Gu Qingli POV
I stand in front of the bathhouse, and my hand will not stop shaking.
It begins the moment I slow down.
The run through the forest keeps the pain distant, buried under urgency and breath and the need to survive, but now that I have stopped, now that there is nothing left to outrun, the truth settles into my body with quiet cruelty.
My fingers tremble uncontrollably, the skin flushed an unnatural red, as if something beneath it is burning without flame.
I know this.
I knew it the moment I crushed the leaves.
The numbness comes first, fast and absolute, swallowing sensation from my fingertips inward until they no longer feel like they belong to me.
It is not a dull numbness. It is wrong, heavy, like my fingers have turned into lifeless wood attached to my hand, unable to bend properly, unable to obey.
When I try to curl them, they respond slowly, clumsy, as if the signal takes too long to reach them.
Then the second wave follows.
It crawls.
The feeling is not pain at first, but something worse, something unnatural that slides beneath the skin like thousands of tiny insects moving at once.
It begins in my palm and travels upward, threading through my wrist, slipping along the line of my arm with quiet persistence.
Every nerve it touches wakes and misfires, sending sharp, prickling sensations that make it impossible to forget what I have done.
Aconite does not forgive carelessness.
Not even for those who understand it.
I press my lips together and rub my hand hard against the rough wood beside the bathhouse entrance, dragging my palm across it again and again, trying to scrape away what remains on the surface, even though I know it is already too late for that. The toxin has entered. It is moving.
I need water.
Now.
Without hesitation, I step inside.
The moment I cross the threshold, the noise changes. Voices cut off mid-sentence, movement slowing as attention shifts, drawn toward me without permission.
The bathhouse is thick with steam and heat, the air heavy with the scent of wet wood and bodies, and men stand half-submerged or fully exposed without shame, their conversations dying as they notice me.
I do not stop.
I do not hesitate.
The cloth covering my face is already gone, discarded somewhere between the forest and here, and I make no effort to replace it.
Their stares linger, some curious, some amused, some openly dismissive, but I ignore all of it as I move toward the nearest water tub.
My hand goes into the water.
The relief is immediate.
Not complete, but enough to draw a slow breath from my chest as the cold seeps into my skin, dulling the crawling sensation just enough to make it bearable.
I submerge it fully, letting the water close over my wrist, then higher, until it reaches the edge of my sleeve. The trembling does not stop, but it lessens, the violent edge of it softened by the cold.
"What happened to your hand?"
The voice comes from my left, casual but curious. I glance once toward the soldier who spoke, his eyes fixed on the redness, the way my fingers refuse to stay still beneath the water.
"I fell," I answer simply, my tone flat, uninterested in explanation.
A few of them laugh.
"Of course you did," another says, shaking his head. "With that body, I am surprised you made it this far."
The laughter spreads, easy and careless, as if weakness is something to be entertained rather than pitied.
I say nothing, letting it pass over me without reaction, my focus fixed on the water and the slow return of control to my hand.
"Tomorrow will break him," someone adds, voice laced with certainty. "He will not last half a day."
The word catches.
Tomorrow.
I lift my gaze slightly. "What happens tomorrow?"
The men glance at me as if I have asked something obvious.
"Training starts," one of them replies. "Real training. Not this wandering and standing around."
The water around my hand feels colder.
"Heavy drills. Endurance. Combat basics," another adds, his tone almost amused. "You faint again, you might not wake up next time."
A faint dryness settles in my throat.
Training.
With this hand—
I do not let the thought finish.
I pull my hand from the water slowly, watching the way my fingers move, still slower than they should, still not fully mine. The redness has not faded. The trembling remains beneath the surface, waiting.
It will not be gone by morning.
I know that.
I leave without another word.
The night air feels colder when I step out, the quiet pressing closer after the noise of the bathhouse.
By the time I return to the tent, my arm feels heavier, the numbness creeping further up, dulling strength and control in a way that cannot be hidden forever.
I enter without drawing attention.
Chen Hu glances up first, then Luo Ping, both of them already settled, their bodies relaxed in a way mine cannot be.
"You took long enough," Luo Ping says, stretching slightly. "Did you hear? Training starts tomorrow."
"I heard," I reply, keeping my voice even as I move toward my bed.
Chen Hu lets out a low breath. "They say the General is merciless. He does not tolerate weakness at all. If someone slows the unit, he cuts them down without hesitation."
I pause slightly.
"General?" I ask.
Chen Hu nods, lowering his voice as if the name itself carries weight. "You do not know? He is the one commanding this entire camp. They call him Wei Yan."
The name settles in the air.
Sharp.
Unfamiliar.
Ruthless.
"They say he has killed his own soldiers for less than failure," Luo Ping adds, his tone half serious, half impressed. "Better to face the enemy than fall behind under him."
My fingers curl slightly against the edge of the bedding.
Wei Yan.
Han Ziyu speaks then, his voice cutting through the conversation without raising it. "You should sleep. Talking will not make tomorrow easier."
Luo Ping clicks his tongue but does not argue. Chen Hu nods, stretching once before settling down.
I glance toward Han Ziyu briefly. His expression remains the same as always, distant, unreadable, as if none of this matters to him at all.
"When does it start?" I ask.
"Before dawn," he replies without looking at me. "If you are not awake, they will wake you."
The words settle quietly.
Luo Ping leans over and blows out the candle.
Darkness fills the tent.
The air grows still.
I lie down slowly, careful not to move my arm too much, the dull, creeping numbness still present beneath the surface, a constant reminder of what I have done and what it will cost me tomorrow.
My gaze fixes on nothing.
On everything.
On the name that lingers sharper than it should.
Wei Yan.
I close my eyes.
I hope the General is a good man.
The sound that wakes me is not gentle.
It crashes through the camp like thunder, a deep, relentless drum that does not allow the body to ignore it, each strike echoing through wood and bone alike. Before my mind fully rises from sleep, before I can even open my eyes, something cold hits my face with force.
Water.
I gasp sharply, choking on the sudden splash as my body jerks upright, breath uneven and disoriented. Around me, the same reaction unfolds, men cursing under their breath, scrambling awake as soldiers move through the tent with buckets in hand, throwing water without hesitation, without warning.
"Up," one of them barks, voice cutting through the noise. "All of you. Move."
Another splash hits Luo Ping beside me, soaking him completely as he stumbles up with a groan, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Chen Hu is already on his feet, shaking off the water as if it is nothing, but his expression tightens at the tone in the air.
This is not yesterday.
This is not lenience.
"Form up on the training ground," the soldier continues, his voice sharp and final. "Anyone who is late will not be standing by the end of the day."
The tent erupts into motion.
No one speaks now. No one complains. Wet clothes cling to skin as bodies move quickly, grabbing what little they need before rushing out into the cold air.
I push myself up with the rest, my body slower, heavier, but I do not allow it to show.
My hand—
It trembles the moment I put weight on it.
The numbness has not left. It has deepened.
The redness has spread further across my palm and up toward my wrist, the skin tight and heated, while beneath it, the crawling sensation still lingers, duller now but heavier, as if something has settled into my nerves and refuses to leave.
When I try to close my fingers, they respond, but not cleanly, not fully, the movement delayed and weak.
Pain follows.
Sharp.
Persistent.
I clench my jaw and move.
The ground is already filling when we arrive, rows forming with rough speed as soldiers take their places without needing instruction repeated.
The air is colder here, the open space wide and exposed, the early light barely touching the edges of the camp as the sky remains dark with the last hold of night.
I step into line.
My posture holds.
My arm hangs still at my side.
The drum stops.
Silence falls instantly, heavy and absolute, as if even the wind has been forced to wait.
Then—
A different sound rises.
Not loud.
Not rushed.
Measured.
Hoofbeats.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Each step of the horse lands against the ground with quiet authority, carrying across the space without effort, drawing every gaze forward without command. No one speaks.
No one moves. Even those who had been shifting moments before now stand completely still, as if something unseen has pressed them into place.
A voice cuts through the stillness.
"General Wei is arriving. Prepare to greet."
The words fall like a blade.
"Bow."
The entire line drops at once, bodies lowering in unison, heads dipping without hesitation.
I follow, my movements precise despite the strain in my arm, my gaze lowered to the ground as the sound of the horse draws closer.
Closer.
Then—
"Raise."
We rise together.
My head lifts.
And I freeze.
At the front of the ground, seated high on a dark warhorse, posture straight, presence cutting through the space like something that does not belong among ordinary men—
It is him.
The man from the pond.