Gu Qingli POV
"All new recruits, step forward and form a line at the center."
The movement begins immediately, bodies shifting and pressing forward as lines form with rough discipline, men jostling into place until we stand shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel heat and breath from every side.
I step in with the rest, keeping my posture steady, my gaze forward, but the tightness in my chest does not ease as the soldier's eyes sweep across us, slow and deliberate, missing nothing.
Then the command comes.
"Remove your upper garments."
For a heartbeat, everything around me blurs.
Hands move without hesitation as cloth is pulled loose, tunics lifted, bodies exposed one after another without thought or shame, as if this is nothing, as if there is no reason to pause.
The sound of fabric shifting fills the air, rough and careless, while I remain still in the middle of it, my fingers not moving, my breath caught somewhere too high in my chest.
I cannot do this.
"Why are you standing?" A soldier steps closer, his voice sharp with irritation, his eyes narrowing as they settle on me. "Did you not hear the order? Remove it."
I nod once, forcing the motion, slow and controlled, and raise my hands toward the tie at my collar.
My fingers touch the knot, but they do not move, the fabric suddenly too heavy, too real, as I glance to the side without meaning to.
Bodies.
Bare shoulders.
Scarred skin.
No one is watching themselves.
No one is hiding.
On my other side, the quiet one pulls his garment over his head without pause, his movements steady, indifferent, as if nothing around him matters enough to hesitate for. He does not look at anyone. He does not care who sees.
I lower my gaze again.
There is no time.
No space.
If I hesitate longer—
It ends here.
Before the second breath settles, I let my body give way.
My knees buckle without warning, the ground rushing up fast and hard as I collapse, letting the weight fall completely, my body going slack the moment I hit.
Voices rise instantly.
"What happened?"
"He fainted!"
"Move back!"
The ground vibrates faintly with shifting steps as bodies crowd closer, then pull away at the sharp command that cuts through everything.
"Stay back!"
Silence follows, broken only by movement closer to me, slower now, controlled. I feel it before I hear it, the presence settling near, close enough that even with my eyes closed, it presses against my awareness.
I hold my breath.
Then let it out slowly.
Carefully.
"He fainted," a voice says near me, calmer than the rest, carrying quiet authority. "Likely from the heat."
Another voice rises louder, harsher. "Does anyone know his name? Which tent is he from?"
For a single moment, everything tightens.
If they take me—
If they bring a physician—
"His name is Gu Chang'an," a voice answers from somewhere behind, steady, clear. "He is from our tent."
I know that voice.
The quiet one.
There is no time to react.
"Take him away," the soldier orders, impatience cutting through his tone. "This is the first and last time I tolerate weakness. If any of you cannot endure basic training, you will not remain here."
A hand grips my side.
Firm.
Without hesitation.
The ground disappears beneath me.
I am lifted easily, as if I weigh nothing, my body settling against something solid and warm.
The sudden shift pulls a breath from me that I force back down, keeping my body slack, unmoving, as if I am still gone from myself.
The scent reaches me first.
Not sweat.
Not blood.
Something deeper.
Clean.
Musky.
Unfamiliar.
My cheek presses against bare skin, warm and steady, the slow rhythm of a heartbeat clear beneath it, strong and even as he walks.
There is no struggle in his movement, no adjustment, as if carrying me costs him nothing at all.
He is not wearing his upper garment.
The realization settles without movement.
I keep my eyes closed.
But just slightly—
Barely—
I let them open.
A fraction.
Enough to see.
It is him.
The quiet one.
His face remains unchanged, expression distant, as if this is nothing more than a task to complete, something beneath notice.
His gaze stays forward, steps steady, carrying me away from the noise, away from the crowd, back toward the tent.
No one stops him.
No one questions.
By the time we reach it, the noise has already faded behind us.
He steps inside and lowers me onto the bed without carelessness but without gentleness either, controlled and precise, as if placing an object rather than a person. My body sinks into the rough bedding, still unmoving, still silent.
There is a pause.
Then his voice comes, low, flat.
"Nuisance."
____________________
LORD POV
"Your Lord, one of the new recruits fainted on the ground."
The report cuts into the strategy room without hesitation, the guard dropping to one knee the moment he steps inside. I do not look at him immediately.
My gaze remains on the map spread across the table, my fingers resting against its surface as Shen Zhiyuan stands opposite me, his fan half-open, eyes calm but observant.
"Is he dead?" I ask, my voice even, as if the answer carries no weight.
"No, Your Lord," the guard replies quickly, head still lowered. "Not yet."
A brief silence settles.
"Then he is of no concern," I say, shifting my gaze only slightly. "Do not allow him back on the ground for now."
"Yes, Your Lord."
I turn a page on the map, slow and deliberate, as if the interruption has already lost meaning.
"After evening," I continue, my tone unchanged, "give him all camp chores. Alone."
The guard does not hesitate. "As you command, Your Lord."
He withdraws at once, footsteps fading as the curtain falls back into place, sealing the room once more in quiet.
Shen Zhiyuan watches him leave before his gaze returns to me, the faintest curve touching his lips as he folds his fan shut. "You show little mercy," he remarks lightly. "Even for a man who collapses under the sun."
"He is not here to rest," I answer without looking up. "If he cannot stand, then he will learn to endure in another way."
A pause follows, brief but deliberate.
Then I shift my attention fully, lifting my gaze toward the remaining guard at the side. "The recruit," I say, my voice steady. "The one whose build matches the boy from Anhe. Has he been questioned?"
"Yes, Your Lord," the guard replies, stepping forward slightly. "He claims to be from Lianhe Village."
The room quiets.
Shen Zhiyuan's eyes flick toward me, but he does not speak.
I say nothing for a moment, my expression unchanged, my fingers resting still against the table as if the answer holds no immediate interest.
"Tomorrow," I say at last, my voice calm, final. "I will question him myself."
The guard bows lower. "Yes, Your Lord."
My gaze does not shift.
"If he is lying," I add, the words falling without force yet cutting deeper than steel, "he will not breathe again."