Bi Hua carried Qingshui into the inner room and laid her on the bed. The moment she loosened her grip, Qingshui collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, striking the wooden frame with a dull thud.
"Mother…" Layne stood frozen at the doorway. His eyes were wide, fingers clutching the frame so tightly his knuckles whitened, yet he dared not step closer.
Qingshui's body was caked with dirt and blood. Cuts and scratches crisscrossed her skin, but the most terrifying was the gash running diagonally from her shoulder down toward her abdomen—nearly a fatal cleave. Her tattered clothes were clotted to the wound, fused with flesh. Across her back was a blackened scorch mark, as if a burning hand had slammed into her. Her breathing… so faint, it seemed she might vanish any moment.
Bi Hua drew in a sharp breath, forcing down the tide of fear in her chest. Her voice was calm, steady:
"Boil water. There's a clay pot in the hall. Fill it and bring it here—quickly!"
Layne gave a shaky "Yes!" and dashed off.
Bi Hua turned back, bending over to examine Qingshui's injuries.
Beneath her skin, veins were tinted an unhealthy blue-black. Her breaths were shallow, heart trembling weakly. Bi Hua wiped the grime and blood from Qingshui's face with a clean cloth. The woman who was always sharp-tongued and sly now trembled faintly, her lively features broken by pain.
"Where… did you go?" Bi Hua whispered.
Qingshui's lashes fluttered. Some shred of awareness lingered. Her throat moved; the faintest sound escaped—
"No… problem…"
Bi Hua's hand paused. She gently stroked Qingshui's tangled, dirt-streaked hair.
"I'm not angry," she murmured. "But you must live. Do you hear me, Qingshui? I won't let you die."
Layne stumbled back in with the pot of steaming water. Bi Hua, ignoring the scalding heat, soaked a cloth and began washing Qingshui's wounds herself.
The warm water cleared away the blood, leaving pale skin and raw flesh exposed. The smaller cuts were manageable—but the great slash nearly split her torso open, leaving Bi Hua powerless for a moment.
She gritted her teeth, seized a quilt, and hacked it apart with scissors, tearing out the cotton stuffing. Soaking the cotton in the hot water, wringing it out with reddened hands, she pressed the steaming clumps gently against Qingshui's wound, layer by layer, until the bleeding slowed beneath the warmth.
Qingshui let out a faint groan.
"Is she… is she going to die?" Layne's voice shook. "She's lost so much blood, so much—"
"She won't," Bi Hua said firmly.
"She came home. I won't let her die here."
By dawn, the small house echoed with voices from the street outside.
Bi Hua sat at Qingshui's bedside, cradling her cold hand in her palm. There was still life in those faint pulses. The improvised poultices had softened the clotted rags, finally letting her remove them. The wound beneath was terrible—yet treatable. She dressed it with powders, wrapped her upper body in thick bandages. Slowly, Qingshui's breathing eased.
"Layne."
The boy hurried close. His eyes were still red from crying, but steadier than before.
"Go to the town apothecary. Ask for salves for blade wounds, and medicines for blood and bruises. Her back… there's a palm mark—I don't know how to treat it."
"I'll go right now!" He spun toward the door, but Bi Hua's sharp voice stopped him.
"Don't rush. If anyone asks, say I cut my hand cooking and fell. Do not say our teacher is hurt."
When Layne returned with medicine, Bi Hua was preparing breakfast. In the inner room, Qingshui lay breathing quietly, though her body still twitched faintly with pain.
Layne set the medicines down and sat at her bedside, clutching her hand. Then he froze. His eyes shut tight, brow furrowed in concentration.
"Mother! Come quick!" he shouted.
The crash of dishes rang from the kitchen as Bi Hua rushed in, breath unsteady, panic etched across her face.
"What is it? What happened? Is she—"
But when she saw Qingshui still breathing, her shoulders sagged. Relief twisted swiftly into annoyance.
"Don't shout like that! She needs rest. I thought—"
Layne ignored her scolding. His face was taut, eyes still closed.
"I can… feel something in her. Like the flow of qi. It's so slow, stuck in places… some of it's like a knot. And her back—there's something else there, clashing against it."
Bi Hua blinked. "What?"
"I don't know how to explain, but… I can feel it."
Bi Hua slowly stepped closer, her gaze steady.
"Then try. Help guide it for her. Like a doctor setting meridians. Mother doesn't understand qi, but if you can sense it… maybe you can help."
Her voice was soft, encouraging, a quiet strength behind it.
Layne swallowed, then nodded. He tried channeling the strange sense he'd discovered these past days, drawing it through himself and into Qingshui's hand.
Her brow creased faintly. A low sound escaped her lips.
"Mother—she's better, isn't she?"
Bi Hua didn't answer aloud, only nodded gently.
Later, she fed Qingshui spoonfuls of medicine, watching her throat swallow, her brow ease. For the first time, the woman seemed past the sharpest edge of death.
Bi Hua lingered at her side long after the bowl was empty, then finally rose, stepping out into the courtyard.
Sunlight filtered through tree branches, dappling the ground. Birds flitted home to their nests. The town beyond stirred as if nothing had changed.
But eyes were watching.
At a teahouse on the west street, an old man sat in gray clothes and a wrinkled cap, leaning on a cane, a bamboo flask at his hip. He looked ordinary, unremarkable.
Another man soon arrived, ordering tea before taking a seat across from him. Straw hat, muddied pants, like any farmer from the fields.
"The two targets haven't changed," the old man murmured, staring into his tea. "The boy's still training and writing. The woman shops for rice and oil. The other one—she went out yesterday."
The straw-hatted man wiped sweat from his square face, his stubble bristling.
"She came back this morning. Her qi's unstable—maybe injured. Lord Xuanhu doesn't see her as a target, so we don't know what she was up to."
He drank and grumbled, "Tell me, Old Lü, we're the Six Inner Attendants of Qingzhou. How'd we end up babysitting like dogs? What's the point?"
The gray old man slammed the table, rising.
"Do your duty. Stop asking questions."
Night fell.
The little courtyard was lit by lamplight.
All day long, Bi Hua and Layne had hardly left Qingshui's side—feeding her, tending wounds, guiding her qi. Only now, with her breath even, did they finally realize they hadn't eaten. They snatched a quick meal, then Layne hurried back to resume his "treatment."
Bi Hua washed dishes, her mind spinning.
There was no doubt—Qingshui was gravely wounded. And somewhere nearby lurked foes far stronger than her. Were they after her and Layne, or after Qingshui alone? She could not know.
But she did know this: whatever Qingshui's true identity, their fates were already bound together.