The fever hit just before dawn.
The man thrashed in his sleep, sweat soaking his chest. His lips murmured something in a language she didn’t recognize—guttural and cold. A soldier’s language.
Yan Zhi placed a damp cloth on his forehead and forced another dose of willow bark tea between his teeth. He barely swallowed. His skin burned under her hand.
He was strong—but barely hanging on.
And she was running out of time.
She hadn’t slept. She’d spent the night boiling herbs, grinding roots, checking his pulse every hour. The old her — the real Yan Zhi — could go three days without rest if a patient needed it.
But this body?
This body was soft. Bloated. Weak. Just walking uphill left her short of breath.
She stared at her hands—blistered from dragging him back. Her thighs still ached from the strain.
If she was going to rebuild her life—take revenge, make money, survive ambushes and assassins—this body couldn’t stay like this.
No more excuses.
She tied her hair into a messy bun, tossed on a linen robe, and stepped outside.
The village air was sharp and wet with morning dew. The sun was barely peeking over the hills, but already, the chickens were squawking and someone was chopping firewood nearby.
Good. No one would bother her yet.
She dropped to the dirt path and started with push-ups.
On the third one, her arms collapsed under her.
She hit the ground, face in the dirt, chest heaving.
“Pathetic,” she muttered.
But she got up.
She tried again.
Three push-ups.
Ten squats.
Ten more.
By the time the sun rose fully, she was drenched in sweat, her arms shaking, legs wobbling—but her eyes were alive.
This was familiar.
In her past life, she’d trained with palace guards in secret, disguising herself as a boy just to get into their drills. Her martial arts master had once told her: “You were born with a soft face and a sharp soul. Make your body match the blade you carry.”
And that’s exactly what she’d do now.
Not to be pretty.
To be dangerous.
—
Later that morning, she went to Old Hu’s shed again.
The old woman raised a brow. “Back for more? What, your buns weren’t enough?”
“I need pain root. And goldthread.”
Old Hu leaned back. “Expensive.”
“I’ll trade. I’ll work your shop this week. No payment.”
Old Hu’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Yan Zhi lied easily. “A friend’s sick.”
Old Hu grunted. “Fine. But I want the shed cleaned top to bottom. And if I catch you pocketing anything—”
“You won’t,” Yan Zhi said.
She got what she came for, ground the roots into a bitter tonic, and returned to the hut.
The man was still unconscious—but his breathing was stronger now. The worst had passed.
She watched him for a moment.
“You’re not dying on me,” she said under her breath. “Not until I find out who you are.”
Then she stripped down to her under-robe, stepped outside again, and started her next round of training.
Push-ups. Squats. Plank. Walks up the hill with firewood. Then more squats.
Her body screamed in protest, but she welcomed the pain. Pain meant progress. Sweat meant change.
By the end of the day, she collapsed on the mat beside the still-sleeping man, muscles twitching, heart pounding like a drum.
Tomorrow, she’d do more.
She was still far from her former strength.
But the woman who once commanded medicine halls, weapon masters, and silver vaults—
Was coming back.
And this time, she’d be unstoppable.
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