Jian stepped into the dimly lit room, his breath slightly ragged, his body drenched in thick, glistening tar-like blood that dripped in trails behind him. The dark liquid clung to his skin, staining every inch of his body like a grotesque armor. It wasn't his own blood—none of it was. It reeked of Graylings, their decay already setting in. He didn't even flinch.
His eyes immediately found Xing Yu lying motionless on the bed. The man's skin was flushed red with fever, sweat glistening along his hairline and neck, his breathing shallow but steady. Beside him, Li Wang had been doing his best—placing a damp cloth over the general's forehead, fanning him with an old folded paper—but he was trembling. The battle had shaken him to his core.
"Go check on the others," Jian said softly. His voice, though low, carried an edge of calm command. "I'll take care of him."
