CONTINUATION .....
Birdsong tugged at the edge of his sleep.
Not the kind you hear in peaceful paintings or garden strolls—no, this was shrill, obnoxious, and far too enthusiastic for dawn. Lui Ming cracked open one eye, blinked at the foggy morning light filtering through the branches, and immediately regretted it.
His neck ached. His back felt like it had been folded in half, then kicked by a cow. And the branch beneath him had developed a newfound desire to saw into his spine.
He groaned and sat up slowly.
"…Everywhere hurts ," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head.
A breeze stirred through the leaves, cool and earthy. Dew clung to the edges of his sleeves, and somewhere below, a squirrel scurried through the underbrush.
Lui Ming rolled his shoulders, checked his belongings, and dropped down from the tree. His legs wobbled slightly as they reacquainted themselves with the ground. He took it slow, stretching and shaking out the stiffness before brushing some stray leaves from his clothes.
"Still alive," he said to no one in particular. "That's fortunate."
He followed the road again, this time without urgency. The morning was calm. Mist still curled around the tree trunks, soft and quiet. The forest felt more forgiving now, as if it, too, had woken up on the wrong side of the bed and decided to let it slide.
As he walked, he thought about the map tucked in his sleeve. There was supposed to be a small town half a day's walk from the city—just far enough to feel like progress, not far enough to collapse in the dirt.
If he could get there by nightfall, he'd find a proper place to rest.
The road sloped downward eventually, curving through low hills and patches of wildflowers. Lui Ming breathed it in slowly. He wasn't used to fresh air that didn't smell like incense or poorly washed robes.
Then he stopped.
Up ahead, just off the trail, something was lying in the grass. Motionless.
He squinted.
It wasn't large. Just a figure, curled up like a tossed coat or a fallen traveler. A person?
Cautious, he approached.
Closer now, he could make out tangled hair, torn sleeves, bare feet. A child?
No—not quite.
A teenager maybe. Pale-skinned, thin, with a raw, bruised look to them. They weren't dead. He could see the faint rise and fall of their chest. But they weren't waking up either.
Lui Ming knelt beside them, noting the cracked lips, the dry skin, the bruising around their wrist. .
His eyes narrowed.
This wasn't someone who'd gotten lost or fallen over from hunger. This was someone dumped.
His fingers hovered over the unconscious figure's pulse point, confirming it was steady.
"…Tch."
He looked around. Whoever had left this person here was long gone.
He glanced at his bag. Then at the map. Then at the stranger again.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then: "I can only pray a good Samaritan would help you."
He stood up.
Took two steps back.
Stopped.
Rubbed his face.
Groaned like he'd just made the worst decision of his life.
And turned around.
"Dammit."
He hoisted the limp figure over his shoulder with a bit more difficulty than expected, muttering under his breath the entire time.
But for some reason, Lui Ming felt like he'd just adopted a whole new problem.
He sighed.
And kept walking.