The sound of hurried footsteps thundered up the wooden stairs, breaking the fragile calm that had settled moments before.
Zhang Lin reached the door first.
He didn't knock.
The door swung open sharply under his hand—
And the scene inside froze them all for a breath.
One of the disciples, a man in his mid-twenties, knelt beside the bed, his usually composed demeanor completely gone. His gray robe was slightly disordered, sleeves pushed back hastily, one knee pressed into the wooden floor as he leaned forward.
In his arms—
Zhang Wei.
Dazed.
Whining softly.
His body trembled faintly, like something caught between waking and a dream it could not escape. His soft purple robe had shifted loose at the shoulder, exposing pale skin marred only by the stark contrast of the roughly tied white handkerchief around his wrist.
The cloth was already stained.
Dark.
Spreading.
"Elders—"
The disciple looked up quickly, relief flashing across his face as he saw them.
Zhang Lin stepped forward immediately, his calm cracking just enough to show urgency. His dark robe swept behind him as he closed the distance, kneeling beside them without hesitation.
"Move," he said quietly.
The disciple shifted back at once.
Zhang Lin's hand came to Zhang Wei's shoulder first—not forceful, but firm enough to ground him.
"Zhang Wei."
No response.
Only a soft, uneven sound from the boy's lips, his head tilting slightly toward the voice but his eyes still unfocused, drifting.
Zhang Lin's gaze darkened.
The drug had not worn off.
Not even close.
Behind him, Zhang Lie had already moved.
He didn't go to the bed.
He went to the window.
The wooden frame creaked faintly as he pushed it open wider, his fingers tracing along the edge—then stopping.
A cut.
Clean.
Deliberate.
Not broken from within.
From outside.
His expression sharpened instantly.
"…Someone came in," he said, voice low.
The others stilled.
Zhang Lie's hand pressed against the frame, testing the loosened wood before pulling back. His jaw tightened as his eyes flicked briefly toward Zhang Wei.
A flicker of confusion crossed his face.
What is so special about him…?
That the moment they step into Qi Kingdom—hands reach for him?
It didn't make sense.
Not yet.
But it was no longer coincidence.
Behind him, the elders had already drawn their conclusions.
Elder Mi's gaze settled on the stained cloth around Zhang Wei's wrist, his brows knitting together deeply. There was no panic in his expression—but there was weight.
Recognition.
Understanding.
"Quickly," he said, voice firm, cutting through the tension. "Prepare warm water. And food."
His eyes lifted, sweeping across everyone in the room.
"No one is to step near this door without permission."
The command settled heavily.
The disciples straightened instantly, their earlier unease sharpening into discipline. The one by the door stepped out immediately to relay the order, while another moved toward the basin.
Elder Mi remained still for a moment longer.
His gaze lingered on Zhang Wei.
Then shifted—briefly—to the window.
A faint exhale left him.
This inn…
Was no longer safe.
Not for the boy.
Not for any of them.
And the most troubling part—
The people here did not fear consequence.
Status.
Power.
None of it mattered in a place like this.
His hand folded into his sleeve.
They would leave.
Soon.
But first—
The child.
—
A female disciple entered quickly, her steps careful but urgent. In her hands was a small bowl, steam rising faintly from its surface, the bitter scent of medicine filling the air.
"Senior Brother—"
Zhang Lin reached out and took it without looking away from Zhang Wei.
"Hold him," he instructed.
The male disciple shifted back in, carefully supporting Zhang Wei's shoulders, lifting him slightly. The boy's head lolled weakly, his body offering no resistance.
Zhang Lin brought the bowl closer.
"Zhang Wei," he called softly, his voice lower now.
Gentler.
"Drink."
The rim of the bowl touched his lips.
For a moment—
Nothing.
Then, slowly—
A reaction.
Zhang Wei's lips parted faintly.
His brows knit together as if the taste registered somewhere far away.
He swallowed.
Once.
Then again.
Small, uneven sips.
Most of it guided rather than taken.
Some spilled at the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin before the disciple wiped it quickly with his sleeve.
Zhang Lin remained patient.
Careful.
Until the bowl was empty.
Only then did he set it aside.
—
"Let me see."
His voice hardened slightly.
The handkerchief.
Carefully—
He reached for it.
The cloth had been tied hastily, the knot uneven, soaked through in places.
Zhang Lin's fingers moved with precision, undoing it slowly to avoid further harm.
The moment the cloth loosened—
The wound was revealed.
A sharp intake of breath came from one of the disciples.
It wasn't shallow.
Not as shallow as they had hoped.
The cut ran longer than expected, the edges uneven as if made in a moment of confusion rather than intent. Blood still welled faintly at the surface, slower now—but persistent.
Zhang Lin's expression darkened completely.
"It's deep."
His voice dropped.
Cold.
Controlled.
He looked up.
"Call the doctor. Now."
No hesitation.
One of the disciples turned and rushed out immediately, footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Behind them, Zhang Lie stepped away from the window, his gaze shifting back to the bed, his expression no longer just confused—
But grim.
Whatever this was—
It wasn't over.
Not yet.