The man was burning up. Song Lian knelt beside his unconscious form, frowning as her gloved hand pressed against his sweat-soaked forehead. His skin was hot to the touch feverish, flushed, and clammy. A cut on his left shoulder was still bleeding through the shredded robe, and shallow scrapes covered his hands and legs.
She examined the embroidery on his ruined clothing once more, dark crimson silk, threaded with golden clouds and five-clawed dragons. Though faded and torn, the patterns screamed imperial. Not something a peasant, bandit, or even lower-ranking noble would wear casually. That made him dangerous. And yet… dying.
"You're either very unlucky," she muttered as she rolled him onto a tarp, "or the universe has a twisted sense of humor."
She pulled out her portable field medkit from her soul-bound storage and got to work. Sterile water to clean the wounds. Antiseptic solution to prevent infection. A narrow gash along his ribs required butterfly strips to close, while the slash on his shoulder was deep enough to require stitching.
With her surgical thread and portable LED headlamp, she stitched in silence, the rhythm both methodical and comforting. He groaned once, stirring halfway through, but never fully woke.
Song Lian finished her work and bandaged the worst of his injuries. Then she moved him into the main room, closer to the heat source. She covered him with two thermal blankets and placed a rehydration IV drip into his arm secured with tape, anchored to the top beam.
Another packet of nutrient soup warmed on the induction stove nearby, the scent of ginger and rice wafting into the cold air.
She stood over him, arms crossed, studying his face.
Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. Long lashes casting shadows over pale cheeks. He would've been striking, had he not looked like he'd crawled through the underworld and back.
Who are you, stranger? She wondered. And why did you end up here?
By the next morning, the storm had passed.
Mist clung low to the forest floor, and birdsong returned in slow, tentative chirps. Song Lian sipped hot tea from a thermal cup, crouched near the door, keeping an eye on her motion sensors and listening for any sign of pursuit.
But the forest remained silent. When she returned to the main room, the man was stirring.
His eyelids fluttered. His brows knit as he shifted beneath the blanket, groaning softly. Then his eyes opened, sharp and brown like storm-darkened amber. He blinked, disoriented, then looked up at her. He tensed immediately.
"You…" His voice cracked, hoarse from thirst. "Where…?"
"You're in my home," Song Lian said evenly.
"You collapsed at my doorstep last night. You were injured and half-dead from fever. I stitched you up. You're welcome."
He stared at her, silent for a beat. Then he rasped, "You're not a villager."
"Correct," she said. "You can call me Song Lian. And you are?"
He hesitated. "Ying Zheng."
There was a flicker in his eyes, a slight shift of tension in his shoulders. A lie, perhaps. Or at least a half-truth. But she let it pass for now.
"Well, Ying Zheng," she said, turning to check the IV drip, "you're lucky I found you. You were delirious and bleeding from multiple places. I suggest you stay in bed unless you want those wounds reopening."
He watched her in silence. Then, as she turned to leave, he asked quietly, "Why did you help me?"
Song Lian paused, her hand on the doorframe.
"Because you didn't look like a threat," she said after a moment. "And I don't leave people to die."
Over the next few days, Ying Zheng recovered slowly. He said little, but observed much. He rarely asked questions, yet his eyes followed Song Lian's every move as she went about her routines—boiling herbs, drying vegetables, reinforcing the garden fence.
His gaze lingered too long on her tools, her solar lanterns, her strange kitchen devices.
He knows I'm not from here, she realized. But he said nothing. Instead, he helped where he could.
When he was strong enough to stand, he began chopping firewood and cleaning the forest path near the garden. He was skilled with his hands, quick to follow instructions, and he handled a blade with a familiarity that unsettled her.
He wasn't just some noble. He was trained. Military, perhaps. His posture, his silence, his precision all spoke of discipline honed through hardship.
Still, he never offered details. And she didn't push. Not yet. On the seventh morning, as she prepared a stew with wild mushrooms and dried meat, Ying Zheng finally broke the silence.
"You built all this yourself?"
Song Lian nodded, stirring the pot. "Piece by piece. The original structure was falling apart when I arrived. Most of what you see was added later."
"You have no servants. No protection. You live here alone, deep in the forest."
"I manage."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"I know what you are," he said finally.
Song Lian turned her head slightly. "Do you?"
"You are not of this land. Your tools, your clothes, the way you speak—it's all too foreign. Too clean. You have things no one else does. You didn't buy them. You summoned them."
Silence stretched between them like a drawn bow. Song Lian met his gaze evenly. "And if that's true?"
"Then you are a spirit. Or a sage. Or…" He hesitated. "Something else. I don't know what to call you, but I know you don't belong to this world."
She let out a slow breath."Does that scare you?"
"No." His voice was steady. "It gives me hope."
That startled her. He rose slowly to his feet, wincing slightly as he stepped forward. "I'm not just a wanderer, Miss Song. I am the Third Prince of the Yun Empire—Yun Zhen. I was exiled after being falsely accused of assassinating my father, the Emperor."
Song Lian blinked. The weight of his words settled like a stormcloud. "And you just… told me that?"
"I've watched you, Song Lian. You're not ordinary. You don't serve the empire or the court. You don't care for titles or power. And I believe fate brought me here—for a reason."
Song Lian crossed her arms. "And what exactly do you want from me?"
Yun Zhen met her gaze, steady and calm.
"A chance to live. To stay here. To help you. And… perhaps, one day, to build something greater. A place free from the rot of the empire. A haven."
She stared at him. This man, once a stranger on death's door, now looked at her with purpose. With conviction. With hope. Song Lian said nothing for a long time. Then, finally, she nodded.
"One chance," she said. "You stay, you work, and you don't bring your war to my doorstep."
A small smile touched his lips. "Understood."