He didn’t know how long it had been.

When Xu Moyao opened his eyes, the light was soft. The smells that hit him were strange and unsettling: medicinal herbs, damp cloth, and something unfamiliar—a sweet, earthy incense. His first instinct was to push himself upright, but the moment he tried, a searing pain shot through his side. He bit back a curse, his chest tightening as the wound seemed to pulse with the movement. His body felt like a foreign entity, sluggish and uncooperative, as though it had betrayed him.

"Don’t move, my general," came a calm voice, one that didn’t quite belong to his world. "You’ll tear the stitches."

Xu Moyao’s eyes flickered toward the source of the voice, struggling to focus through the haze of exhaustion and pain. A figure stood near the bed, half-concealed behind a curtain. The man wasn’t in uniform, not one of his own soldiers. The fabrics of the tent were different, the banners he could just make out, too. Wrong colors. His mind spun. Wrong camp. Wrong side of the war.

Panic didn’t come in waves. It was more like a sudden drop into cold water—total and suffocating. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, his throat tight. His pulse pounded in his ears. Captured. The word echoed, but it was hollow, a cruel irony. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or dread that filled him—he wasn’t dead yet.

Not yet.

Slowly, he reached toward his side, expecting to feel the reassuring weight of his rank badge tucked beneath his sash, the symbol of his power, his identity. But there was nothing—only rough, unfamiliar bandages. His uniform was gone, his insignia stripped away. His sense of self had been discarded like the clothes he'd worn. His rank, his title—none of it mattered now. His name was nowhere to be found. His wounds had been tended to, but he had become just another injured man in a foreign camp, a mere casualty, another forgotten soldier.

For the first time in years, Xu Moyao was alone.

His hand trembled as he withdrew it from his side, trying to ignore the pain radiating from the deep gash. The silence of the tent felt suffocating now. He had always been the one to command, to be in control of the battlefield, but now he was powerless. He could do nothing but lie there.

His mind raced. How had he been captured? He tried to piece together the events that had led to this moment. The last thing he remembered was the battle—a haze of smoke, the sound of arrows piercing through the air, the scent of blood. But after that, it was all fragments. He could feel the roughness of his captors’ hands dragging him away, the pain of his injuries, but the details were lost to the fog of his fevered mind.

His gaze shifted back to the figure beside him. He could barely make out the shape of the man now standing over him. The stranger’s face was partially hidden behind a curtain, but the eyes were visible—emerald green, sharp and unwavering. They seemed to pierce through the haze surrounding him, locking onto his own with unsettling familiarity. The softness in those eyes, the calmness in the stranger’s posture, something tugged at him. Who is this? It wasn’t just the face that felt familiar. There was something in the way the man moved, the way he interacted with Xu Moyao, as if there was an unspoken understanding between them. It unsettled him.

Xu Moyao’s heart raced. He didn’t trust it. No one here is my ally.

The voice broke through his thoughts again, soothing yet firm. “You’ll reopen your wound if you keep struggling.”

Xu Moyao turned his head, his body aching as he did. He refused to meet the stranger’s gaze for long. Something about it unsettled him, like a shadow from his past that refused to be banished. A trick of the fever, surely. He dismissed the thought, trying to breathe through the tension in his chest. He had seen the stranger's face before—he was certain of it. Or at least, he thought he had. But where?

This is madness, Xu Moyao thought, his grip on reality slipping further with each passing moment. It doesn’t make sense.

“You’ll reopen your wound,” the voice repeated.

The words seemed to reach him from far away, but they penetrated the disjointed haze in his mind. It wasn’t a threat—it was a simple statement of fact. A reminder of how weak and vulnerable he was. For the first time in years, Xu Moyao was nothing more than a body, fragile and frail, a body on the verge of collapse. He could barely hold onto consciousness as his body trembled with exhaustion and the rising fever.

Don’t trust him, Xu Moyao thought fiercely,

The words seemed to reach him from far away, but they penetrated the disjointed haze in his mind. It wasn’t a threat—it was a simple statement of fact. A reminder of how weak and vulnerable he was. For the first time in years, Xu Moyao was nothing more than a body, fragile and frail, a body on the verge of collapse. He could barely hold onto consciousness as his body trembled with exhaustion and the rising fever. " Did you not hear me, you idiot? " The face, before half-hidden behind a curtain, was now right in front of him, pressing his hand against his chest wide open, the pressure gentle yet firm, forcing him to lie down. Xu Moyao stood frozen, his breath short. His gaze finally landed on the face of the one who had pushed him back onto the cot. He had seen this face before.

Or at least, he thought he had. Emerald-green eyes, yet... a softness he couldn't ignore. A familiar glint, something in the way this person stood, or how they slightly lowered their gaze when speaking. "Am I disturbing you?" The doctor’s voice had shifted again, softening as he cupped Xu Moyao's chin with an unexpected gentleness. His fingers were warm, and for a moment, Xu Moyao felt his entire body tense, reacting to the closeness. He didn’t want it. He didn’t need the comfort, the softness.But the stranger—this enemy doctor—seemed to sense something in him, some faint flicker of resistance, and he didn’t pull away. Instead, the doctor tilted his head, examining him with a cool, professional gaze. There was something in those eyes, something knowing. Why are you doing this? Xu Moyao’s mind screamed, but the words didn’t leave his throat.

The doctor didn’t answer him, of course. Instead, he went back to his work, silently but resolutely tending to the general’s wounds.

Xu Moyao closed his eyes and tried to drift off into a restless sleep, his body aching for rest, but the questions churned in his mind. Who was this person? And why did he feel… familiar? A shadow of a memory lingered in his consciousness, something he could almost grasp, but it was lost each time he tried to reach for it. Every time he thought he could understand it, the answer slipped away, like water running through his fingers.

As the hours dragged on, the pain worsened, and Xu Moyao was left alone with his thoughts. Was he really being treated out of duty? The general had always believed that compassion was a weakness. It was the enemy’s weakness. But now, lying in the foreign tent, with his body failing him and his identity stolen, compassion felt like an impossibility. His mind wrestled with the image of the doctor’s face, those soft eyes that refused to betray the man’s thoughts.