The golden morning light filtered softly through the gauze curtains of the safehouse guest room, catching the faint, swirling dust motes in the air. Yang Muchen slowly opened his eyes, his mind instantly snapping into alertness. He braced himself for the burning agony of a fresh bullet wound—but it never came.
He sat up carefully, testing his right arm. The fierce, throbbing inflammation from the night before had miraculously receded, leaving only a dull, entirely manageable ache. He pulled back the collar of his shirt to inspect the bandage. There was no fresh blood bleeding through, and the muscle beneath felt incredibly stable.
It was a recovery speed that defied all medical logic. He knew his own physical constitution was great, but this... this was something else. His dark eyes narrowed slightly as he thought of the warm, faintly emerald-tinted water Chen Ying had forced him to drink through his sedative-induced fog.
