The old healer let Yuhao sit in the corner now.
He didn't speak often, just watched.
When customers came, Yuhao stayed quiet, observing symptoms, posture, pulse. He memorized prescription patterns, brewing methods, dosage differences between children and adults.
When it was quiet, the healer let him grind roots or stir tinctures.
Once, Yuhao suggested a ginger-water base for a chest remedy.
The healer looked at him for a long second.
Then used it.
Said nothing.
But the next week, he left a short scroll out on the table: "Essence Ratios for Bitter Roots – Tier 2+"
A wordless invitation.
Yuhao copied it silently into his mental archive.
---
At night, he began testing Projection Magic in new ways.
He projected a model of Yun'er's lungs—hollow, frost-tinged, slow.
Over days, he layered it with past data: breath patterns, fluctuations from walking, how her voice shifted by the hour.
Then he began running predictive overlays—what would happen if she missed medicine? If she exercised? If he altered diet?
The answers helped shape his treatments.
> [Projection Efficiency: 54%]
[Health Modeling: Basic Medical Simulations Achieved]
[Suggested Action: Begin Active Immune Strengthening Protocols]
[System Note: Sharingan Genjutsu Applications Compatible with Internal Stimulation Training]
Yuhao hesitated at that last line.
He hadn't used the Sharingan since they fled the estate.
It remained quiet, folded away in his eyes like a sealed knife.
But that night, as Yun'er slept, he sat cross-legged at her side and activated it—only for a moment.
Three tomoe spun once. Then stilled.
Her dreams smoothed.
Her heart rate slowed, but not unnaturally.
Just enough to ease tension.
He deactivated the eyes immediately.
A tool, he reminded himself.
Not a weapon.
Not yet.
---
Yun'er's strength increased with each passing week.
She could walk a full block now, slowly but without leaning on him. She started helping with broth prep, folding sheets, and sometimes humming under her breath.
"You're sleeping better," Yuhao noted one morning while checking her pulse.
"I think the air is helping."
He said nothing.
But that evening, he started working on low-cost air filters—soot-trapping cloth frames to place above windows and doors.
Every small thing mattered.
---
Sometimes, after her afternoon nap, she would sit outside and sew. Old scraps into new patches. Worn sleeves into wrist warmers.
She made Yuhao a pair.
He wore them even when it wasn't cold.
She never mentioned it.
But the next week, she made another set—cleaner stitching, better fabric.
Yuhao placed them in their storage chest. Carefully folded. Kept.
---
He visited the town's library on days she rested longer.
Most of the books were travel logs or weather records, but he found two old scrolls on early alchemical theory—barely preserved, but legible.
He memorized both by the second day.
He also began compiling a medical record of Yun'er's progress—handwritten, organized, factual.
No dramatics.
Just data.
In the margins, he added new projections:
"Month 3: Standing strength increased 17%."
"Cough incidents down by 60%."
"Hair regrowth visible. Blood pressure steady."
He never showed her the notes.
But she must have noticed.
Because one night, as he sat at the table, she placed a small woven basket beside him.
Inside was a set of hand-cut paper slips.
Blank.
"For your notes," she said simply.
He nodded.
Then picked one up and began writing.
---
Their life stayed small.
But steady.
And as Yuhao's mind sharpened, so did his control.
He still hadn't fused the Ice Dragon bloodline.
Not yet.
Not until he was ready.
Until they were safe.
Until he no longer needed to hide.