After a moment of pensive silence, Zhuo Qing suddenly rose, grasping the thickest wooden stick lying on the ground, and approached the burly man's side. Startled, the man's eyes widened in alarm. Without uttering a word, Zhuo Qing swung the stick with ruthless precision, striking sharply three centimeters below the nape of his neck! The blow was swift, accurate, and merciless. The man barely managed a grunt before losing consciousness instantly. Zhuo Qing crouched down, checked him thoroughly, and upon confirming he was indeed unconscious, discarded the stick and lightly brushed the wood chips from her hands. She then turned to glance at Qian Jing, who was half-reclining on the ground with a peculiar expression, and asked calmly, "Is this sufficient now?"
Qian Jing was dumbfounded by this woman... He recalled their first encounter when she had effortlessly thrown a man twice her size aside—clearly, he had underestimated her. Shaking his head with a bitter smile, he said, "I have never met a woman so fierce and savage as you."
Fierce and savage? Very well, Zhuo Qing replied indifferently, "Now you have."
He was truly unenlightened. If only he had the chance to meet Gu Yun, then he would understand the true meaning of fierceness and savagery.
Walking to the cave entrance, Zhuo Qing helped Ru'er sit by the fire and whispered, "Ru'er, help me keep the fire burning stronger."
Ru'er nodded vigorously, her admiration for this brave and resolute young lady unmistakable. After a few steps, Zhuo Qing picked up another wooden stick from the ground and handed it to Ru'er, saying, "Hold this. If he wakes up, strike him again."
Her concern was that if the man regained consciousness while she was still treating her wound, it would spell trouble. Ru'er accepted the stick, which was thicker than her arm, glanced nervously at the unconscious man, then at Zhuo Qing's cold, resolute face, swallowed hard, and reluctantly responded, "I... understand."
Aware this was a difficult task for her, but the circumstances left no alternative. Zhuo Qing returned to Qian Jing's side, helped him lie down, and said, "I'll tend to your wound first."
Qian Jing grabbed her hand just as she was about to loosen his collar, suspicion etched across his face: "Are you sure you can handle this?"
Zhuo Qing raised an eyebrow lightly. She was a qualified surgeon. Her experience wielding scalpels far exceeded that of most, and her knowledge of human muscles, bones, and organs was unparalleled among ordinary surgeons. This minor operation was a mere trifle for her.
She reached out again, but Qian Jing stopped her, "Wait. Help me get the medicine bottle from my waist."
After a brief search, Zhuo Qing produced a small porcelain vial, uncorked it, and a faint medicinal aroma wafted out. She tilted the bottle, but it was empty. Handing it back, she said softly, "It's all gone."
Gone? Qian Jing groaned in despair—why must it run out at such a critical moment? Was fate intent on abandoning him? The scent was familiar.
Zhuo Qing rummaged through a hidden pocket in her belt and withdrew a small cloth pouch. Carefully opening it, she revealed several small pills and secretly breathed a sigh of relief. Handing them to Qian Jing, she smiled, "You're lucky it didn't get wet. Take these."
He recognized them immediately—they were the precious pills he had given her last time. She hadn't lost them after all.
Picking up two thin blades, Zhuo Qing inspected them; the edges were sharp and suitably thick. After selecting one, she turned her back to Qian Jing and heated the blade over the fire. Softly, she said, "You owe me a hundred taels. Now, you'd better hold onto that life."
Watching her silhouette illuminated by the fire, Qian Jing felt an odd sensation stirring within. With a resigned sigh, he murmured, "Fine, let's begin."
Armed with the makeshift surgical knife, Zhuo Qing knelt beside him and offered reassurance, "Bear with me. It'll be over soon."
"Do it!" Qian Jing faced death with a resolute gaze, leaving Zhuo Qing amused—still joking at a moment like this!
Blood glued fabric to skin as Zhuo Qing carefully tore open his shirt. By firelight, she studied the wound's location before striking without hesitation.
"Mm! Ah—"
Without anesthesia, the pain was excruciating. Though Qian Jing's endurance was remarkable, involuntary muscle spasms and violent resistance made the incision difficult. Zhuo Qing frowned; surgery was indeed not her favorite. She preferred corpses—they always submitted quietly to her every whim.
Within ten minutes, the adhered muscle tissue was precisely cut, and all barbs were removed. Tossing the weapon aside, Zhuo Qing looked at Qian Jing, whose clenched fists, flushed face, and beads of sweat dripping to the ground betrayed his struggle. He panted heavily.
Patting his cheek gently, she said firmly, "It's done. Relax."
Though the weapon was extracted, there were no disinfectants or suturing materials. Fortunately, compared to similar surgeries, Qian Jing's wound bled remarkably little. Could it be true what martial arts novels claim—that pressing certain acupoints can temporarily halt bleeding? Fascinating. She resolved to study this phenomenon further.
The pressing issue now was how to bandage the wound to prevent infection. She couldn't afford to tear more clothing—otherwise, she'd be left exposed!
"Shh—"
Lost in thought, Zhuo Qing was startled by the sound of tearing fabric. Turning around, she saw Ru'er holding out a large piece of cloth and said, "Here."
Ru'er's legs were exposed; clearly uncomfortable, she curled her feet tightly but offered the fabric steadfastly. Zhuo Qing accepted it gratefully, replying with a warm smile, "Thank you."
Ru'er shook her head shyly. She felt she hadn't done much to help—they had saved her from disgrace.
Zhuo Qing tore the cloth into strips, joined them, and gently lifted Qian Jing, swiftly wrapping the wound. After the pain subsided, his mind cleared further. Watching Zhuo Qing's practiced hands, his phoenix-like eyes narrowed, and he breathed softly, "Are you... a doctor?"
Qian Jing pondered her identity. Amidst blood and gruesome wounds, she remained calm and composed; her precise and unwavering incisions were impressive. Her medical skill was undeniable, but her familiarity with such injuries suggested she had treated wounds like this countless times. Ordinary doctors merely took pulses and brewed herbs; they rarely encountered such knife wounds, especially a lady of noble birth like her.
"A sort of doctor," she replied. "A forensic doctor is still a doctor."
After bandaging the wound, Zhuo Qing exhaled deeply, exhausted, and collapsed to the ground. "Rest for a while. At dawn, we'll…"
Suddenly, Qian Jing's phoenix eyes sharpened, his expression darkening. Gripping her wrist tightly, he whispered, "Someone's coming!"