Chapter 5: The Blade Wakes

The third morning, her arms no longer collapsed under her.

Ten push-ups. Fifteen squats. Two hill sprints carrying a bucket of water in each hand.

Progress.

Yan Zhi stood at the top of the hill, chest heaving, sweat dripping from her jawline. The wind stung her skin. Her robe stuck to her back. Every muscle burned—and she smiled.

Pain meant she was burning away the weakness.

She’d already dropped weight in just days—enough to feel it in her knees and breath. But that wasn’t the real victory.

Discipline was.

And discipline was the one thing no one could take from her.

She marched back to her hut with purpose.

Inside, the man still hadn’t moved. His fever had broken, but he’d slept like the dead since. The herbs were working, but his body was still recovering from blood loss and infection.

She knelt beside him to check his pulse—

His hand moved like lightning.

A blade pressed to her throat before she could blink.

“Who are you?”

His voice was low. Rough. Deadly calm.

His eyes—dark, sharp, like a wolf after a kill—were wide open, burning with clarity now.

The sword trembled against her skin. Not from hesitation. From suppressed rage.

Yan Zhi didn’t flinch.

“I’m the one who stopped you from bleeding out like a pig.”

He stared at her. For one long, tense second.

Then he looked down at his bandaged side. His leg.

The sword lowered.

Slowly, he sat up—wincing, but controlled. Trained. Even weak, he moved with a fighter’s grace.

He sheathed the blade.

“I don’t remember being brought here.”

“You passed out after I popped your leg back into place,” Yan Zhi said, rising to her feet. “Which, by the way, was the second time you almost died in one night.”

He eyed her. “Why save me?”

“Because I’m not stupid enough to let someone this dangerous bleed out in a ditch.”

A flicker of something crossed his face. Amusement? Or warning?

“You don’t know who I am.”

“I don’t need to. Yet.”

He looked around the tiny hut. “This dump yours?”

“For now.”

He nodded once, as if calculating what he owed.

Yan Zhi didn’t wait. “Rest today. By tomorrow, you’re moving. If you don’t want villagers to find you, you’ll stay quiet. I’ll bring food.”

He looked at her like most men didn’t—measured. Not lecherous. Not dismissive. Just… interested. Like he couldn’t figure her out.

Good.

She left before he could ask more questions.

She had work to do.

—

Later that day, she entered the village market square carrying a single basket filled with neat paper-wrapped packets. She laid down a rough cloth and set up a small stall between the cobbler and a woman selling turnips.

The villagers stared. Whispered.

“She’s selling something now?”

“Is that pig-fat soap?”

“She’s gone mad.”

“No, look — they say she cured Old Man Luo’s cough!”

Yan Zhi ignored them.

She stood tall behind her small setup, her robe tied tight around her newly firmed waist, sweat drying on her brow. She looked like she’d worked all morning—and she had.

Her product?

Healing balm.

She made it with herbs she harvested herself at dawn, crushed with vinegar and lard. It healed cuts, soothed burns, and stopped itching. She knew the formula by heart—it was used in the army barracks years ago.

Cheap to make. Impossible to fake. And it worked.

An old farmer limped up to her table.

“That for joints?”

She nodded. “Rub it on every night. In two days, you’ll walk straighter than your mule.”

He snorted. “And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll refund you with a slap,” she said coolly. “And you’ll still walk better.”

He chuckled—and dropped a coin.

The day’s first sale.

By sunset, she was sold out.

And she had 42 copper in her pouch.

—

That night, she returned home to find the man sitting upright, sharpening his blade with a broken piece of tile.