Jin did not swallow the pill at once.
Too many deceptions had crossed his path—he had learned to treat every gift as though it concealed a blade.
He found a small stream and crouched beside the water. With great care, he tipped the jade vial, letting a single round pellet roll into his palm. The pill gleamed faintly green, its surface smooth as polished jade, exuding the subtle fragrance of crushed herbs. To sight and scent it appeared harmless, even exquisite.
Still, Jin mistrusted appearances. He snapped off a small fragment and tossed it to a wild hare nibbling near the reeds. The creature twitched its nose, chewed, and after a moment bounded away with renewed vigor, its movements brisk and lively.
No convulsions. No collapse. If anything, the hare seemed strengthened.
Jin's suspicion eased but did not vanish. After long hesitation, he broke the pill in half and swallowed only a portion.
Warmth coursed through his belly almost at once, spreading gently along his damaged meridians, seeping into battered organs and sinew. It was no fiery surge but a steady, nourishing tide, soothing yet powerful. To his astonishment, its effects surpassed any healing draught or wound salve he had ever used.
This Zilan… a fugitive merchant's daughter, casually producing such a treasure? Who exactly was she?
Questions gnawed at him, but need outweighed doubt. He withdrew into a secluded grove, crossed his legs, and guided his breath, coaxing the medicine deeper into his system. The pill's energy blended strangely with that shard of alien spirit-force that still lurked within his body, accelerating his recovery at a remarkable pace.
Days passed. His inner injuries closed like wounds knitting under invisible hands, his strength returning to near its former height.
And still, each night, the two corpse-servants appeared—silent, unyielding, hovering like sentinels at the edge of his firelight. At first their presence unnerved him. Now, he found them oddly reassuring. They kept prowling beasts at bay. They frightened away the curious. In their mute, grotesque way, they guarded him.
One afternoon, Jin crouched beside a creek, gutting a freshly caught fish. The burble of water masked most sounds, but suddenly a harsh clash of steel and ragged shouts carried down from upstream.
He froze. Then, suppressing his aura, he slipped silently toward the commotion.
Beyond a gravel bar, the scene unfolded: half a dozen men locked in desperate struggle. Jin recognized them instantly—the very household guards he had driven off days before. Yet they were not alone. Their opponents were three figures clad in ash-gray battle garb, faces half-shrouded in black scarves, their movements sharp, their strikes venomous.
The gray-clad men fought like shadows—darting, twisting, their blades carving unpredictable arcs. Though outnumbered, they pressed the guards into retreat, leaving blood and cries scattered on the stones.
The guards' leader roared, both furious and afraid:
"Who are you people?! Why do you block us from seizing the girl?!"
One gray warrior let out a rasping chuckle, cold as iron scraped across stone.
"She belongs to us. Do you think we would let you take her?"
Before the last syllable faded, his sword thrust in a crooked angle, slipping past a parry and plunging straight into a guard's throat. The man collapsed with a gurgle.
Jin's pulse quickened. Them? After Zilan?
The words echoed—"She is ours." What bond could Zilan have with assassins such as these? Had she deceived him from the start?
At that very instant, another of the gray warriors paused mid-strike. His head turned, and his eyes locked on Jin's hidden perch. The gaze was merciless, predatory, like a knife pressed to his spine.
"Well, well… another rat in the grass?" the man sneered. With a flick of his wrist, a throwing blade spun through the air toward Jin.
Instinct screamed. Jin twisted aside. The dart hissed past, thudding into a tree. No more hiding—he burst from cover and sprinted away down the riverbank.
The gray warriors did not pursue. One merely stood watching, his expression unreadable, before turning back to the slaughter.
Jin ran until the shouts faded behind him, his heart hammering. Zilan's mystery deepened like a bottomless pit. The aura those gray men carried… it was foul, reeking of death and sorcery. He wanted nothing more to do with any of them.
But fate was merciless.
When at last he slowed, panting, a clearing opened before him. Two figures barred the path.
Jin's blood chilled.
The first was Feng Tianyu—face calm, eyes gleaming with cold amusement.
At his side stood someone Jin had prayed never to encounter again: the austere, grim figure of Master Lü Yan, once known as Lü Yuanzi, his gaze sharp enough to strip away lies.
The trap had sprung.