The river slammed him against jagged rocks, its icy current roaring like thunder. Pain exploded through Lin Yan's body, yet his survival instinct refused surrender. He clawed at the water, forcing his head above the surface long enough to gasp for air, until something beneath the current snagged him—a tangled, half-submerged fishing net.
By the time he dragged himself onto the muddy bank, dawn had already burned through the mist. Rain had stopped. The reeds swayed in silence as Lin Yan collapsed among them, unconscious.
When he woke again, there was warmth.
Not feverish warmth—but the simple, forgotten kind: dry air, faint herbs, and the smell of smoke. Beneath him lay a pile of hay; a rough hemp blanket was draped over him.
He stirred, tried to rise—and a sharp, tearing pain flared from his shoulder wound. A stifled groan escaped his throat.
"Well, look who's awake."
The voice was bright, brisk—a girl's.
Lin Yan turned his head. A young woman of seventeen or eighteen sat nearby on a low stool, grinding herbs with a stone pestle. She was dressed in coarse blue linen, her skin sun-tanned, her eyes clear and bright as mountain streams. She regarded him curiously, half-smiling, half-wary.
The hut was small—mud walls, a thatched roof, a few jars and baskets piled in the corners.
"Who… are you? Where am I?"
His voice rasped like sandpaper. Instinctively, he checked his chest: the jade pendant, iron token, and black key were still there. Relief loosened his breath—but not his guard.
"This is Wuming Ji—the Nameless Market."
"Found you stuck in an old fishing net when I was hauling driftwood. You were half-dead."
She stood, tall for her age, moving with the ease of someone used to hard work. Kneeling beside him, she peeled back his bandage without hesitation.
"You're lucky," she said matter-of-factly. "That wound was starting to fester, but I cleaned it. You'll live."
Her hands were deft, confident—too confident for a simple village girl.
Wuming Ji? Lin Yan searched his memory; no such place appeared on any map. Likely a small, hidden settlement deep in these mountains.
"Thank you," he murmured, still studying her. A polished stick leaned against the wall, beside a short, recurved bow—both well-used. Whoever this girl was, she could fight.
"Name's A Jin," she said, brushing herb dust from her palms. "You don't look like a lost hunter. What trouble did you stir up—'mountain wind' or 'ghosts'?"
Lin Yan blinked.
Mountain wind—bandits.
Ghosts—outsiders, killers. Local slang, sharp and telling.
"Where… is Heishui Fort?" he asked instead.
The pestle stilled.
A Jin's gaze snapped up, eyes narrowing like a cat scenting danger.
"You're going there?" she said slowly, incredulously. "That's no place for tender-skinned strangers with secrets they won't tell."
"Tender-skinned." The word stung. Despite his grime, his once-scholar's complexion must have betrayed him. He improvised quickly.
"Just carrying something for someone," he said lightly.
A Jin studied him for a long moment. Her hands resumed grinding, but faster now—rhythm betraying unease.
"Heishui's a hundred li west. Bad terrain," she said at last. "Worse company. The 'winds' and the 'ghosts' both sniff around there lately—looking for something. Or someone."
Her eyes flicked toward him, pointedly.
Lin Yan's gut tightened.
So the hunt had spread westward. He was walking into their jaws.
"You'll need a few days' rest," A Jin said curtly, packing the finished paste into a wooden bowl. "Change your bandage yourself. I'm going to the market for salt."
She slung a small bundle and her hardwood staff over her shoulder, opened the door, and vanished into the daylight.
The hut fell silent.
Lin Yan forced himself upright, gritting through the pain as he replaced the poultice. The herbs cooled his skin, dulling the ache.
He looked around—the crude shelter that had plucked him from death—and wondered who exactly this mountain girl was. She'd saved him, yes, but her guarded eyes told another story. She knew the region; perhaps she knew Heishui Fort. Perhaps too much.
Friend? Or danger waiting to bloom?
And this "Nameless Market"… Was it truly just a small mountain outpost, or a den where fugitives and informants mingled unseen?
He needed to heal fast, leave before her curiosity—or anyone else's—turned to suspicion.
But before he could close his eyes to rest, voices rose outside.
Harsh, angry.
"A Jin! Don't play dumb! We heard—you dragged some stranger from the river! At a time like this, how do we know he's not one of them? Bring him out! Let the elders see what kind of ghost you've taken in!"
A Jin's voice answered, sharp, defiant—but the man's was louder, rough as gravel.
Inside the hut, Lin Yan's pulse spiked.
He reached for the dagger hidden under the blanket, eyes cold.
Trouble had found him again.