Xu Moyao — the name etched into the surface of his insignia plate.

General of the Northern army. Some called him righteous, others fair. His amber eyes held a fire that made people follow without question. He looked carved from war — a man the wind itself might obey.

He wasn’t a jewel to be admired, but a flame. Beautiful, but burning.

Their loyalty wasn’t commanded. It was earned.

The sun had barely risen when the scouts returned, faces grim, tunics stained with blood.

“They’re coming,” one said, breathless. “From the north and the east. Two full units, maybe more.”

Xu Moyao didn’t flinch.

He stood tall atop the ridge, his silhouette sharp against the pale morning sky. The wind tugged at his cloak, heavy with dust and ash. Around him, the camp stirred—tired men, bruised and sleepless, now forced to ready themselves once more.

They had fought hard the night before. Won a narrow ground.

He had believed they would have a day to regroup.

He had been wrong.

“Controlled retreat,” he ordered, his voice calm despite the storm breaking in his mind.

Within moments, the camp moved like clockwork: shields lifted, boots stomped into position, war horns echoed across the hills. Soldiers fell into formation, faces drawn with exhaustion, but all eyes turned to one man.

Xu Moyao.

He had their trust. He always had.

He was not a leader born of titles. He was a commander of sweat and blood—of men who had seen him fight beside them, not from the safety of a tent. And that trust, hard-earned and unshaken, was why they moved now. Not with panic. With resolve.

“Archers on the left flank. Cavalry in reserve. Infantry, hold formation. If they want to crush us, they’ll find our bones harder than stone.”

The enemy came swiftly and silently, like wolves over snow.

First the arrows, then the footmen. The sky darkened under the storm of projectiles, and screams tore the air as the first line collapsed.

“They’ve surrounded us!” cried a soldier, desperation bleeding into his voice.

Xu Moyao’s jaw tensed. His eyes flicked toward the treeline. Their only escape lay west—thick forest, treacherous terrain. But it was a chance.

“We break the encirclement. Form a wedge. Push through the western side. I’ll cover the rear.”

“Commander—”

“That’s an order!”

The clash of steel roared once more. The wedge formation plunged into the enemy ranks, and for a moment, it worked—the sheer force of discipline and desperation split the line. Xu Moyao fought like a ghost of war: swift, brutal. Every movement precise. Every strike deliberate.

His men pushed forward. They ran.

But Xu Moyao lingered.

He was always the last to turn. His sword dripped red, his chest heaving. Just as he moved to follow—

An arrow found him.

He felt the impact more than the pain at first: a dull, heavy punch to the shoulder that spun him half-around. Then the second hit—lower, deeper, slicing into his side.

He staggered.

The forest swam around him, colors bleeding together. Voices became muffled. Still, he moved—one foot, then another—until even that became too much.

“Commander!”

He tried to lift his head. Saw the blurry shape of a soldier turning back.

“No,” he rasped. “Keep going.”

Blood poured down his side, warm and relentless. The strength left him like water through a sieve.

He fell.

The world didn’t end. It only narrowed—to the sound of his breath, ragged and shallow.

To the pounding of his heart, as darkness rolled in like stormclouds.

A soldier moved cautiously between the bodies, sword still in hand, senses on high alert. He hadn’t expected to find a survivor.

The body collapsed on the ground wore the unmistakable uniform of the enemy. The soldier froze. For a moment, he considered walking away. It was safer. Logical.

But the body was still breathing.

He glanced around. No witnesses. He crouched down, gently brushed the sweat-soaked hair from the unconscious man’s forehead, and examined the wounds. Not fatal.

He straightened, hesitated one last time… then slid his shoulder under the injured man’s arm and lifted him with a grunt. He staggered under the weight but held firm.

At the forest’s edge, he paused, panting. His camp lay close. He would have to get past the guards. Explain. Find the right words. Risk the wrong looks.

But he kept walking.

“He needs a doctor,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Not a judgment.”

Without another word, he entered the camp—an enemy general on his back, the sentries’ eyes already turning toward him.

Li Wuxin, clad in a physician’s robe, stood nearby, arms crossed, dark green eyes unreadable. He observed the soldier with a calm, clinical gaze—a look that assessed, judged, and understood, all in one breath.

“What are you doing here?” Li Wuxin asked. His voice was even, but laced with a barely veiled edge. “You know Northern soldiers are not welcome in this camp.”

The soldier, nearly out of strength, answered, “He... he’s gravely wounded. You have to help him.”

Li Wuxin raised an eyebrow. He bore no hatred for the Northern men. No, what he felt was colder: distance. He had witnessed the suffering both nations had inflicted on each other. He treated men, yes—but this man was an enemy. Judging by the armor, he was even their general.

Yet the soul of a physician, what Li Wuxin was before all else, could not turn away from suffering. And here, Xu Moyao—this man shaped by war—lay like any other victim, in pain and dying. A man was a man. Politics dissolved before blood and breath.

Li Wuxin looked down at Xu Moyao. The wounds were brutal. The arrow to his side was buried deep—armor had done nothing. The one in his shoulder was shallower but still dangerous. Blood poured from both, pooling on the ground. Xu Moyao’s breathing was uneven—each breath a fight of its own.

Li Wuxin turned back to the soldier, who waited in silence.

He knew he could save him—but at what cost? This man had likely killed their own, without hesitation. Would healing him change anything? Would it end the war? No. One man more or less would not tip the scales. And yet...

Li Wuxin closed his eyes. He was not a general. He was not here to make statements. He was a healer. And a healer does not let life slip away without a fight.

He nodded, and with the soldier’s help, carried Xu Moyao into the tent. The unconscious general wore an expression etched in pain—but also a certain dignity, even in pallor. He wasn’t just a commander. He was someone others had followed into fire. And Li Wuxin, despite himself, felt a pang of respect. Perhaps even understanding.

“I’ll treat you, General,” he said at last, resignation in his voice.

He leaned over the man and began cleaning the wounds, hands practiced, precise. But even as he worked, the moral tension gnawed at him. He knew: saving a life didn’t mean endorsing a cause. It meant recognizing the simple, unbearable truth—someone was dying, and he could help.

“Make no mistake,” Li Wuxin muttered as he worked, “I’m not saving you for the glory of the North. I’m saving you because it is my duty. Nothing more.”

His words lingered in the stillness of the tent—a raw, unadorned truth. He was no hero. No traitor. Just a man who chose to save another.

And in that silence, heavy with meaning, Li Wuxin knew: his decision wasn’t political.

It was human.