Rulan moved deeper into the trees, following the frantic barking and the occasional sharp cry for help.
She didn’t rush blindly toward the noise; instead, she moved with careful, deliberate speed, keeping her body low and using the dense trunks of the cypress trees to break her line of sight.
With every step she took down the winding, unpaved slope, the quiet hum of the White Cloud Temple dissolved further into the distance.
The barking grew louder, echoing off the damp stone walls of a small ravine ahead.
Rulan rounded a thick clump of wild bamboo and reached a small, shadow-draped clearing near an old wooden footbridge crossing a dry creek bed.
A large, deep-chested hound with short, golden-brown fur was pacing back and forth near the crumbling edge of the bridge.
It was barking aggressively, its tail held stiff and its eyes fixed intently on the structure below.
Rulan paused behind the broad trunk of a pine tree, her eyes scanning the dense underbrush on the opposite side of the ravine.
She expected an attacker—a bandit or perhaps a rogue beast.
She searched the shadows thoroughly.
Nothing.
No secondary footsteps, no rustling leaves, no hidden threat crouching in the brush.
She looked back at the dog.
The animal wasn’t watching the woods or scenting the air for a hidden predator.
Its entire body was angled downward toward the wooden footbridge, its deep barks rhythmic and insistent.
Rulan’s mind immediately connected the dots.
The dog wasn’t barking at an enemy or cornering prey.
It was attempting to draw attention to a specific location.
It was seeking a rescue party.
Rulan stepped out from behind the tree, her skirts rustling against the dry fallen leaves.
She approached the edge of the footbridge and looked down into the shallow, rocky ravine.
A teenage boy in a simple, earth-toned linen tunic was trapped beneath the far side of the structure.
A section of the ancient, rotting timber had collapsed under his weight, pinning his left leg awkwardly between two heavy support beams and a pile of river stones.
He was scraped up, covered in damp earth, and sweating from exertion, but his limbs were intact.
His cries for help had grown weaker simply because he had been shouting at the top of his lungs for ten minutes straight.
The boy looked up, hearing her heavy footsteps on the bank.
When he saw Rulan standing above him, his first reaction was not relief or deference.
It was sheer, impatient frustration.
“You’re finally here!” he called out, wiping a streak of mud from his forehead.
“Help me get this wood off my leg!”
Rulan paused at the edge of the bank, staring down at him in mild detachment.
‘So this is how people greet the person about to extract them from a structural collapse’, she thought dryly.
She didn’t rush down the slope to pull him out.
Instead, she picked her way down the dirt embankment with steady, deliberate steps, assessing the stability of the wreckage before making physical contact.
“Stay still,” Rulan commanded, her voice calm and firm.
She crouched near the broken timber, examining how the main beam was wedged against his calf.
She reached out, pressing two fingers firmly against his exposed ankle.
“Can you move your toes?” she asked flatly.
The boy blinked, startled by the cold efficiency of her approach.
“W-What? Yes, I can move them.”
“Is there any sharp, localized pain in the bone, or is it just the pressure of the timber?”
“It’s just wedged!” he muttered, though he wiggled his foot to check.
“It feels bruised, but nothing’s broken. Just lift the beam!”
“If I lift the beam incorrectly, the upper section of the deck will slide down and crush your knee,” Rulan said, her eyes scanning the stress points of the broken wood.
“Do you feel any numbness or tingling in your foot?”
“No,” the boy said, staring at her in genuine surprise.
He hadn’t expected a grandly dressed noblewoman to systematically evaluate nerve function and weight distribution before attempting a rescue.
“Who are you? How do you know what to check?”
Rulan didn’t answer.
She had spent years pulling squad mates out of collapsed concrete bunkers in the wasteland; basic field triage and mechanical assessment were second nature to her.
She determined that his leg suffered no catastrophic trauma.
The primary danger was the unstable timber resting above them.
“I am going to shift the upper beam three inches to the left,” Rulan instructed, placing her hands against the rough, damp wood. Find the original chapter at g.com.
“The moment the pressure releases, slide your leg straight out. Do not try to stand up until you are clear of the frame.”
The dog, picking up on the sudden movement, leaped down into the shallow creek bed, barking anxiously and circling their legs.
“Tell your hound to back off,” Rulan said over her shoulder.
“He is interfering with my leverage.”
“Quiet, Chestnut!” the boy called out, but he too tried to push against the wood with his hands.
“I told you to stay still!” Rulan snapped, her tone suddenly turning cold.
The boy went instantly rigid, shutting his mouth and freezing in place.
The sheer authority in her voice left no room for debate.
Rulan set her feet firmly against the river rocks, leveraged her upper body against the thick oak timber, and pushed upward with all her strength.
Her heavy physical frame, which had been such an annoying liability when trying to dodge noblewomen in the temple courtyard, proved immensely useful now.
The heavy timber groaned, shifted against the rock face, and lifted four inches.
“Now,” Rulan grunted.
The boy scrambled backward through the mud, pulling his leg free just as Rulan released the beam.
The wooden structure settled back into the dirt with a heavy, dull thud.
The boy dragged himself onto the flat grass of the bank, panting heavily as the dog rushed over to lick his muddy face.
Rulan stood up slowly, dusting off her sleeves.
Her expensive green silk robes were now stained with damp earth and dark river silt, and the fine embroidery along her hem was frayed.
She looked down at the ruined fabric, completely unbothered.
Equipment got dirty during field operations; it was a basic fact of life.
She looked at the boy.
“Can you bear weight on it?”
The boy cautiously pulled himself up, using a nearby boulder for support.
He put weight on his left foot, wincing slightly, but stood firm.
“It’s just a bad scrape. I can walk.”
As the boy checked his ankle, Rulan’s eyes drifted toward the ground nearby.
A small woven bamboo basket had been overturned during the accident, scattering its contents across the damp grass.
Several freshly picked wild plants lay strewn among the fallen leaves.
Rulan stepped forward and picked up one of the scattered plants.
The serrated leaves and pale root were immediately familiar.
“Bitter-root,” she murmured.
“Useful for swelling. Don’t eat it raw, though. It’ll tear your stomach apart.”
The boy stopped rubbing his leg and stared at her.
“You know what that is?”
Rulan shrugged, dropping the plant back into his overturned basket.
“Enough to know I wouldn’t eat it.”
The boy looked at her properly, his eyes darting from the muddy, scattered herbs up to her rich silk robes, gold hairpins, and jade wrist bangles.
“Why does a noble lady from the capital know about raw medicinal plants?” he asked suspiciously, his tone growing guarded.
“Noblewomen don’t gather wild herbs in the dirt.”
“I have my reasons,” Rulan replied plainly.
The boy picked up his basket and began gathering the fallen stalks, his eyes lingering on her luxurious attire.
“Are you from the capital?”
Rulan let out a small, tired breath.
“Unfortunately.”
“Why were you gathering these?” Rulan asked, watching him dust off the roots.
“They belong to my master,” the boy muttered, crouching down to retrieve a final bundle of wild stems.
Rulan raised an eyebrow.
“Your master is a physician?”
The boy hesitated, his fingers pausing over the grass.
“He… knows medicine.”
Rulan caught the precise, careful wording instantly.
“That is not an answer. Is he an imperial physician? A local apothecary? A street healer?”
The boy set his jaw, shaking his head with stubbornness.
“He doesn’t like strangers asking questions about his work. He just practices medicine.”
Rulan didn’t press him.
She turned her attention back to the golden-brown hound, who was now sitting obediently near the boy’s bad leg.
The animal stayed close, but its ears were constantly swiveling toward the upper mountain path, its posture alert and watchful. The source of this chapter is g.com.
“Is the dog yours?” Rulan asked.
“My master’s,” the boy replied, slinging the basket strap over his shoulder.
“Why did it come running down the slope when you fell?”
“Chestnut always knows when something goes wrong,” the boy said casually, patting the dog’s broad head.
“He came searching for me the moment the bridge collapsed.”
Rulan studied the dog.
It was unusually disciplined.
Even after all that commotion, it hadn’t wandered more than a few steps from the boy.
Before Rulan could inquire further, the hound’s ears suddenly snapped forward.
It stood up, letting out a low, soft whine, and trotted ten paces up the dirt trail toward the upper woods.
The boy sighed, dropping his shoulders.
“He’s coming.”
Rulan turned her head toward the dark canopy of pine trees.
A few moments later, the brush parted, and an older man stepped onto the dirt path.
He made no dramatic entrance.
He wore no elaborate robes, bore no official insignias, and traveled without a single servant or guard.
He was dressed in a simple, faded grey cotton tunic, carrying a worn woven medicine satchel slung across his chest and a wooden walking staff in his right hand.
His eyes fell upon the boy standing near the broken footbridge.
His first reaction was not panic or relief, but irritation.
“I told you three days ago that the support beams on that bridge were rotting,” the old man said, his voice dry, calm, and resonant.
“Why did you cross it?”
“The bitter-root was growing on the far bank, Master,” the boy muttered, hanging his head.
“I thought it would hold my weight.”
“Thinking is clearly not your strong suit,” the old man replied dryly, stepping down into the clearing.
His eyes shifted away from the boy and landed directly on Rulan.
He paused, his gaze taking in her muddy green silk robes, her posture, and her jewelry.
His expression instantly grew guarded, his eyes narrowing into a cool, calculating stare.
“My apprentice is foolish, but I express my gratitude to the lady for assisting him,” the old man said, inclining his head in a brief, polite gesture that bore zero subservience.
“It required minimal effort,” Rulan replied, watching him closely.
His gaze moved over her face, then briefly to her hands.
He noticed her breathing.
The way she held her shoulders.
Even the faint tremor in her fingers.
Rulan’s instincts immediately sharpened.
He was examining her.
Not admiring her clothes.
Not wondering which noble family she belonged to.
Examining her.
The way a physician examined a patient.
Rulan went completely still, her instincts warning her that she was being thoroughly analyzed.
The old man stepped forward to check his apprentice’s leg, but as he passed Rulan, he paused for a brief fraction of a second.
“You possess significant physical strength, young lady,” the old man said softly, his voice devoid of mock pleasantry.
“However…”
He looked back up into her eyes, his expression utterly serious.
“You should have a proper physician examine your health before winter arrives.”
Rulan stared at him.
She had told him nothing.
Not about her weakness.
Not about her illness.
Not about the medicine she had stopped taking.
And yet, somehow, he had noticed.
Who exactly was this man?