
Morning found Su Ran still curled beneath the blankets when Ji Chun rose to prepare breakfast. He cooked porridge again, then attempted two dishes from memory—the same ones Su Ran had forced him to eat yesterday. Though not as skilled as Su Ran, the results were passable. After setting the meal, he roused the sleeping sect leader.
Breakfast passed in comfortable silence. Then came the inevitable question:
"What now?" Su Ran eyed Ji Chun pointedly. "Weren't you the one obsessed with farming?"
"Last night, I asked someone to fetch tools and seeds from the market," Ji Chun explained. "They'll arrive in two days. Doctor Liang is speaking with the Cunzhang about land allocation this morning." The idleness chafed at him too.
Su Ran nodded. "Then let's spar."
Ji Chun's gaze dropped to Su Ran's swollen belly. "In your condition—"
The table shuddered under Su Ran's palm. "You dare look down on me?" His eyes flashed dangerously. "Need I remind you what Mu Mifeng said? This... thing hasn't diminished my power. When it's gone, every ounce of lost strength will return!"
Ji Chun recognized the misstep at once—he'd touched a nerve. "Very well," he conceded. "A friendly match."
They moved to the courtyard. Su Ran struck first, Ji Chun parried, and soon they were locked in a relentless exchange. Hours slipped by unnoticed, their movements flowing like water until exhaustion finally stilled them.
"Shaolin techniques are impressive," Su Ran admitted, wiping sweat from his brow.
Ji Chun merely smiled and brewed tea. The afternoon melted away in quiet companionship—sipping tea, playing chess, discussing martial arts. Sometimes Su Ran copied scriptures while Ji Chun meditated; sometimes they sat in comfortable silence.
Two days had passed when the farming tools arrived—hoes, sickles, all the necessities—they set out that afternoon, wide-brimmed bamboo hats shielding them from the sun. Ji Chun carried the hoe and seed basket; Su Ran brought water and a cattail fan.
The mountain path was rough, narrow from generations of villagers' footsteps. Weeds clawed at their clothes—Ji Chun in coarse linen, Su Ran stubbornly wearing his fine silks despite the snags. More than once, thorns caught the delicate fabric, darkening Su Ran's mood until Ji Chun took the lead, clearing the worst of the obstacles.
Their plot lay where a family had once farmed before vanishing without trace. Overgrown but fertile, it was now theirs. They rested beneath a tree, Su Ran gulping water before tossing the jug to Ji Chun.
"Never doing this again," he declared, yanking off his hat. His cheeks were flushed, damp hair clinging to his face as he fanned himself furiously.
Ji Chun nodded. "Just sow the seeds today, then we'll return."
"Mm. You farm. I'll train." Su Ran had no intention of laboring. He'd come only to survey this rustic novelty. The shade was pleasant, the breeze soothing—better than being cooped up indoors.
As Ji Chun rose, he offered a handkerchief. Su Ran, already munching on cakes from the basket, leaned forward without taking it. "Do it for me," he demanded, eyes slitted like a pampered cat.
Ji Chun chuckled but obliged, dabbing at the sweat on Su Ran's nose and temples. The flawless skin burned under his touch, each breath from Su Ran's lips whispering across his fingers—strange, how such a simple act could make his pulse stutter.