CONCENTRATION CAMP - SPECIALLY RECOVERY ROOM"
Yueyao regained consciousness, her ears ringing with a persistent thump. Her eyes were hazy and dry. She strained to listen to the murmurs nearby—voices coming from just outside, or perhaps nearer.
Her leg was severely fractured. She was malnourished and dehydrated from the scorching journey without proper food. Her body temperature had dropped dangerously when she arrived, but she was stabilizing remarkably fast—faster than one might expect from a mere human. Perhaps an ancient fox could regenerate so efficiently.
The nurse glanced anxiously at Bjorn as other patients began crowding the room, drawn to Yueyao. They admired her: soft, white, silky hair; pale, delicate skin; hollowed cheeks sunburned from desert travel; pink lips; crimson eyes blinking slowly. She stared up at the ceiling, serene yet fragile.
Bjorn rubbed his forehead and barked a command. "Clear them out. Now."
The nurse and guards hurriedly obeyed, leaving him alone with Yueyao. His heavy footsteps echoed down the lavish hallway, lined with ornaments, mid-aged vases, and armors from ancient battles. From the office ahead, a woman's moans reached him. Without hesitation, Bjorn opened the door.
As expected, a prostitute rode the emperor. Her head fell back, moans escaping her lips, audible throughout the hall. Bjorn's expression didn't change. He closed the door quietly and waited. The emperor growled, flung her off, tossed a bag of gold on the floor. "Take it," he commanded, before leaving.
The woman gathered her clothes, leaving with a sly wink. Bjorn stepped in front of the shell-strewn desk, picked up a dropped book, and flipped it open.
"You can report, Bjorn," said a familiar voice—soft, patient, commanding.
Bjorn's tone remained calm, precise:
"I have news, Wulfric. Supplies are here, along with all the prisoners. Everything is ready. The herbs for your cold syndrome this autumn and winter have been secured. Dr. Amati will examine them and begin preparing the recipes.
"We've rescued 36 people: 33 nobles with their children, and three red-code targets have been captured by our special forces."
He paused, watching the emperor's bored expression. This was the usual—a life under control, a throne inherited after a father's failure. Nothing seemed to faze him.
Bjorn continued: "And today, there's another piece of news. You may consider it good or bad."
The emperor's face remained unreadable. Bjorn leaned closer, knowing the next words would provoke a reaction:
"She's awake. Truly."
The emperor's shoulders tensed, though he masked it. Coldly, he asked, "Where is she?"
Bjorn smiled softly, eyes flicking to the wolf statue in the corner. Finally, some reaction.
"And guess where she is now?" he asked. The emperor turned his chair back toward him, intrigued.
"She's with them, on the long trip to the desert. She may come to you later—if you choose to overlook her background and find her."
Evening fell on the infirmary, crowded as usual. People passed in and out, visiting loved ones. Yueyao sat on a bench, her broken leg supported by a stick. She gazed at the garden: elders singing under birch trees, a mother cradling an infant, couples sharing quiet moments by a lotus pond. Peace washed over her, fleeting but real.
Guards patrolled the yard, keeping constant watch. Passersby whispered, staring at her unusual ears and features. She tugged her hair down over them, uneasy. Slowly, she stood, intending to return to her room. The crowd parted instinctively, eyes following her.
In a hallway adorned with portraits of honored doctors, she paused. Strange—they all shared her race, yet their tenure lasted only months. The longest, barely three. Unease prickled at her senses.
At the hallway's end, a metal door read "Medical Supplies Storage Room." Ancient letters were carved into its surface. Yueyao traced them lightly, her memory stirring. These are ancient witch curses… I last saw them when my father taught me… Why are they here?
A sudden burning sensation surged through her hand. Startled, she pulled away.
A cold, metallic pressure pressed against her head. She froze. A large figure loomed behind her, voice arrogant and lethal:
"Finding something, little fox?"
General Cyphor—the man nearly dubbed Tyrant for his cruelty and unrelenting brutality—stood ready. Any sign of resistance, and he would end her instantly.
Click.