A cold wind blew, carrying the scent of earth and vegetation. After two nights of rain, the temperature in the forest had plummeted.
Wen Yanyu sat on a low stool beside the campfire, the flames reflected in his misty eyes, their corners red and damp.
He could not stop coughing.
After each cough, another came before he could catch his breath.
He had already had a mild cold, and after getting chilled during the night, he had developed a fever that morning. Something seemed to be wrong with his windpipe too; his coughing had not stopped since he woke up.
Fu Zhiyan brought him hot water. Wen Yanyu took it and swallowed a mouthful.
The warm water eased his cough.
But only for the few seconds it passed through his throat.
No one could hold a cup and drink water nonstop for twenty-four hours, so apart from when the coughing became unbearable or left his throat dry and sore, Wen Yanyu stopped drinking much.
But every breath felt as though a feather had entered his throat, itchy and uncomfortable, making him want to cough. Coughing only made his throat itch more, along with an unbearable itching deep inside his ears.
He wished he could stick a finger inside and scratch it himself.
To relieve the itching by coughing, he had to cough hard, but doing so made his chest and lungs hurt, leaving his lower abdomen sore and swollen too.
The cycle repeated, seemingly without end.
It tormented him so much that he did not even want to speak.
Wen Yanyu's lashes trembled. His lips had long since lost their color from all the coughing, and the short white strands over his forehead were damp with cold sweat and mist, sticking to the sides of his face.
The pure white