"Who are you…?"
Lin Huang didn't ask where he was, nor how he got there.
Those three words carried a weight that could crush silence — filled with disbelief, pain, and a fragile hope that refused to die.
Wang Chen, who had been smiling faintly, froze for a heartbeat. The sheer intensity behind the question clawed into his mind, stripping away his calm. In that trembling voice, he could hear gratitude, the raw relief of still being alive — and something else.
Emptiness.
It wasn't the emptiness of despair, but of someone whose entire world had been hollowed out.
Though emotion rippled through him, Wang Chen's face remained still — calm as water. With the ease of a man who had seen too much, he flicked his wrist and tossed a small glass bottle toward Lin Huang.
"Here," he said flatly. "Take this pill first. Ask questions after you've recovered."
Without waiting for a response, he turned his back, walking deeper into the dojo until he reached a quiet corner. There he sat, legs crossed, eyes half-lidded — the picture of meditation.
"This…"
Lin Huang stared blankly at the bottle in his hand, then at Wang Chen's unmoving back. His pride screamed to throw it away and leave immediately. After all, a man who had lost everything still had his dignity.
But before he could even move, pain exploded through his body.
It wasn't a wound — it was agony that lived in his bones, like a thousand molten needles crawling under his skin. His spine twisted as if it were on fire, breath catching in his throat until even the air felt poisonous.
He collapsed, clutching his chest. His vision dimmed at the edges, pulsing with spots of red and black.
His body was ruined — he could tell. The fact that he had survived after having his innate sword bone torn out was nothing short of a miracle.
And then, through the haze of pain, he heard it.
A voice.
Soft. Gentle. Cruelly familiar.
Is that it? Just one setback, and you break already, little son?
The sound struck his soul like thunder. For a heartbeat, the world around him vanished — replaced by the faint image of a woman. Her outline glowed faintly, her eyes pools of sorrow. Her voice carried both warmth and quiet disappointment, the kind that could peel open old wounds without trying.
Lin Huang's breath hitched.
His trembling fist clenched tight enough to draw blood.
"No," he whispered through gritted teeth. "Mother didn't raise a disappointment."
He tried to stand — and failed. His body collapsed under its own weight.
He tried again.
And again.
Each time he fell, the pain dug deeper, until he could no longer move. But even then, the fire in his eyes refused to die.
A single thought echoed in his skull like a war drum:
One setback isn't enough to stop me.
He was better than this. He had to be.
And more importantly, he couldn't humiliate himself in front of the man who had saved him.
His gaze drifted toward Wang Chen — the quiet young man sitting at the back, unmoving since the moment he had handed him the pill bottle. Not a single word. Not a single look.
Somehow, that indifference struck deeper than pity ever could.
Lin Huang's jaw tightened.
He was already indebted. Another debt wouldn't change anything.
With that thought, he lifted the glass bottle closer to his face. Even with the cap still sealed, he could feel the surge of vitality inside — like holding a living heart in his palm. The faint fragrance that escaped the bottle carried the essence of life itself.
Even without consuming it, his breathing eased slightly.
Lin Huang hesitated — then uncorked it and swallowed the pill.
The effect was instantaneous.
A roar of energy burst through his veins, so fierce that his entire body trembled. His heart hammered in his chest like a smith's hammer striking molten steel. His bones ached — then creaked, then reshaped themselves under the flood of energy. The pain and warmth tangled together until he couldn't tell which was which.
The Vitality Strengthening Pill lived up to its name.
Too much so.
He gasped, sweat pouring down his face, as if his fragile frame was being reforged in a furnace.
By the time it settled, he lay there panting, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Such a miraculous pill.."
It was too precious. Too powerful for someone like him.
Unbidden, a strange heaviness bloomed in his chest — the kind that came from knowing he owed more than he could ever repay.
Across the room, Wang Chen opened one eye. His lips curved — not quite a smile, but a faint ripple of satisfaction.
Patience.
The hook was already set.
---
Days passed like falling leaves inside the quiet dojo.
Morning sunlight filtered through paper windows, scattering dust like drifting stars. Each dawn, Lin Huang swept the floors, his broom whispering across the wooden planks in slow, rhythmic strokes. It almost sounded like the chant of a monk.
Wang Chen rarely spoke. He meditated beneath the hanging lanterns, his aura calm yet watchful, his eyes occasionally glancing toward the boy — just briefly — before closing again.
Outside, the city buzzed as usual, but inside the dojo, time seemed to stretch.
The Blood Fang Gang had been unusually quiet.
But Wang Chen knew silence was never peace — it was the sharp inhale before a storm.
Sooner or later, they would come.
Still, he didn't worry. Not much, anyway. He had ways to survive if the worst happened.
Meanwhile, Lin Huang's recovery astonished even him. Since the day he had swallowed the pill, his body had healed beyond reason. The burns were gone, the fractures mended, and color had returned to his once ghostly skin.
He had taken it upon himself to handle the chores — sweeping, mopping, cleaning the old shelves of the dojo's small library.
At first, Wang Chen had thought about stopping him. The daily task 'Divinity in small things' would be affected, he was worried. But he quickly realized he was wrong.
Now that Lin Huang took care of the mundane, Wang Chen's daily meditations felt lighter — smoother. The divine system recognised it as a daily task and rewarded him.
Though, admittedly, the recent rewards had been rather plain compared to the windfall of the first day.
That realization made Wang Chen's gaze drift back to Lin Huang.
The boy had healed — but not entirely.
Even without being a mind reader, Wang Chen could tell something was wrong. Lin Huang's eyes, once filled with defiance, now carried a quiet desperation.
Each night, the boy sat cross-legged under the dim glow of the lantern, trying to draw in qi that refused to answer his call.
His lips moved silently, his fingers trembling. Then came the whisper, low and hollow:
"My meridians… they're completely destroyed."
The words hung in the still air, heavy with resignation.
Behind him, Wang Chen opened one eye — just a sliver.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Good," he murmured under his breath, unheard.
Because broken men were easier to rebuild.
And Wang Chen had plans for this one.