When Lu Chen woke, it was raining outside the tent.
Not the sand-rain common to the Northern Frontier, but real rain. Droplets pounded against the tent canvas, drumming out a dense rhythm.
He lay still, staring at the tent roof for a while. There were three patches on the canvas. The largest had been sewn on crookedly, its stitches as thick as centipede legs—Zhou Tieshan's handiwork.
The wounds on his right arm and waist itched.
He tried moving his fingers. They could move, but his wrist trembled when he clenched his fist. The weakened state still weighed on him like a soaking-wet quilt wrapped around his body, dragging every bone downward.
[Remaining weakened state duration: two days. True essence recovery progress: 0%.]
The tent flap was lifted. Yun Qingyue entered with a pottery bowl in her hands, steam rising from it.
She crouched down, set the bowl on the wooden crate beside the bed, then reached out and touched his forehead. Her fingers were cool, lingering at his temple for two breaths.
"Your fever's gone."
"Mm."
"Drink the medicine."
Lu Chen braced himself against the bedboard and sat up. The wound at his waist pulled, making him suck in a cold breath. Yun Qingyue pressed a hand to his shoulder. She did not use much force, but her placement was precise—right on the Jianjing acupoint, pinning him down.
"Don't move around. The wound just scabbed over."
She lifted the bowl and held it to his lips.
The medicine was dark brown and carried a fishy smell. It was not the bitterness of herbs, but more like the rusty tang of blood. Lu Chen took a sip, and the root of his tongue went numb.
"What is this?"
"Your blood, mixed with dragon saliva incense and red sandalwood powder.