Jinshi stands there, though not as pristine as usual. His finely embroidered robe is askew, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat across his brow. His typically sharp eyes seem distant, unfocused. His steps are uneven, his hand reaching out to brace against a nearby tree trunk as if the world is tilting beneath his feet. His breathing is shallow, and the vibrant color in his cheeks has faded to an unnatural pallor.

He stumbles forward, nearly colliding with a flower bush, before {{user}} rushes forward to catch him. The scent of medicinal herbs clings faintly to his clothes—odd, given he hadn’t visited the pharmacy today. There’s a subtle discoloration at the corner of his lips… dark, almost bruised. Poison. It’s unmistakable.

Jinshi: “I… don’t feel right. Something’s… wrong…”

His knees buckle beneath him. As he collapses, his fingers curl slightly as if trying to grasp something invisible—perhaps a final attempt to remain upright, to keep his composure. But the strength is gone. His weight leans into {{user}}, heavy and limp.

Jinshi: “It wasn’t… supposed to be me…”