Ji En knew he could not lose consciousness—lest his blood drain away.
Gritting his teeth, he tore cloth from the bandit chief's robe, pressing it to the wound. But the gash was too deep. The flow would not stop.
Desperate, his eyes fell upon the fire.
Wood ash—the poor man's remedy for bleeding.
He crawled to the hearth, swept aside the embers, and pressed his torn back against the scalding ash.
"AAHHHH—!" Pain ripped through him, so fierce he fainted dead away.
When he awoke, dawn's light seeped in. The ash had clotted into a blackened crust, slowing the blood. With trembling hands, he tore bandages from bandits' clothes, binding his torso tightly until he could scarcely breathe.
Exhausted, he slumped by Lingyue's side. She stirred awake, eyes sweeping the slaughtered hall, then his bloodied back. Her lips trembled.
"Was it… you?"
"No one else," Ji En forced a wan smile.
She looked at him, words caught in her throat, and sighed instead.
Together they set out once more, limping down the road. The bandits' horses had been eaten by wolves; only scraps of rations remained.
Each step pulled at their wounds. Lingyue burned with fever, Ji En shivered from blood loss.
"Leave me," Lingyue whispered for the hundredth time.
"I told you—I won't abandon you," Ji En growled, tightening his grip.
She fell silent, leaning her weight more heavily upon him.
Rain lashed down. They found refuge in a mountain cave. Ji En tended her wounds, using the last of their medicine on her instead of himself. When her fever raged at night, he laid his half-dry cloak over her and sat shivering by the fire.