The streets grew quieter as Yue Zilan walked ahead. Behind her, the young man followed with his sister in his arms. His steps were heavy, not only from the weight he carried but also from the storm raging inside him. He had no idea who this girl was or why she had offered help, yet his heart told him that if he stopped now, his sister would never open her eyes again.
The crowd faded away, and the sound of his uneven breathing filled the silence. Every now and then, he looked at the figure walking before him.
Finally, they reached a small inn. Zilan pushed the door open and led them inside. The innkeeper gave them a passing glance but said nothing when he saw the unconscious girl. Zilan simply nodded and continued upstairs until they entered a quiet room with a single bed.
"Lay her down here," she said softly.
The youth froze for a moment. His arms tightened around his sister, unwilling to let go. For so long, she had been all he had left. Could he truly entrust her to this stranger? His lips trembled, but in the end, desperation overpowered hesitation. He placed her gently onto the bed, tucking her limp hands beneath the blanket.
His mind, however, was far from calm. Am I doing the right thing? Can I really trust someone I just met? Doubt clawed at him like sharp thorns. He had seen too many cruel faces—relatives who mocked him, neighbors who looked away, and now a doctor who shut the door in his face. Could this girl truly be any different?
As he battled with his thoughts, Zilan had already moved to the corner of the room. She placed her travel bag on the table and began unpacking. The sound of clinking metal startled him. His eyes widened when a sword and a pair of short daggers slid out, followed by slim throwing knives that gleamed coldly in the dim light. A coiled rope, small bundles of herbs, and glass bottles followed after. Finally, she drew out a roll of fine silver needles, each one slender and sharp.
The young man's breath caught in his throat. He stepped back instinctively, torn between fear and confusion. Who… who is she? A healer? An assassin? Why would someone like her help me? He wanted to ask, but the words refused to leave his mouth.
Zilan, however, remained calm. She poured alcohol into a bowl and dipped the needles into it. Her hands were steady, practiced, almost ritual-like. She didn't spare him a glance, as if his unease did not matter. All her focus was on the girl lying on the bed.
Carrying the needles carefully, she sat by the bedside. First, she held the girl's wrist, her fingers light yet firm on the pulse. Then she gently opened her eyelids, studying the faint flicker of life hidden within. After a moment of silent observation, she nodded to herself.
"Her breath is weak, but it hasn't left," Zilan murmured. "There's still hope."
Her calm words sank into the boy's ears like drops of water on parched soil. He clenched his fists, watching as she chose a needle and, with practiced precision, inserted it into the girl's wrist. Another slid smoothly into her shoulder, then one at her neck. Each movement was fluid, confident, and unhesitating.
The youth's heart pounded louder with every needle. He wanted to believe, but fear gnawed at him. What if this stranger was wrong? What if her actions only pushed his sister closer to death? His throat tightened, but he dared not interrupt. All he could do was stand there, every muscle tense, praying silently.
Minutes passed, heavy and slow. Zilan's hands moved with quiet rhythm, placing needles at precise points, adjusting them carefully. Her expression never changed—calm, focused, unreadable.
At last, she paused and withdrew her hand. "Now we wait," she said simply.
The boy leaned closer, eyes fixed on his sister's pale face. For a long moment, nothing changed. His chest sank, despair rising again. But then—faintly, almost too faint to notice—her breathing steadied. Her chest rose and fell in a smoother rhythm. A trace of color touched her lips, soft and fragile, yet undeniably real.
The youth's eyes widened. "She… she's breathing better…" His voice cracked with disbelief. Tears blurred his vision, and he covered his mouth, choking on relief. For the first time in days, hope surged through him, sharp and overwhelming.
Zilan only adjusted the blanket over the girl's body. "She's stable for now. But she needs more care if she is to recover fully." Her tone was even, but there was a quiet strength in it.
He looked at her, trembling. Gratitude swelled in his chest, but so did confusion. "Why… why are you helping us?" he whispered. The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Zilan did not answer immediately. She set aside the needles, washed her hands, and only then glanced at him with calm eyes. "Because she deserves a chance to live," she said. "And so do you."
The youth's throat tightened again. He lowered his head, unable to find words. His sister's faint but steady breathing filled the silence, each breath like a fragile thread binding her to life.
For the first time since his family's tragedy, he felt that maybe—just maybe—they were not completely alone.