Chapter 3:The Man with No Name

Blood.

Too much of it.

Yan Zhi pressed her hand to the gash on the man’s side, feeling the warmth soak through his robes. Her fingers came away red and slick. His breathing was shallow, but steady. Barely.

“Your liver’s nicked,” she muttered. “Your leg’s dislocated. And you’ve got a mild concussion. Congratulations. You’re not dead yet.”

The man didn’t respond. His head lolled slightly, eyes fluttering shut.

“No, no, no.” She slapped his cheek—lightly. “You want to die? Crawl back into the river. Otherwise, keep your eyes open.”

He winced. Good. He could feel pain. That meant he was still alive enough to save.

She worked quickly.

From her cloth satchel, she pulled out the few herbs she’d stolen from Old Hu’s back shelf. Nothing fancy—some honeysuckle, dried ginger root, and willow bark. Not enough to treat everything, but enough to keep him from burning up.

She tore strips from his robe and used them as binding. Her fingers moved fast, decisive, wrapping the wound tight. Not perfect. Not sterile. But this wasn’t a palace infirmary. It was survival.

Her hands were slick with blood, her back screaming, but her mind was calm. Focused. This was who she was. Not a fat village girl. Not a joke. She was Yan Zhi, the woman who once stopped an emperor’s bleeding with a single pressure point.

And this man—whoever he was—was going to owe her.

As she wrapped his side, she noticed the scar running across his ribs. Old. Healed ugly. A sword wound, probably from a broad saber. She recognized it instantly. The type northern barbarians used in border skirmishes.

A soldier, then. Or someone who’d fought like one.

She moved to the leg next. The dislocation wasn’t clean. She could try to set it here, but if she failed…

“You’re going to scream,” she warned.

The man gave the faintest smirk.

“Do it,” he muttered. “Or leave me.”

Yan Zhi raised a brow. “You really don’t value your limbs.”

“I value results.”

She grabbed a thick stick, shoved it between his teeth.

“Bite.”

Then she gripped his knee—and jerked.

CRACK.

His muffled scream echoed through the trees.

Then silence.

She wiped sweat from her brow.

“Well,” she said, breathless, “if you survive the night, I’ll be impressed.”

She stood, wobbly, and surveyed him. He was unconscious again, this time from pain and blood loss. He wouldn’t last out here. Not exposed. Not without fire or shelter.

She looked at his sword. Heavy. Intricate hilt. Definitely not a peasant’s weapon. She recognized the style—it belonged to a military officer. A high one.

“So who the hell are you?” she muttered.

He didn’t answer, obviously.

She sighed. Then grabbed his arms.

“You better be worth the trouble,” she hissed, and started dragging him back toward the village.

—

It took nearly an hour to reach her hut, and by then, her arms felt like jelly. Her back ached. Her legs throbbed. But she’d made it.

Inside, she laid him on the straw mat in the corner and covered him with her only real blanket.

She checked the bandages. Still holding.

She boiled water with the tiny coal stove in the corner, steeped the herbs, and forced a few drops between his lips.

The fever would hit by nightfall. She’d need more willow bark. And maybe—if she dared—something stronger from Old Hu’s stash.

As the night deepened, she sat beside him with her arms crossed, watching his chest rise and fall.

She didn’t know his name.

But her instincts screamed this man wasn’t just some wandering fighter. His calluses, his posture, the blade at his side—everything about him reeked of command.

And danger.

Just the kind she needed.

Because if she was going to take back what she lost…

She’d need allies far more dangerous than the ones who betrayed her.

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