As the sun dipped low, the sky melted into a masterpiece of pink, gold, and soft orange — a tranquil hush falling over the land. It was the kind of evening that soothed hearts and stilled minds.
But inside the army camp, calm had no place.
Tension crackled in the air like a storm waiting to break. Soldiers whispered among themselves, their faces etched with confusion and unease. Gao Zian — their general, their cold-blooded commander, the man who once stared death in the face without blinking — was behaving… strangely.
He, who had shown no weakness in a decade of war, now paced restlessly inside his tent, glued to the side of an unknown woman — barely breathing, skin like porcelain, and entirely unfamiliar to all.
Mr. Su, the most celebrated physician across the continent, now assigned as the army's chief doctor, made haste across the camp after Heng had whispered the details to him in a panic.
"He's not… himself," Heng had said, eyes wide. "You need to see it for yourself."
When Mr. Su arrived at the general's tent, he hesitated — and that in itself was rare. Taking a breath, he stepped inside.
The tent was heavy with silence. In the center, the woman lay unconscious on the bed, a fragile presence amidst war maps and weapons. Beside her sat Gao Zian, head bowed, one hand hovering near hers but not quite touching — as if afraid she might shatter.
Mr. Su cleared his throat.
Zian looked up instantly, his sharp eyes flashing — not with anger, but with something far more unsettling. Desperation.
"Come," he said, standing. "Check her. Now."
Mr. Su moved quickly, kneeling beside the bed, his hands already at work. He checked her pulse, the pallor of her skin, the shallow rise and fall of her chest. The deeper he examined, the more troubled his expression became.
At last, he looked up. "General… her condition is critical. Internal damage, severe blood loss, and her breathing is shallow. If I'm being honest—"
"Don't be," Zian cut in coldly.
Mr. Su blinked.
Zian took a slow step forward, his voice low and deliberate. "Don't be honest with me. Be useful."
Mr. Su's lips parted, but no words came.
"I didn't summon you to write her eulogy," Zian continued, eyes narrowing. "I called you to save her."
He leaned in slightly, his tone calm — dangerously so. "You will do whatever it takes. I don't care if it defies medicine, logic, or the gods themselves."
He paused.
"If she lives… your name will be honored for generations. Your family will never want for anything."
Another pause. The calm in his voice cracked — just slightly.
"But if she dies…" His gaze darkened.
"You will not live long enough to bury yours."
The tent felt colder, the weight of his words settling like frost.
Mr. Su swallowed hard, his hands already reaching into his satchel. "Understood, General," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
And so began a battle not fought with swords or armies — but with time, fate, and a man's unrelenting will to save the one thing he couldn't afford to lose.
Mr. Su worked in near silence, his tools laid out with precision, but his hands slowed as the truth settled in his chest like a stone. Finally, he stood, wiping his palms and turning toward General Gao Zian.
"There is one thing," he said, hesitating.
Zian, who hadn't taken his eyes off the woman, slowly shifted his gaze. "Speak."
Mr. Su cleared his throat. "A rare herb. Yuexin grass. It's the only thing that could stabilize her life force long enough for me to treat the deeper damage. But..."
"But?" Zian's voice was flat, dangerous.
"It only grows in one place," Mr. Su said. "A deep forest far from here — in the wetlands beyond Mount Fei. Near a lake. A cursed lake, some say. Infested with crocodiles. No one ventures there at night and returns unscathed."
Zian said nothing. He simply stared.
"She needs the extract from a fresh stem," Mr. Su added quickly, "harvested within hours of treatment. Dried ones don't work. If we don't get it by dawn…"
Zian was already turning away.
"Wait—General, where are you going?" Mr. Su asked, alarmed.
Zian didn't stop walking. "To get it."
"But it's eight hours away! You'll be riding through pitch-black forest, hostile terrain—"
Zian swung his cloak over his shoulder and strapped his sword to his back. "Then I'll ride for eight hours. Through pitch-black forest. Through hostile terrain. Through hell itself, if I must."
"You won't make it there and back before dawn!" Mr. Su called after him.
Zian paused at the entrance of the tent. "She'll live until I return. You said so yourself."
"I said if we're lucky—!"
"I don't believe in luck," Zian said, mounting his horse in one fluid motion. His eyes, dark and resolute, met Mr. Su's for one final second.
"I believe in will."
With that, he yanked the reins, and the horse took off into the night, hooves pounding against the earth like thunder rolling toward destiny.
For eight straight hours, he rode — cutting through midnight fog, storm-slick hills, and howling winds. The moon vanished behind clouds, the forest swallowed the path, but Zian didn't slow. Not once.
He reached the lake just as the first light of dawn kissed the sky.
And waiting for him in the mist — still as statues, silent as death — were the crocodiles.
But General Gao Zian didn't stop.
He drew his sword.
He was here for one thing.
And nothing — not beasts, not blood, not fate itself — would stop him from saving her.
The air near the cursed lake was thick with mist and decay. Trees twisted toward the sky like reaching claws, and the ground oozed with wet moss and secrets long buried.
General Gao Zian dismounted his horse in silence, sword drawn.
The lake stretched out before him — dark, still, and eerily quiet. But he knew better. The legends were not exaggerated.
From the shadows of the reeds, eyes gleamed. Slitted. Patient.
Then they struck.
Three crocodiles burst from the water with unnatural speed, jaws wide, hissing like demons. Zian didn't flinch.
Steel met scales. Blood splattered the marsh.
He fought like a man possessed — each strike clean, brutal, deliberate. He moved with a soldier's precision, but his purpose was personal. These were not enemies of war. These were obstacles between him and her.
And he was never one to leave obstacles standing.
One crocodile lunged for his leg — he drove his blade down its throat. Another clamped onto his shoulder — he plunged his dagger into its eye, roaring as blood soaked his cloak.
Finally, with a last heave, he staggered toward the edge of the lake. There — nestled in the mud, glowing faintly silver under the breaking dawn — bloomed the Yuexin grass.
Delicate. Beautiful. Deadly.
He dropped to his knees, blood dripping from his wounds, and reached out. His fingers curled around the stalk and—
Pain.
A sharp, invisible force pulsed through him the moment he touched the root. It was like being struck by lightning and drowning at once. The Yuexin grass was living — ancient — and it did not give itself freely.
It drank from the one who pulled it.
Zian gritted his teeth as his limbs trembled. His strength drained rapidly, sweat breaking across his brow. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. But he didn't let go. His hand clutched the herb with a grip so fierce his knuckles turned white.
He had already made peace with death.
But fate wasn't done with him yet.
Heng and Zhu had ridden hard through the night, despite his orders. They couldn't sit in the camp and wait. Not while their general — the man who had led them through a hundred battles — risked his life alone.
They reached the edge of the forest just as first light broke.
And then they saw it — Zian's horse staggering out of the trees, its legs trembling with exhaustion. And slumped across its back, barely conscious, was Zian himself — pale, bloodied, and drenched in lake water.
But his fist… was still clenched.
Tightly — desperately — around a stalk of glowing Yuexin grass.
"General!" Heng shouted, leaping from his horse.
Zhu ran forward, grabbing the reins and steadying the beast as it collapsed to its knees. They caught Zian before he hit the ground.
"Is he breathing?" Zhu asked, panic in his voice.
"Barely," Heng muttered. "But he's alive."
They looked at the herb in his hand — radiant, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Even now, its roots twitched with unnatural hunger.
"He risked everything," Zhu whispered. "For her."
"No," Heng said, lifting Zian onto his back. "He gave everything."
Together, they rode like hell back to the camp, carrying the general between them. As the camp came into view, guards rushed to open the gates. The soldiers who had once whispered behind Zian's back now fell into a stunned silence as they saw the sight:
Their unshakable general — broken, unconscious, and still gripping salvation in his hand.
Not for himself.
But for her.