The wind whispered gently. The late afternoon light painted slow-moving shadows on the tent, long as sighs. The general lay half-conscious, his features drawn, his breathing weak but steady. His skin still burned with fever, though his wounds had begun to heal.

Li Wuxin hadn’t left the room.

Four days had passed, perhaps five. He had stopped counting. Time had blurred into the whiteness of bandages, the bitter taste of medicinal brews, and the faint, constant scent of dried blood and crushed herbs. He slept on a cushion beside the bed, never far. Not out of duty, but choice. As if his body refused to leave the side of the one it had vowed to heal.

The general was not a man easily approached. Even in sleep, his face held a quiet strength, a furrow between his brows, a trace of resistance, as if he refused to be vulnerable. And yet, lying here without armor, without his blade, he looked painfully human. And fragile.

Li Wuxin brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. He, too, had a fever. Nothing serious, he told himself. Just exhaustion. Nothing a few hours of rest wouldn’t cure. But he didn’t take that rest. Not yet.

The general’s wounds were healing well. Too well, in fact. The gash along his side had stopped bleeding by the second day. The bruises, though still dark, were no longer tender. His limbs showed no swelling, no signs of infection. And yet, he was growing weaker. The fever held fast. His strength drained little by little.

Something was wrong. Li Wuxin felt it, not in logic, but in the marrow of his bones. Years of experience had taught him to trust that instinct. The body speaks, even when the mouth is silent.

He checked the pulse again, each wrist, each moment measured. The rhythm was slow, faintly irregular. His breath shallow. A bead of sweat rolled down the general’s temple. And then, Li Wuxin saw it: a subtle violet tinge along the lips, barely there, hidden by shadow.

He froze.

This wasn’t fatigue. This wasn’t the aftermath of injury.

This was something else.

Something like poison.

Without a word, he stood and moved toward the lacquered wooden box near his satchel. Inside were small vials, paper-wrapped powders, dried roots, and narrow strips for testing. He worked quickly, taking a trace of saliva, then a sample of sweat. The rituals were old, practiced. He’d done this before.

His hands didn’t shake. His movements were calm, precise. But inside him, a slow storm was brewing. Something heavier than fear. Deeper than worry.

When the final test strip turned black, he knew.

No doubt. No hesitation.

The general had been poisoned.

Not a crude toxin. This was elegant, insidious. A poison designed not to kill outright but to weaken, slowly, silently, until the body gave up on its own. It was subtle enough to escape notice unless one knew precisely what to look for. And he hadn’t.

The realization struck with quiet force.
He had failed to see it.
He had been here the entire time, and he hadn’t seen it.

He clenched his fists until his nails dug into the skin of his palms. It wasn’t anger that rose, not yet. It was shame. And something else. Something softer, more painful. He had stayed. He had watched over him. He had cared. And still, he had missed the most important truth.

Days passed slowly, quietly, and heavily with something unspoken.

The tent remained bathed in half-light. Outside, the world went on: the guards changed shifts, the wind stirred the leaves, and news from the court arrived sealed and unanswered. But inside the tent, time stilled.

Xu Moyao lay mostly in silence. He drifted in and out of sleep, his body pulled down by exhaustion, his mind never fully present. He said little, sometimes nothing at all, except when the fever spiked and the pain came in waves. Then, only his breath changed. Quicker. Rougher.

Li Wuxin noticed every shift.

Every twitch of the brow.
Every shallow breath.
Every time his hand curled faintly against the sheets, trying, even in illness, to hide the pain.

The poison was slow to leave. It had rooted itself deep, clinging to blood and bone. The antidotes weren’t violent; they couldn’t be. Xu Moyao’s strength was already stretched thin. So Li Wuxin was careful to treat him gently.

Each day, he brewed the decoctions himself. Measured the heat. Adjusted the ingredients. Sometimes, he stayed up through the night, cross-checking pulse charts and toxin responses, eyes bloodshot, but still precise.

He fed him by hand when Xu Moyao was too weak to lift a spoon.
Changed his robes when the fever broke and drenched him in sweat.
Rewrote prescriptions after every new reaction.

And yet, no matter how exhausted he became, his hands never faltered. Not once.

On the fourth morning, Xu Moyao opened his eyes for longer than a few moments. He turned his head — slow, heavy — and looked at the man sitting beside his bed, poring over pages of notes lit by a sliver of dawn.

“I’m starting to think you want to kill me...”

“If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t need poison,” Li Wuxin replied calmly, a playful glint in his voice. “A simple slip-up would suffice.”

Xu Moyao groaned, rolling his eyes, before slowly sitting up, leaning against the mattress.

“I feel drained, even with all the sleep I’ve been getting... but somehow, you look worse than me.” He muttered.

Li Wuxin moved closer with the cup, a smirk on his lips.

“I hope you remember, it’s your fault I can’t get any sleep. But I think you should drink this first. No arguments.”

Xu Moyao raised his hands in surrender, though his expression suggested he was still far from pleased with the situation. He took the cup, eyed it for a moment with apparent distaste, then decided to down it in one gulp.

A silence fell, but it no longer felt heavy.

The general coughed after swallowing the medicine, looking dramatically shocked.

“Impossible,” he said, his voice exaggerated. “I’d forgotten just how... exquisite your potion is. I think I’ll survive this only thanks to your great kindness.”

Li Wuxin merely smiled. He was so tired that he didn’t even have the strength.

“Don’t worry, your taste hasn’t improved with the fever.”

Xu Moyao stared at him for a moment, his eyes regaining their usual sharpness. Then he let himself fall back into the pillows, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

“But seriously,” he said finally, his tone gentler, “How are you doing?”

Li Wuxin seemed momentarily surprised by the question, before straightening up and adopting a more serious tone.

“Me? I’ve just got a lot of work to do. But it seems I haven’t had enough sleep yet, so you’ll have to wait until I’m half-crazy before I start forgetting the proper doses.”

Xu Moyao let out a soft laugh, though it was faint and tired.

He stared at Li Wuxin for a moment, his gaze warmer than he’d admit. “Thanks. I never thought you’d be able to put up with me for this long.”

Li Wuxin, usually calm, lowered his eyes slightly. In this moment, he couldn’t help but wonder: what kind of man was he?

He wasn’t just any soldier, not someone who simply followed orders. Xu Moyao seemed to have something more. Something that made him worthy of the unwavering loyalty of his men. He must inspire an unshakable trust.

Li Wuxin found himself lost in thought for a moment, watching the general’s figure, which looked almost fragile in his current state of weakness. He couldn’t help but wonder how a man like Xu Moyao managed to maintain such an aura of strength and control.

It was almost fascinating. Even in weakness, there was that presence. That quiet strength, even when he wasn’t on the battlefield.

Li Wuxin shook his head slightly, as if trying to dismiss these thoughts. But a small part of him couldn’t help but think that this man was more complex than he appeared. With a nearly imperceptible smile, he simply replied:

“It’s nothing. Rest now. And I’ll stay a little bit more.”

“You should try to sleep a bit longer this time,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “And maybe this time, I won’t have to wake you up to take your medicine.”

Xu Moyao slowly turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto him. A faint smile tugged at his tired lips, barely noticeable, but enough for Li Wuxin to catch.

“I’d rather stay awake a little longer.”

Li Wuxin shrugged, amused.

“I wasn’t asking.”

He let the silence settle again, but this time, it wasn’t as heavy. The general settled back against the pillows, his eyes slowly closing. Li Wuxin silently continued to watch over him. In that moment, he was just a man who needed rest.

The physician stood up and moved toward the small table where the herbs he had prepared for the general were laid out, his eyes falling on the pouches. He began sorting through a few of them, his mind still a little distant.

A few hours passed in the relative quiet of the room. The physician continued to work in silence, his movements precise and methodical, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He knew that the general would wake up sooner or later, that the temporary peace offered by sleep would be short-lived.

The physician got up to check the preparations once more, adjusting doses and remedies, ensuring everything was ready for the next stage. He cast a quick glance at Xu Moyao, who was still asleep.

Suddenly, a movement caught his attention. The general began to stir slightly, his fingers curling over the covers. The physician approached quietly, ready to intervene if necessary, but he waited.

The general’s eyes opened. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then slowly turned his head toward the physician, his eyes tired.

Xu Moyao took a deep breath and murmured in a voice still marked by sleep:

“You really can’t leave a patient alone, can you?”

The physician smiled faintly, his tone a bit lighter than before.

“I’m just doing my job, my general.”

Xu Moyao raised an eyebrow, as if to respond to the jest, but his strength hadn’t fully returned. He slowly propped himself up, supported by the pillows behind him, stealing a quick glance at his physician.

“How long was I out this time?”

The physician didn’t look up immediately, still organizing the sachets on the table. “Long enough for me to consider declaring you officially boring.”

Xu huffed, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. “I see.”

Li Wuxin finally turned, arms crossed. “You were lucky. If the poison had settled any deeper, I’m not sure we’d be having this delightful exchange.”

Xu Moyao’s smile faded just a little, replaced by a flicker of awareness. He lowered his gaze for a moment, then looked back at the other man.

“You’ve been watching over me this whole time?”

A small shrug. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid in your sleep.”

Li Wuxin turned his back to the bed, pretending to busy himself with the herbs again. But he could feel Xu Moyao’s gaze on him — quiet, steady, not demanding, just... present.

“You’re not going to ask how I feel?” the general murmured, voice still a little hoarse.

Li Wuxin didn’t answer right away. He ground a few leaves with practiced movements, poured hot water into a cup.

“I already know how you feel,” he finally said. “Worn out, grumpy, and impossible to deal with—so yes, you’re fine.”

Xu Moyao let out a dry breath that might have been a laugh.

He brought the cup over, Xu Moyao didn’t take it immediately. Instead, his fingers brushed lightly against the physician’s as he accepted it, not on purpose, perhaps, but not completely accidental either.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, just full.

“Did you sleep?” Xu asked suddenly, eyes narrowing slightly.

Li Wuxin blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Not really.”

“Not really surprising,” the general muttered. “You look worse than me.”

Li Wuxin snorted softly and sat back in his chair. “If I do, it’s only because I’m not the one passed out for three days straight.”

Xu took a sip from the cup, grimaced. “Still terrible.”

“Still keeping you alive.”

They exchanged a look, tired, steady, not speaking, just understanding.