Gu Qingxuan had just finished wiping down his needles when he felt it—a sudden, iron-strong grip on his wrist.
The stranger's hand, pale and cold as carved jade, clamped down with enough force to grind bone against bone.
Qingxuan winced. "Ah, wonderful. I rescue a bleeding lunatic, and he thanks me by trying to snap my hand like a chopstick."
The man's crimson eyes flickered open again. They glowed faintly in the lamplight, like embers refusing to die out. "What did you do to me?" he rasped.
Qingxuan scowled. "Do to you? Excuse me, Your Highness of Bad Manners, I just saved your ridiculously handsome life. You're welcome. Normally patients say thank you, or at least stop dripping blood on my floor. Not one of mine ever said, 'what did you do to me?' as if I just stabbed you for fun."
The man's grip tightened. The creak of strained bones filled the silence.
"Answer me," he demanded.
Qingxuan's lips thinned. He wasn't easily intimidated—he'd stared down plague corpses, corrupt officials, and once a chicken that had clearly been possessed by demons. He wasn't about to bow to a glowing-eyed noble who looked like he'd walked out of a nightmare painting.
"You want an answer?" Qingxuan snapped. "Fine. I put needles in you. That's how medicine works. You were bleeding to death, so I patched you up. Don't like it? Die more quietly next time. Preferably outside my front door."
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then, to Qingxuan's shock, the stranger's lips curved—just slightly. A low, rough laugh rolled out of his chest, dark and rich like thunder over a graveyard.
"Most men fear me," he said softly. "You insult me."
Qingxuan sniffed. "Most men don't have to scrub blood out of their bedding. You're lucky I didn't throw you back into the forest. You'd make excellent fertilizer."
The man stared at him for a long moment, as though trying to decide if he was joking. He wasn't.
Before Qingxuan could further berate him, the man suddenly went still. His gaze flicked toward the door, sharp as a hawk's.
"What now?" Qingxuan muttered. "Did you bring friends? Tell them I charge extra if they all bleed on me at once."
But the man didn't answer. His crimson eyes narrowed, glowing brighter. His whole body tensed, predatory.
Then Qingxuan heard it too.
Footsteps. Multiple, quick and heavy, crunching over the forest path outside.
Shadows moved against the paper door.
"Oh, marvelous," Qingxuan sighed. "He comes with assassins included. Just what I needed. My life truly is the worst kind of serialized comedy."
The door exploded inward before he finished.
Six figures clad in black stormed into the hut, blades glinting under the lamplight. Their faces were covered, their movements sharp and professional.
"Kill him!" one barked.
Qingxuan looked around his tiny hut: bed, table, shelves of herbs… no weapons. Then he looked at the intruders. Swords. Knives. Very sharp things.
He muttered, "Why do I never get patients who just bring flowers?"
One assassin lunged at him. Pure reflex had Qingxuan's hand flicking a golden needle from his sleeve. It zipped through the air and buried itself in the man's neck.
The assassin crumpled instantly.
Qingxuan blinked. "Huh. That worked better than expected."
Another came at him, sword raised. Qingxuan yelped, grabbed a jar from his shelf, and smashed it over the man's head. Powdered rhubarb exploded everywhere. The assassin staggered back, coughing.
"Note to self," Qingxuan muttered, "label jars more clearly. Might have been poison, might have been constipation remedy. Either way, effective."
Meanwhile, the stranger—still half-drenched in blood—moved like a phantom. One moment he was slumped on the bed, the next he blurred across the room, faster than Qingxuan's eyes could follow. He seized an attacker by the throat, lifted him off the ground as though he weighed nothing, and flung him against the wall. The crack of bones echoed.
Qingxuan froze, needle in hand. "What in the nine hells—"
The man's crimson eyes gleamed like twin lanterns in the dark. His lips curled back, revealing fangs.
Actual fangs.
"Oh no," Qingxuan whispered. "Oh no no no. Of course. Handsome stranger with glowing eyes and terrible manners. You're not just a lunatic—you're a bloody monster."
One of the assassins screamed as the man sank his fangs into his neck. Blood sprayed, hot and red, across the floor.
Qingxuan gagged. "Unbelievable. He's not only bleeding on my floor—he's making others bleed on it too! I'll never get the stains out."
The fight ended as abruptly as it began. Bodies littered the floor, groaning or still. The stranger stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, eyes burning like twin fires.
He turned slowly toward Qingxuan, crimson gaze fixing on him.
Qingxuan raised both hands, a needle still clenched between his fingers. "Now, let's talk about this rationally. You're… what, some kind of legendary bloodsucker? A 'Bloodborn,' maybe? That's fine, I don't judge. But if you're planning to add me to tonight's menu, I must warn you—I'm bitter, sarcastic, and probably poisonous."
The man's lips curved, dark amusement flickering. "Poisonous, perhaps. But you… saved me."
"Don't remind me," Qingxuan muttered. "Worst decision of my week."
The man stepped closer. His presence filled the room, suffocating and magnetic all at once.
"You saw what I am," he murmured. "And you still stand. That makes you mine."
Qingxuan choked. "Mine? Mine? Excuse me, sir, that is not how doctor–patient relationships work. I stitch you up, you pay me, and then you leave. That's the whole transaction. Nobody leaves with ownership rights!"
The man ignored him. His crimson eyes glowed brighter.
Qingxuan groaned. "Oh, wonderful. First assassins, now an immortal narcissist declaring ownership. I should've stayed in bed tonight."