The gash on Ji En's back burned like fire. Each breath tore at his chest, yet he dared not stop. Lingyue fared worse, faint from fever and blood loss.
Supporting—or rather dragging—her along a desolate road, he watched their shadows lengthen beneath the setting sun.
"There… ahead… an inn," Lingyue whispered, her keen eyes discerning what Ji En could not.
He squinted. Indeed, faint silhouettes of buildings stood by the roadside. A flicker of hope rose in his chest.
But as they drew nearer, Lingyue's brow furrowed. "Something is wrong. No smoke. No light. Too quiet."
Ji En's heart sank. At such an hour, any inn should show signs of life. This silence boded ill.
"Stay here," Ji En said, settling her behind thick brush. Gripping a blade scavenged from the bandits, he crept forward.
The closer he came, the sharper the stench—blood and rot. The inn door stood ajar.
With a deep breath, Ji En nudged it open.
Inside, bodies sprawled across the floor—merchants, slaughtered in pitiless fashion. The sight made bile rise in his throat.
"How is it?" Lingyue called weakly from afar.
Forcing down his nausea, Ji En backed out, face ashen. "All dead," he whispered. "The place is full of corpses."