Li Wuxin, head lowered, his hair scattered around his face, lacked the strength to lift his eyes. The pain nearly made it impossible to breathe. His muscles were on fire, his body bloodied.

A sharp noise, like a door being thrown open. Then, a figure appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were firm, resolute. She advanced without hesitation, and with a precise strike of her blade, she cut the chains, freeing his wrists from their metal grasp.

He didn't even glance at Lan Boxiao.

She didn't try to stop him. She didn't even have time to speak. Maybe she knew it wouldn't help. Maybe she knew, like he did, that he was already gone, even before he moved.

Li Wuxin ran. He didn't stop, didn't slow down. His bare feet slapped the cold, damp stone, treacherous underfoot, slippery as soap. The muscles in his legs screamed, every fiber of his body urging him to succumb to the pain, but he didn't flinch. He focused on every step, every short breath, the torches flickering behind him like dancing ghosts.

He raced down the dark corridor, where the darkness seemed to swallow his entire being, until he reached the basin. The water was dark, as black as a silent mouth, waiting for him. The basin where they had left Xu Moyao for dead, abandoned.

And yet, Li Wuxin, with fierce determination, didn't stop. The water was still black. Still motionless. Like a closed mouth holding a secret.

He plunged into it.

The cold was instant. A brutal shock, electric, that lacerated his skin and sank to his bones. But that pain was pale compared to the panic tearing at his chest. The water closed over him like the lid of a coffin. Blind, out of breath, he swam, his heart pounding like a frenzied war drum.

His fingers brushed fabric. Then flesh.

Xu Moyao.

Wuxin grabbed him, wrapped his arms around him with all his strength, and kicked toward the surface. The weight of the limp body pulled him down, but he fought. He gritted his teeth, ignored the burning in his lungs, the cold gnawing at his energy. They surfaced with a ragged gasp.

Xu Moyao was heavy, completely limp, soaked to the bone, like a corpse. His head lolled back, blood still stuck to his temples, his mouth ajar, but silent.

No breath.

No.

No, no, no.

Li Wuxin dragged him out of the water, half lifting, half dragging him to the stone edge. His arms trembled with exhaustion. He fell to his knees, slipped on the wet surface, and rolled Xu Moyao onto his back. The water spread around them, a dark mirror stained with red. Xu Moyao's chest wasn't moving.

One moment of hesitation.

Then Li Wuxin reacted.

His palms pressed against Xu's chest. He started the compressions. One. Two. Three. The rhythm was brutal, mechanical, without tenderness. Each press was a battle against death. His jaw was clenched, his arms burning, his muscles sore, but he didn't stop.

He tilted Xu Moyao's head back and pressed his lips to Xu Moyao's. He blew into those cold lungs, once. Twice. Then resumed the compressions. A rhythm emerged. Born of fear, instinct, love. There was no room for shame. No words. Just the water, the blood, the metallic smell of iron.

Just as everything seemed lost, the silence was torn apart by the rush of a breath.

Xu Moyao arched beneath him, coughing violently. Black water poured from his throat. His body shook, spasming, caught in convulsions. His fingers twitched, gripping the hand Li Wuxin offered him.

Wuxin felt his knees give way. The wave of relief nearly made him collapse. Xu Moyao was breathing. Barely. His skin was cold, his pulse fragile under Wuxin's fingers.

Something was wrong.

He knew it. He had felt it from the moment of contact in the water. A broken rib. A strange, painful pressure. He had seen it before. Too many times. He knew this slow, insidious progression. The wound hadn't punctured the lung yet. But it would. And then Xu would drown from the inside.

He had to operate.

Now.

Wuxin looked around. No equipment. No light, except for the flickering torches down the corridor.

A slight movement, and the light slid across the blade, hidden in the thick of his hair. By chance, the soldiers hadn't noticed the metallic gleam. Otherwise... he didn't dare imagine what might have happened.

Lan Boxiao knelt beside him for a moment, her gaze evasive. She didn't speak at first. Her eyes flicked briefly to Xu Moyao's pale face, then to Li Wuxin's trembling hands. One breath. Barely a whisper, just enough for him to hear.

"I'll cover your back. Do what you have to do."

And without another word, she rose. Her shadow faded into the corridor, silent and tense, blade drawn, every step a promise that no obstacle would reach them. Li Wuxin had trembling hands. He was cold to the bone. His body screamed for him to give up. But his mind didn't bend.

With a quick motion, Li Wuxin drew the blade and cut the top of Xu Moyao's clothing, letting the pieces scatter like debris.

He placed one hand on Xu's chest. The other brushed his ribs.

"Listen, because I won't repeat myself, I'm a doctor," he whispered.

His gaze met Xu Moyao's. Blurred. Broken. But still there.

"But facing you... I'm just a man. A man willing to damn himself to save you."

Silence. Xu didn't respond. He couldn't.

Wuxin got to work.

He tore off a sleeve from his own shirt, made strips, tourniquets, makeshift bandages.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

And he cut.

Xu Moyao's body jolted, a brief, almost imperceptible shudder, as if even the pain cost him too much energy. A silent vibration rippled through his muscles, a reflection of what he was enduring without a scream. He no longer had the strength. Not even the strength to scream.

The blade descended, without hesitation but not without pain. A fine red line at first, a silent promise, then deeper, unrelenting. It sliced through flesh and muscle with fierce precision, and every inch taken from the silence echoed in Li Wuxin's nerves.

Blood spurted, hot, thick, a dark red almost black in the flickering torchlight. It splashed across Li Wuxin's fingers, ran down his wrists. He immediately pressed down, without hesitation, trying to stem the bleeding, trying to regain control. But nothing truly stopped it.

His movements remained sure, methodical, but his face betrayed what he didn't say: urgency. The shadow of fear. A terrible, repressed worry marked his features, hollowing his cheeks, freezing his gaze.

He worked quickly. Too quickly. But he had no choice. Every second mattered. Every drop of blood taken from Xu Moyao's body pulled him further from life. Yet, his hands, stained with red, didn't tremble. Not yet.

Because he knew he couldn't fail. He found the broken rib. His palm pressed against Xu Moyao's ribcage, fingers searching, precise despite the tremors. He inhaled, but the air only added to the dizziness. So slowly, he inserted his fingers. The flesh was warm, alive, but the blood made everything slippery.

Xu Moyao groaned. A broken sound, barely audible, but it split the air like a blade. A strangled complaint, painful, that wrapped around Wuxin's heart like a chain. He froze. Just for a moment. His hands suspended above the wound, his eyes wide, breath caught.

Tears rolled down his face, unnoticed, tracing invisible paths in the dirt and blood on his cheeks. Not tears of weakness. Tears of rage, of guilt.

But he didn't stop. He couldn't.

His fingers sank in again. He felt the displaced bone, uneven, threatening to pierce the lung at any moment. His teeth clenched until they almost cracked, he gently moved the fragment, millimeter by millimeter, his hands red to the wrists. The torn fabric around him soaked in blood. His forehead was on fire. His heart beat so hard he felt it in his temples.

Every second was an eternity. But he succeeded. He managed to shift the bone fragment, to move it. His breath ragged, arms trembling.

The blood still flowed. But less. His breath, weak. But stable.

Wuxin packed the wound with pieces of fabric, pressed them, tightened them. Then he finally pulled back. Exhausted. His face was pale. His arms covered in blood. He trembled everywhere.

But Xu Moyao was breathing.

Not strong. Not well. But he was breathing.

"Stay with me," Wuxin whispered, leaning over him. "Stay awake... You don't have the right to leave now."

Tears streamed freely from Li Wuxin's eyes, no longer making an effort to hold them back.

Xu Moyao's eyes moved. They barely blinked. But it was enough.

Wuxin collapsed to the ground, letting his head fall against Xu Moyao's shoulder, breath shallow.

He had done what he could.

Now, Xu Moyao had to survive, to fight.

Deep inside, Li Wuxin trusted him. He knew he would fight.

And he would stay there. As long as it took. The darkness around them no longer mattered. The cold, the pain, the fatigue.

For him.

He stayed there for a moment, frozen, his forehead against Xu Moyao's cold skin, listening to the faint beats of his heart. He felt the fragile, tenuous life beneath his fingers. Each breath Xu Moyao took was a victory snatched from death. Each beat a proof that it wasn't too late.

And yet, something inside him faltered.

He had nearly lost him.

For good.

Li Wuxin clenched his fists, his nails digging into his own palm.

His eyes, burning, fixed on Xu Moyao's face.

He leaned in, speaking softly, barely a breath.

"You know," he whispered, "I've never feared death. I've always thought that as long as I could save a life... it was worth everything else."

He closed his eyes for a moment.

"But you... You, Xu Moyao, are ruining everything."

His fingers brushed the strands of hair stuck to the other man's forehead.

"When I saw you underwater, so cold, so... silent, I thought, if you die, then I don't care about anything else, I would have gone through hell to bring you back."

He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek. The taste of iron on his tongue.

He laughed, a dry, bitter sound.

His throat tightened. His voice became rough.

"The truth is, I'm more afraid of losing you than of dying. And I don't even know what that means. Not really. I don't want to know. I just want you to stay."

A silence.

A beat.

He lifted his gaze. Xu Moayo's eyelids trembled faintly. He wasn't sure if he had heard. Maybe. Maybe not.

And maybe it was better that way.

Li Wuxin leaned in again, closer. His hand found Xu Moyao's, cold. He took it in his own, entwining his fingers, stained with red.

Then, suddenly, the last two hours no longer mattered.

Everything he had lived, every blow, every pain, seemed to fade away under the touch of Xu Moyao's fingers. The cold chains around his wrists. The burn of the blows. The hours of suffering and silence. All of it dissipated like a bad dream. In this moment, what mattered was the fragile life under his hands. Everything he had endured was nothing but background noise.

He closed his eyes for a moment, his breath softening as he felt Xu Moyao's warmth, even faintly.

Two hours earlier...

The cold chains, tight around Li Wuxin's wrists. His arms were stretched, every muscle pulled to the maximum, until he felt his tendons scream in pain. He no longer had the strength to stand, but he couldn't give in. Every breath was difficult, every movement caused sharp pain in his joints. The stone against his skin was as cold, as hard as a punishment.

The air in the cell was thick, clammy, heavy with the stench of blood and sweat. A soldier approached, a cruel sneer on his face. He grabbed the metal chain stretched around Li Wuxin's wrists and yanked it sharply. Pain shot through his body like lightning, his wrists feeling ready to snap under the pressure. Li Wuxin clenched his teeth to stifle a cry. He wouldn't scream. Not now.

Another man stepped forward, a knife in his hands. He pressed it against Li Wuxin's skin, and in one brutal movement, the blade tore through his coat, drawing a line of blood across his chest. The pain spread through him, a deep burn, but he forced himself to show nothing. No flinch, no cry. Only a relentless focus on the moment, on the silence of his mind in the face of suffering.

Each movement of the soldiers was designed to break him, to force him to confess what they wanted, to beg. But Li Wuxin didn't give in. He gritted his teeth and focused on one thing: not breaking. He let the pain pass through him, ignoring the tears that beaded in the corners of his eyes. Not now. Not here.

Hours passed, the blows, the wounds, but each second he repeated to himself that he wouldn't break. His wrists burned, his arms trembled, but he kept his calm. He knew he would make it. He would resist. Pain was just a passage, an obstacle. He just had to hold on.

Li Wuxin leaned in again, gripping Xu Moyao's hand tighter. There was no more pain, no more chains, no more blood. There was only this faint breath, still alive. And in this simple contact, he knew that everything he had endured up until that moment was nothing but wind.

Xu Moyao lived. He was there, with him, and that was enough.

It wasn't a confession.

But it was almost.