Jian finally regained a bit of energy. The pain had dulled to a heavy throb, and the golden blood that had once poured down his skin now merely shimmered faintly along the edges of his healing wounds.
His head was pressed against the cool surface of the café table when a familiar scent—a mix of herbal balm and old wool—wafted toward him.
He slowly lifted his head.
"Grandpa…" he whispered, his voice raspy and strained.
The old man was already by his side, his wrinkled hand reaching out with trembling fingers to cup Jian's face. "you look sick …" he murmured, his voice cracked with emotion. "What happened to you?"
Jian could only shake his head weakly as tears gathered in his lashes.
He leaned into the familiar hand like a child. "Let's go, Grandpa. We can't stay close to the city. We need to go somewhere secluded—it's too dangerous here," he said hurriedly, voice shaking.
