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At night, Lan Feng refused to eat. He sat motionless before the fire, his knees drawn close, his head tilted slightly downward. The flickering light from the flames danced over his face, but his expression remained somber and distant. His silence worried me.
"Are you alright?" I asked, moving to sit beside him.
He didn't answer or even glance my way. His gaze remained fixed on the flames, his brows slightly furrowed, as though lost in thoughts too heavy for words.
"I already promised I wouldn't leave you, Feng'er," I said softly, leaning in just a little. My voice carried a reassurance I wasn't entirely sure I believed myself. At least not until we reach your residence, I added silently. "Do you still not believe me?"
Still, he said nothing.
I reached out and slid an arm around his shoulders, giving him a soft squeeze, hoping to anchor him back to the moment. "Say something. What's going through that head of yours?"
He exhaled at last, then shifted. Slowly, he leaned into me, resting his head against my shoulder. "Gege," he whispered, "I don't feel well."
The quiet vulnerability in his voice cut deeper than I expected. This wasn't the playful, bold Lan Feng who flirted without shame. This wasn't the boy who called me beautiful under the sun and stars. This was something quieter. Fragile.
I stroked his hair, fingers running gently through the dark strands. "Where does it hurt?"
He gave the faintest shake of his head. "It doesn't hurt. I just... don't feel well."
I forced a smile. Perhaps the events of the afternoon had shaken him more than I realized. "You're probably tired," I said soothingly. "Why don't you lie down and rest?"
"No." His response came quickly, almost desperate. "I like sitting here with Gege."
I let out a quiet sigh, continuing to run my hand through his hair. "Then close your eyes for a bit. Just rest, even if you don't sleep."
He didn't respond. But gradually, his breathing slowed. His weight sank heavier against me. When I looked down, I saw his eyes had shut. Some of the tension in his face had melted away, as if just being close to me gave him a measure of peace.
Carefully, I adjusted him and helped him lie down on the cloth we had laid out. For a while, he lay motionless, and I let myself hope it was enough—that sleep might carry the heaviness from his mind.
Then he stirred.
His brow creased. A low sound escaped his throat—a pained moan. He shifted, restless, face twisting in discomfort.
"Feng'er?" I whispered, leaning closer. "What's wrong?"
His eyes opened, but they were glazed and unfocused. "Gege..." he groaned weakly. "My head... it hurts."
My blood ran cold.
The clot.
The one I had broken apart before—had it returned?
Carefully, I slid my hand beneath his head, channeling a delicate stream of spiritual energy to probe for the lump. It didn't take long to find it.
There it was—larger than I'd hoped, though not as dire as before. Still, it pulsed with ominous pressure, a silent threat nestled deep within his skull. A time bomb.
I clenched my jaw, my thoughts racing. The only permanent solution would be an incision to extract the clot directly, but that wasn't an option. His skull hadn't fully healed yet. Attempting such a procedure now could kill him.
Lan Feng whimpered softly in his sleep, his face twisting in pain. That sound—it struck me like a blade to the chest.
I couldn't wait.
From my satchel, I drew out the Crested Sea Lily. Even in the dim firelight, its petals shimmered faintly, glowing with the last traces of its vitality. But its power was waning. The once-vibrant edges had begun to curl, the silvery veins dulling. If I delayed much longer, its restorative properties would deteriorate entirely.
This miracle would be wasted.
Baixu City was nearby. If I could just get to a pill furnace there, I could refine the lily properly and maximize its effect. But stepping into the city was suicide. Both Lan Feng and I were fugitives. Our faces were likely pinned to every gate and tavern wall. Even with cloaks or false names, it would only take one cultivator with a sharp eye and a big mouth to ruin everything.
No. It wasn't an option.
My gaze landed on the clay pot Lan Feng had made for me—his "travel cauldron." It was small, rough, uneven, and a little lopsided. Not even close to what I needed.
But it was all I had.
And somehow, that made it feel more sacred.
As soon as I fed Lan Feng a pain-numbing pill, I went straight to work.
I set the crude pot over the fire and took a steadying breath. No room for error. I crushed the lily's petals gently, releasing their faint glow, and began the refining process. My fingers moved with care, feeding the flames with pulses of spiritual energy, adjusting the heat again and again to keep it stable.
The clay pot responded slowly to temperature changes, requiring constant corrections. The herbal essence reacted sluggishly, clinging to the edges of the pot like it didn't trust the vessel.
Lan Feng moaned again, and I paused briefly to check on him. His forehead was damp with sweat, his breathing shallow, but he was stable.
I turned back to the pot and focused harder. Without the precision of a proper refining cauldron, it required constant adjustments to the flames and spiritual energy.
Minutes stretched into hours. The fire dimmed. My energy waned.
Then—at last—the liquid began to glow. A faint, pure silver light shimmered within the pot, calm and steady. The first sign of success.
It wasn't ready yet. The elixir would need time—days—to settle and cool before it could be safely administered. Until then, I'd have to manage his pain the old way.
I reached into my pouch and began preparing a poultice with crushed herbs and river mint, anything that could ease the pressure building behind his eyes and buy us a little more time.