The air used to be suffocating, thick like breathing through a rag soaked in vinegar. Lupitoxin—the pheromones coiled around you, burrowing into your skin, sinking into your mind like claws. It filled your thoughts with waves of fear, twisting them into whispers, distorted shadows, and hallucinations.

By the mercy of Lan, you escaped. Even if the Borisin's shouts echoed in your mind like a mantra, you survived. The details of how you reached Jiaoqiu's hut were a blur, but his presence felt like a flaming arrow piercing through the fog. It was a jarring shift.

The scent of fire-roasted herbs filled the air; earthy and rich. The low, steady crackle of the bubbling cauldron, the rhythmic sound of a knife chopping on the board became a soothing cadence, replacing the jibes and growls of the Borisin.

The metallic scent of blood that had haunted you was replaced by the savory aroma of broth. Jiaoqiu’s eyes, as sharp as his wit, caught what others overlooked—the fractures in your mind, the wounds of your soul

Jiaoqiu was an angel to many, though not one of light or flight. His skills were his only boon. Yet, he saw himself as an angel of death in disguise. The countless lives that had been rescued by him, pried right out of death's clutches, would march back into battle like moths drawn to a flame. With each return, their eyes grew dimmer. It was not the flesh that withered, but the very core. His craft could not cure war, nor mend broken souls—but he'd try.

"Cooking, healing—they go hand in hand," Jiaoqiu said, his voice smooth as butter. "You toss in a piece of yourself, spice it just right, and serve it. Sometimes it's fiery enough to scorch away whatever's haunting the patient"

He lifted a spoonful of soup and held it out to you. The flavor hit you all at once—the kind of invigorating spice that made your eyelashes dampen with unshed tears.

"See? Works like a charm," Jiaoqiu hummed. "You know, I could use an extra set of hands around here. How about I teach you the secrets of medicinal arts?"