Sitting beside a flickering torch, Shen Liang kept his eyes on the narrow path ahead. It was the same path he had taken earlier, but now a woman stood there, motionless in the rain. Her white robe was soaked through, clinging to her as the wind blew past.
What caught his attention most were her eyes—an unsettling shade of blue, deep and cold like the bottom of the sea. Most would find them beautiful, but Shen Liang knew something about that color wasn’t right.
He drew a quiet breath and said, “There’s still space to stay dry in the hut I built.”
The woman didn’t move. Her eyes stayed locked on Shen Liang, unblinking. Rain streamed down her pale face, washing the dirt from her cheeks, while her white robe was stained and heavy with mud. One hand pressed against her stomach as if in pain.
There was no sign of blood. Only the low rumble of thunder rolling somewhere in the distance.
Still seated, Shen Liang reached into his pouch and took out two dried leaves. One was green, ordinary in shape and color. The other had a faint violet hue that shimmered under the torchlight.
“These two leaves can ease your pain,” Shen Liang said quietly, his gaze steady on the pale woman before him. “They might also help weaken the curse that’s eating at you.”
For a moment, there was only silence—until a sudden crack of thunder split the sky nearby, shaking the stillness around them.
The flash of light revealed the woman’s face more clearly; her lips trembled, moving just enough for a whisper to escape.
Her voice was faint, strained by pain. “This curse… is not something that can be healed,” she said softly. “I only wonder if I can trust you—to deliver my message before I die.”
Shen Liang watched her for a long moment before reaching for a small bamboo flask. He opened its lid and held it out to catch the falling rain.
Carefully, he tore each of the two leaves into small pieces—measured precisely, by ratio and proportion. Then he dropped them into the flask, sealed it, and gave it a few gentle shakes before setting it down on the pile of leaves he had been using as a seat.
The woman’s gaze shifted slightly, her eyes wordlessly asking what this strange man was doing.
“If you still have ten breaths before death,” Shen Liang said with a faint smile, “there’s no harm in trying my mixture. The worst that could happen… is death itself.”
For a while, the woman just stared at him. Then, as the wind brushed past, she took slow steps toward him—one after another, hesitant but steady.
When she finally reached the small hut, she sat down on the wet ground outside instead of entering. Her hair, once tied neatly, was now completely soaked.
Shen Liang only smiled at the sight, then turned his gaze toward the distance. The sky above was pitch-black—not just because night had fallen, but because the storm clouds were so thick that even the moonlight couldn’t break through.
“After drinking this,” Shen Liang said, “if you feel it doesn’t help, you can entrust your message to me.”
The woman looked at him silently. Still clutching her abdomen with one hand, she sat cross-legged and began to steady her breathing, eyes closed.
Only the rhythm of rain filled the air—the sound of water striking soil and leaves, accompanied now and then by distant thunder.