The forest suddenly felt far too quiet.
Moments earlier, Qingli had been happily gathering herbs.
Now she knelt beside bloodstained grass, her heart pounding uneasily against her ribs.
The breeze rustled through the trees overhead.
Birdsong had vanished as if the forest itself seemed to be holding its breath.
The amount of blood concerned her.
She studied the bloodstains more carefully, her chest tightening with every step.
Whoever had left this trail wasn’t merely hurt—they were gravely wounded.
The amount of blood was impossible to ignore.
Perhaps they were fighting to stay alive.
Perhaps they had already lost that battle.
The thought settled heavily in her stomach, cold and unsettling.
Qingli followed the trail with cautious, measured steps, her senses sharpened by unease.
The deeper she ventured into the forest, the easier the blood became to track.
Dark crimson drops stained leaves and patches of moss.
Broken branches hung at unnatural angles, marking a desperate path through the undergrowth.
Footprints pressed into the soft earth, some deep and uneven as though their owners had been running—or carrying a heavy burden.
Qingli slowed.
Her gaze swept over the ground.
There was more than one set of tracks.
Not one.
Several.
At least four, perhaps five people had passed through here.
Some footprints overlapped, obscuring one another, but the signs of a struggle were unmistakable.
Torn vegetation, disturbed soil, and splashes of blood told a story far more troubling than a lone injured traveler.
Someone had been pursued.
Or someone had been hunted.
The trail eventually led toward a secluded grove.
Qingli stopped abruptly, and her breath caught.
Before her stood a grove of peach blossom trees.
Hundreds of them.
Delicate pink petals drifted through the air like falling snow.
Sunlight filtered through the branches overhead.
The scene looked almost unreal.
Like something from a dream.
For a moment, Qingli forgot why she was there.
Forgot the blood.
Forgot the danger.
Forgot everything.
Qingli had never seen so many peach blossoms in her life.
The grove stretched as far as her eyes could see, an endless sea of delicate pink petals swaying gently beneath the spring breeze.
Sunlight filtered through the flowering branches, casting shifting patterns of gold and rose across the ground.
Fallen blossoms blanketed the earth like a soft carpet, transforming the hidden corner of the forest into something almost otherworldly.
It felt like a paradise forgotten by the world.
A secret sanctuary tucked deep within the mountains, untouched by time and unseen by human eyes.
For a moment, Qingli forgot about the blood trail entirely.
Then something caught her attention.
Her gaze stilled.
Beneath one of the ancient peach trees, partially concealed by drifting petals, lay a figure.
Motionless.
Qingli approached slowly, each step measured and silent against the blanket of fallen petals.
One step.
Then another.
The closer she drew, the more details emerged from beneath the canopy of peach blossoms.
A man.
A young man.
He was dressed entirely in black, the dark fabric stark against the sea of pink surrounding him.
His robes had been slashed in several places, the torn edges stiff with dried blood.
Fresh crimson still seeped from a deep wound along his side, staining both his clothing and the petals beneath him.
Another injury marked his shoulder, where blood had soaked through the fabric and pooled beneath him.
The metallic scent of blood lingered heavily in the air.
Qingli’s gaze lowered.
A sword rested loosely in his hand.
Even unconscious, he had not released it.
His grip had slackened, but his fingers remained curled around the hilt as though some instinct refused to let it go.
His features were strikingly handsome despite the blood and dirt streaking his face.
Sharp brows framed closed eyes, while a strong jaw and cold, aristocratic features spoke of someone accustomed to authority rather than obedience.
Qingli hesitated for only a moment before lowering herself beside the stranger.
The closer she was, the worse his condition appeared.
His face was unnaturally pale beneath the smears of blood and dirt.
For a terrifying moment, she wondered if she had arrived too late.
Carefully, she reached out and pressed two fingers against the side of his neck.
The forest seemed to fall silent around her.
She waited.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Then she felt it.
A pulse.
Weak.
Slow.
But there.
Relief washed through her so suddenly that she nearly sagged where she knelt.
A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escaped her lips.
Alive.
He was still alive.
Barely, perhaps, but alive.
Qingli closed her eyes briefly in gratitude before focusing once more on the man before her.
The pulse beneath her fingertips was unsteady, faltering like a candle flame caught in the wind.
If his wounds were not treated soon, that fragile heartbeat would not last long.
Years of studying medicine took over almost instantly, and the uncertainty and shock faded, replaced by the calm, disciplined focus.
Everything else—the secluded grove, the stranger’s intimidating presence, even her own unease—fell away as Qingli concentrated on the task before her.
Carefully, she began her examination.
She assessed the wounds first, noting their depth and location. Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping.com.
The injury along his side had bled heavily, while the wound on his shoulder appeared to have been inflicted by a blade.
Qingli’s brows furrowed as she examined the wound more closely.
The injury itself was serious, but not fatal—not yet.
It should not have left him in such a rapidly deteriorating condition.
However, something wasn’t right.
Leaning closer, she carefully cleaned away some of the blood around the wound.
As the skin became visible, her expression darkened.
A faint ring of dark discoloration spread outward from the injury, the flesh around it swollen and unnaturally bruised.
Thin veins beneath the skin had begun to darken as well, a telltale sign she had seen only in medical texts.
Qingli’s stomach sank.
“The wound isn’t the main problem,” she murmured as her gaze lingered on the blackened flesh surrounding the cut.
This was no ordinary infection.
No ordinary injury.
The realization settled heavily in her chest.
“Someone coated the blade with poison.”
The words felt chilling even as she spoke them aloud.
Whoever attacked him hadn’t merely wanted to wound him.
They had wanted to make sure he dies.
The blade had been meant to kill, even if the strike itself failed.
The stranger suddenly groaned, and Qingli froze as she watched his fingers tighten around the sword.
Qingli gently placed a hand on his arm, her touch light and steady.
His muscles were tense beneath her fingers, as though even in unconsciousness his body remained prepared to fight.
A faint crease had formed between his brows, and his breathing had grown uneven, betraying whatever pain or nightmare held him captive.
Without thinking, Qingli leaned closer.
“Easy.”
The soft reassurance slipped from her lips automatically.
Gentle.
Calm.
Reassuring.
“You’re safe.”
The man didn’t wake, but some of the tension left his body as several peach blossom petals drifted down around them.
One landed upon the stranger’s shoulder.
Another settled within Qingli’s hair.
Not one of them noticed or realized that this moment would become one of the most important memories of their lives.
Because beneath the blooming peach blossoms, fate had finally introduced them.
Qingli knelt beside the man once more and observed the wound.
The poison worried her more than the wounds themselves.
The cuts were serious, but survivable.
However, the poison was different because without treatment, it would eventually reach his heart, and then no physician in Jinzhou could save him.
Qingli carefully examined the wound again and noticed that the dark discoloration had spread slightly since she first found him and decided that she needed to move him.
However, the problem became immediately obvious.
The stranger was large.
Very large.
Broad shoulders.
Strong build.
Heavy.
Extremely heavy.
Qingli stared at the unconscious man for a long moment before taking a steadying breath and slipping an arm beneath his shoulders.
Then she tried to lift him.
Nothing happened.
She gritted her teeth and tried again, putting all her strength into the effort.
The man barely moved.
She tried a third time.
Then a fourth.
Each attempt ended the same way.
By the fifth, her arms were trembling with exhaustion.
Breathing heavily, Qingli finally lost her balance and sank onto the ground beside him, petals scattering around her.
For a moment, she simply sat there, staring at the man lying beneath the peach tree.
A helpless laugh escaped her lips.
“You’re making this very difficult.”
The unconscious man offered no response.
Qingli rubbed her aching arms and glanced at his pale face.
If she left him here to find help, he might be dead by the time she returned.
Yet there was no way she could carry alone.
After a moment of frustrated thought, an idea came to her.
Not a good one.
But perhaps the only one she had.
Shifting closer, Qingli knelt beside him and gently brushed a few strands of hair away from his face.
Then she lightly patted his cheek.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
No response.
She tried again, a little firmer this time.
“Please.”
Her voice softened.
“If you can hear me, help me get you up. I can’t carry you by myself.”
The corners of her lips twitched despite the seriousness of the situation.
“So if you’d like to stay alive, I need you to cooperate.”
Gently, she patted his cheek once more.
“Help me get you somewhere safe.”
For a moment, nothing happened.
The man remained completely still beneath the peach tree, his pale face giving no indication that he had heard a single word.
Qingli waited.
Then she sighed.
“Of course,” she muttered.
She was about to give up when she decided to try one last time.
Leaning closer, she slipped one arm around his shoulders and gently squeezed his arm with her free hand.
“Please,” she said softly.
“Just a little. I need your help.”
Then she pulled.
At first, there was nothing.
And then—
The man’s body suddenly responded.
Though still unconscious, his muscles tensed and his arm moved just enough to brace against the ground.
His legs shifted beneath him, and for a brief moment he managed to support part of his own weight.
Qingli’s eyes widened, and not wasting any opportunity, she quickly hooked his arm over her shoulders and pushed upward with all the strength she could muster.
The stranger swayed dangerously, his full weight threatening to drag them both back down, but somehow he remained upright.
Well.
Mostly upright.
Half-conscious and leaning heavily against her, he looked one breath away from collapsing again.
Still, it was far better than before.
Qingli nearly laughed from sheer relief.
“Good,” she said, adjusting her grip around his waist.
“That’s much better.”
The man gave no response beyond another faint groan.
Whether he had heard her plea or whether his body had simply reacted on instinct, Qingli had no idea, nor did she care.
Because somehow, against all odds, the impossible had happened.
The unconscious stranger had helped her lift him off the ground.
With the stranger’s arm draped heavily over her shoulders, Qingli began guiding him forward one painstaking step at a time.
The journey was slow.
Agonizingly slow.
Most of the man’s weight rested against her, forcing her to brace herself with every step.
Her arms ached, her legs trembled from the strain, and more than once she nearly lost her footing on the uneven forest floor.
Beside her, the stranger drifted in and out of unconsciousness.
Occasionally, his body would react on instinct, taking a few unsteady steps of his own before sagging heavily against her once more.
Together, they stumbled through the sea of peach blossoms, and pink petals drifted around them like falling snow, catching in Qingli’s hair and on the stranger’s bloodstained robes.
The peaceful beauty of the grove felt strangely at odds with the desperate situation.
Qingli gritted her teeth and adjusted her hold around his waist.
“Just a little farther,” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure whether she was encouraging him or herself.
As they neared the edge of the grove, something caught her eye.
Through the trees stood a small stone structure, partially hidden beneath creeping vines and overgrown branches.
Qingli slowed.
An abandoned shrine.
Its roof was weathered with age, several tiles missing, while moss and wildflowers had claimed much of the stone foundation.
Time had clearly forgotten the place.
Yet despite its neglected appearance, the shrine still stood firm.
More importantly, it offered shelter.
Qingli’s eyes brightened with relief.
A roof.
A place to rest.
A place to treat his wounds.
Without hesitation, she tightened her grip on the stranger and turned toward the structure.
“Looks like fate is helping us after all,” she whispered.
The man remained silent, his head bowed and resting against her shoulder.
Carefully, Qingli guided him toward the abandoned shrine, her heart lifting slightly for the first time since she had discovered the blood trail.
At least now, she had somewhere safe to keep him alive.
After considerable effort, Qingli finally managed to get the man inside the abandoned shrine.
The interior was simple and worn by time.
Dust covered most surfaces, and the wooden beams creaked softly whenever the wind slipped through the cracks.
Yet it was dry, sheltered, and far safer than leaving him beneath the peach blossoms.
Against one wall stood a narrow wooden bed.
It would have to do.
With a final burst of effort, Qingli eased the stranger onto the mattress.
The moment his weight left her shoulders, she nearly collapsed herself.
For several moments, she simply stood there catching her breath.
Then she got to work.
There was no time to waste.
Years of studying medicine guided her movements.
She heated water over the shrine’s small stove, gathered her medical supplies, and carefully cut away the blood-soaked fabric surrounding his wounds.
One by one, she cleaned them.
The wound on his shoulder.
The cuts along his arms.
The deep injury at his side.
Each revealed the extent of the damage hidden beneath his black clothing.
The blood seemed endless.
After cleaning the wounds, Qingli began preparing medicinal poultices.
Her hands moved swiftly and confidently as she crushed herbs, mixed healing ingredients, and prepared remedies to slow the poison’s advance.
The most dangerous wound remained the deepest one.
The poisoned blade had left more than a simple cut.
Darkened flesh surrounded the injury, the tissue already beginning to die.
Qingli’s expression tightened.
This part would hurt.
Even unconscious, his body would feel it.
Taking a steadying breath, she sterilized her knife and carefully began removing the poisoned tissue surrounding the wound.
The process was painstaking.
And slow.
Hours slipped by unnoticed.
The sunlight filtering through the shrine windows gradually softened into the golden hues of evening.
Throughout it all, the stranger never once opened his eyes.
Yet he was far from peaceful.
Several times, he groaned in pain, his body tensing beneath her hands.
Sweat dampened his brow as fever and poison battled within him.
And every single time, his hand instinctively moved.
Reaching.
Searching.
For a weapon that was no longer there.
His fingers would curl suddenly as though grasping for a sword hilt.
Even unconscious, his body reacted with the reflexes of a seasoned warrior, seeking steel before safety.
The first time it happened, Qingli nearly jumped.
The second time, she simply watched in silence.
By the third, she found herself staring at him thoughtfully.
What kind of life had this man lived?
What kind of danger had followed him so closely that even in unconsciousness, in the depths of pain and fever, his first instinct was to reach for a sword?
The answer was written plainly across the countless scars scattered over his body.
This was not the first time he had stood at death’s door.
Nor, Qingli suspected, would it be the last.