Ji En lay on the cold temple floor, his mind drifting in and out of darkness. Fever scorched his insides; his wounds festered; every cough ripped at his lungs with knife-edged agony.
He knew he was dying.
Starvation, injury, cold—any one of them could finish him. Hallucinations crept in: the old servant Fu Bo tending a fading fire, Hao Lan lecturing with stern face, the bandits he had slain, even the donkey devoured by wolves, its green eyes glaring at him from the dark.
At last, he saw Ling Yue riding the great white crane that had died, soaring across the sky, sunlight on her figure, serene as drifting clouds. She never once looked down at him.
Rage and bitterness flared—the last fuel of his will. In his mind, he tore Ling Yue's cruel letter to shreds, pouring all his strength into a silent curse.
Then came the cold—piercing, bone-deep, soul-freezing. His body convulsed with shivers. This was the chill of blood loss, of life ebbing away.
As his consciousness slipped toward eternal night, a faint warmth stirred beneath him.
Was it an illusion? No—the dying glow of embers, weak but real, like a star in the frozen void.
Instinct drove him closer, inching like a worm toward the fire's last heat. Somehow, he found himself moving.
Time blurred. When he opened his eyes again, he was alive.
A final flicker before death—or had he endured? He was too weak to think. Thirst pushed him on. Crawling to the table, he seized the jug and drank greedily.
Cold water seared down his throat, quenching the fire within. He collapsed, gasping. Each breath still hurt, but he was awake.
He had survived—without care, without food or medicine, dragged back from the brink by sheer will to live.
But the danger was far from over. He was still weak—
and starving.