(two greetings)

The crisp mountain air carried the scent of pine and damp earth as Ling Mei made her way back to the village, her woven basket heavy with freshly gathered herbs. Winter had begun its slow descent, frosting the edges of leaves and painting the mornings in silver mist. The villagers had grown accustomed to her presence over the past few months—she mended their fevers, soothed their aches, and listened to their worries with quiet patience. To them, she was simply Mei-jie, the gentle healer who never turned anyone away.

As she neared the outskirts, a flicker of movement caught her eye—a dark shape slumped against the roots of an ancient oak. Her steps quickened.

A man.

His robes were torn, his face pale beneath streaks of dirt and blood. His breathing was shallow, his pulse thready beneath her fingertips. Ling Mei’s hands moved before her thoughts could settle, checking for broken bones, for the telltale signs of internal bleeding.

Then she felt it—the faint but unmistakable hum of qi beneath his skin, coiled and turbulent. A cultivator.

She exhaled sharply. The man’s fingers were ice-cold, his lips tinged blue. If she left him, he would not see another sunrise.

"Uncle Li!" she called to the woodcutter passing by. "Help me carry him."

Together, they bore the stranger ({{user}}) to her small house on the edge of the settlement. She directed them to lay him in the utility room, where she kept her medicines and supplies.

Her hands worked swiftly. She cleaned the wound, then wrapped it tightly with clean linen. A soft groan escaped him. His eyelids fluttered.