He stood frozen in place, his fingers still clutching the hem of the robe.
His vision was pitch black. He blinked once, then twice, but there was nothing. The effects of the Focus-Stabilizing Pill had worn off. Belated awareness set in like a receding tide, leaving behind a dry, empty shore. He took a deep breath, gripped the robe tightly, and walked toward the bed from memory. When his leg bumped against the edge of the bed, he stopped and reached out to feel—she was there, still there.
“I need to bandage her first...”
He muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. Then he realized the problem: he couldn't see. Where were the bandages? The bedside table, second drawer on the left. He pulled the drawer open, felt a roll of bandages, pulled it out, and tore off a long strip. Where were the wounds? He tried hard to recall—one on her left calf, one on the middle of her right thigh, that horrific “chrysanthemum” on her back, her shoulders, her arms. He could only remember half of them before his mind went blank.
You just had to act like a gentleman. Who were you even trying to impress? he cursed himself inwardly. Great. Now you have to do this by touch.
Should he take another Focus-Stabilizing Pill? Setting aside whether his spiritual sea could handle another pill, just the cost of the ingredients alone made him hesitate—he couldn't bear to waste them. He was dirt poor right now. The Meridian-Connecting Orchid had been ruined by water, and he was still missing dozens of ingredients for the Focus-Stabilizing Pill. For the sake of money, he was perfectly willing to act like a petty scoundrel. He had always been that way.
Holding the torn bandage, his fingertips trembled slightly.
He felt for her leg. Her calf. He wrapped the bandage around it once, then twice. He tried his best to avoid touching her skin, but the bandage was too narrow, and his fingertips inevitably brushed against her during the process. So soft. So cool. So smooth. He swallowed hard, quickened his pace, pulled the bandage tight, and tied it off. His hands shook as he tied the knot, leaving it crooked. Crooked was fine, as long as it didn't come loose.
Her right leg. Her thigh. As he wrapped the bandage higher, his fingers brushed against the skin of her inner thigh. He recoiled instantly, as if shocked by electricity. He took a deep breath, then reached out again. This time, his movements were much faster, almost as if he were wrapping it with his eyes closed—though since he was already blind, it made no difference. Once finished, he tied it off. Another crooked knot.
Now for her upper body.
He felt for her waist. He guided the bandage from her side to her back. The horrific wound on her back was already covered in ointment, so the bandage had to be wrapped tightly without being too loose. Supporting her waist with one hand, he threaded the bandage underneath her with the other, his movements incredibly gentle for fear of hurting her. Her hand hung limp at her side, her fingertips icy. He felt her arm, wrapped the bandage around it once, then twice. Her shoulder. Her collarbone. He did his best to avoid the places he shouldn't touch, but with the bandage needing to go around her, his fingers inevitably brushed past them. He quickened his pace, treating it like a task that had to be finished as quickly as possible.
Half an hour later.
Jiang Ci lay on the bed, wrapped up like a mummy. The knots of the bandages were crooked and messy, tight in some places and loose in others. It looked like the work of some clumsy fool—absolutely nothing like the handiwork of a once-brilliant, dexterous genius of the Formation Dao.
He covered her with the robe and let out a long breath. He was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally.
Then, he collapsed straight onto the cold floor. What the hell is all this?
The sensations from earlier lingered in his mind. He pictured her face—the one washed clean by the rain, pale to the point of being blue, yet so beautiful it didn't seem to belong to this world.
Oh crap. His 'supreme bone' stirred, and Lu Yan quickly used his spiritual energy to suppress the physiological reaction.
Stop it. He cursed himself inwardly and began reciting the Heart-Clearing Mantra. He recited it once—useless. He recited it twice—still useless. Only on the third recitation did he barely manage to suppress the rising heat in his chest.
He despised himself intensely: Old Lu, oh Old Lu, why were you so stingy with another pill? You deserve to die poor. A golden opportunity like this might only happen once in a lifetime, and you wasted it.
Maybe I should take one now. It's still not too late. He felt for the elixir bottle in his ring and pulled out the stopper. The bitter scent of the pill wafted out. If he took one, he would have two hours. He could redo her bandages, and he could take a good look at her face—
His conscience suddenly pushed back. No. She's injured. She's unconscious. What are you doing? He shoved the bottle back, capped it tightly, and returned it to his ring. Damn it, lust has clouded my mind. Even the Heart-Clearing Mantra can't suppress it. More than twenty years of purity are about to go down the drain.
Grumble.
A low rumble from Jiang Ci's stomach echoed clearly in the silent room. She was hungry.
He stopped his wandering thoughts, suddenly feeling a bit hungry himself. He continued to despise himself: Old Lu, how the hell could you have such indecent and shameless thoughts about a severely injured person? I utterly despise you.
He pushed himself up from the floor and wobbled over to the rice jar. Lifting the lid, he reached inside to feel around—there was only a thin layer at the bottom, barely enough for a single bowl if gathered together. It wasn't enough. After hesitating for a moment, he retrieved a small bag of spiritual rice from his ring. He had been saving it for emergencies and couldn't bear to eat it. He poured out half, mixed it with the ordinary rice, washed it, and put it in the pot.
There was a crack at the bottom of the pot, chipped during his last cauldron explosion when refining elixirs, and he had never gotten around to fixing it. If he added too much water, it would leak; if he added too little, it would burn. Relying on his experience, he filled the pot about three-quarters full, covered it, and lit the fire.
The flames licked the bottom of the clay pot, casting a warm glow over his face. Sitting on the stool, he thought for a moment and retrieved the waterlogged Meridian-Connecting Orchid from his ring. Its roots were still intact, but half of its leaves had rotted, reducing its efficacy by seventy percent. It could have sold for a lot of money, but now it was worth next to nothing. He pinched off a few root fibers, washed them, and threw them into the pot. Then, he took out two Spirit-Gathering Pills from his ring, crushed them, and sprinkled them inside.
The aroma of rice mingled with the scent of herbs, slowly filling the room. Sitting on the stool by the fire, his eyelids grew increasingly heavy. Today had been far too exhausting. Gathering herbs, the rain, falling down the hillside, finding her in the ruined temple, carrying her home, feeding her medicine, cutting her clothes, cleaning the wounds, applying the ointment, and bandaging her. Every single thing had drained him. His spiritual energy was gone, his Focus-Stabilizing Pills were gone, and his spiritual sea was still throbbing with pain.
Listening to the bubbling sounds from the pot, he slowly closed his eyes. He fell asleep.
Rate on N.U.
