"Stop right there!"
A chilling voice sliced through the night like a blade of ice.
The man's dark eyes flared with sudden frost, sharp even through the haze of blood loss. His hand tightened over the hilt of his sword. Though his body swayed unsteadily, his presence was still like a sharpened edge—lethal, unyielding. His gaze locked firmly on Feng Ziyan as she stepped closer.
Half his face was hidden beneath streaks of blood. Tangled hair clung to his cheek, and his clothes, once rich and elegant, were soaked crimson. Yet even drenched in blood and clinging to life, his bearing was undeniable—noble and commanding, a man who could not be reduced to an ordinary figure.
Feng Ziyan crouched in front of him. Her brows lifted with curiosity, her fingers tugging lightly at his torn collar.
"And what do you think I'm about to do to you?"
Before he could respond, she yanked hard. The sound of ripping cloth filled the air; his robe fell open, revealing a broad, muscular chest beneath.
"How dare you!" His voice thundered with fury, though weak. Ignoring the dizziness that pressed against his temples, he lashed out and grabbed her wrist with startling strength.
"Hey, have some manners," Feng Ziyan shot back, unimpressed. She tugged her hand free with little effort, then grabbed again, ripping more of his clothing apart in one decisive move. "I literally just saved your life, and this is the thanks I get? Be quiet already. I'm trying to stop you from bleeding to death. Unless you think I've got some magical equipment hidden in my sleeve. Newsflash—no blood transfusions here. Even if I had one, I doubt our blood would even match."
The man blinked at her strange words—blood transfusions? Matching types? The nonsense meant nothing to him. But her intention was clear enough. She was trying to treat him. His grip loosened slightly.
Yet in the next heartbeat, pride thundered louder than reason. His hand tightened once more around his sword, and his other hand clutched at his belt as though it were his final line of defense.
"What are you doing now?" he demanded harshly, his eyes flashing like black steel.
Her hands were at his waist. His belt.
Rage surged through the fog in his mind. If she weren't the one who had dragged him out of the assassins' ambush and staved off imminent death, he would have cut her down on the spot for this insolence.
"Don't flatter yourself," Feng Ziyan muttered, giving his hand a sharp slap. "If you grip your belt any tighter, you'll crush your own ribs. Now stop being ridiculous and let me get your pants off."
"What—what did you say?!"
His whole body stiffened, his pallid face turning an even paler white. "You dare to—" The words caught in his throat, choked by horror and humiliation.
No one had ever cursed his dignity like this. He was a man of status, unapproachable, feared. A man could die in battle, but be stripped and shamed by a woman? Absolutely not.
Murderous intent flared in his eyes. He wanted to strike her down. His body, however, betrayed him; no strength remained to even lift his sword.
Meanwhile, Feng Ziyan had already pulled at his trousers, her tone filled with annoyance.
"You've got a long gash across your leg. If I don't take these off, how am I supposed to clean and sew it shut? Do you want the wound to rot? And look here—there's poison in this cut. If you hadn't swallowed that antidote earlier, the venom would already be in your heart. You'd be dead before dawn. And you're still fussing over modesty?" She clicked her tongue. "Honestly, you're bleeding faster than you're talking."
Men of this era were impossibly uptight. Modern patients let her cut clothes off without fuss, and none of them carried on like this.
Her sharp gaze lowered, spotting fresh blood soaking his underclothes. Without hesitation, she reached to strip them off as well.
"You dare!" His voice thundered again, cold and sharp, even though his strength was fading like smoke.
She paused under the weight of his glare, one brow arching high. "Why so dramatic? If I don't check whether the wound spread that far and you end up being impotent or unable to have sex in the future..." She let the words hang, then added dryly, "Well, don't come blaming me."
A vein pulsed at his temple. His teeth gritted so hard it was a wonder they didn't shatter. "That blood ran down from above. The wound is on my abdomen, not—"
Feng Ziyan shrugged, unfazed. "Blood travels down. Doesn't mean there's nothing injured below. But fine—keep your pants if you're so desperate. Not like I'd know how to fix you if that part was damaged anyway."
She pulled out her medical pouch, her expression growing serious at last. Silver needles glinted in the firelight as she stuck them swiftly into several points on his body to stem the bleeding. Then she began to carefully clean the wound.
"Do you fear pain?" she asked casually, reaching for her knife. "If you do, I can always knock you out with something heavy first."
"Silence!" His voice was strained, caught between pride and agony. His face turned shade upon shade, pale one second, dark the next. "This is nothing. Conduct yourself."
"You said it yourself." She took his word at face value, with no more hesitation.
Her knife cut ruthlessly into poisoned flesh. Her hand poured strong liquor into the wound, sending unbearable fire through his nerves. She threaded her needle and stitched the searing gash with precise, unflinching movements.
Every touch was agony. Sweat ran down his temples as his jaw locked tightly shut. His knuckles were white from clenching his fists.
To make matters worse, shutting his eyes only heightened each sensation—the sting of the blade, the burn of alcohol, the unexpected warmth of her fingertips brushing his bare skin as she worked.
Her hand lingered along his calf, pressing here, prodding there.
"Does it hurt here? Or here? Or here?" she asked, moving steadily upward, her warm palm pressing along thigh and muscle.
His entire body went taut as a bowstring. Goosebumps prickled over his skin. His pride screamed to push her away, yet his weakened body would not obey. His eyes snapped open, narrowed like blades.
"My legs are unhurt. Stop touching."
"Oh, good," Feng Ziyan said lightly. "If your legs were broken, I couldn't carry you anyway."
The faintest sigh escaped him—a breath he didn't mean to release. But it ended too soon. Her hands returned, this time smoothing ointment across his chest and abdomen. Her palms slid gently across skin, sometimes lingering, sometimes only brushing. Each touch left a strange tingle that spread like lightning through his battered body.
He gritted his teeth, fists clenching and unclenching, forcing himself to ignore the peculiar current burning under his skin.
Then she muttered softly, curiosity lacing her tone. "Huh. Are you ticklish?"
His entire body went rigid, his aura turning blade-cold in an instant. His voice came out low, edged with threat. "Focus on healing me."
She blinked, unfazed. "Alright, alright. Must be my imagination then. You don't look like the type to be ticklish anyway."
She continued her careful checks, running her hands over his chest again and again, making sure there was no hidden bleeding inside.
The man sat ramrod-straight, iron-faced, pride radiating through every line of his body. Yet beneath tangled hair, the tips of his ears betrayed him, twitching faintly each time her hands passed.
The long night dragged on.
By morning, Feng Ziyan finally stretched and closed her tired eyes. When she woke again, the man was gone. Not even the imprint of his body remained.
It was only then she realized—through all that had happened, she had never once seen his true face.