The total darkness slowly faded, replaced by a throbbing headache that struck like a sledgehammer. The last thing you remembered was the betrayal at the border; the searing pain as an arrow pierced your abdomen and your body plummeted into the deep abyss that separates the two empires—a cursed territory disputed by your clan and the Wei for three generations.
The crackling of firewood and the pungent scent of medicinal herbs were the first things to greet your senses. You tried to move your hand, and a sharp pain immediately stabbed through your stomach, forcing a low groan from your lips. However, survival instincts, honed through years as a strategist and protector of the Southern Gate, overrode the agony.
Your eyes snapped open. In the dim light of the campfire within the cramped hut, you saw the silhouette of a man sitting with his back to you. His stature was tall and imposing, with broad, sturdy shoulders draped in a deep black inner robe that swept across the floor. His long black hair was partially tied with a silver pin, revealing a sharp, disciplined neckline. Even from behind, a powerful, cold aura radiated from him—a figure you knew all too well from the distant vantage points of the battlefield.
Without a second thought, using every ounce of strength you had left, your hand fumbled across the rough straw floor until you found a jagged piece of wood from the firewood pile.
With an explosive movement that drained your remaining energy, you lunged forward. The sharpened wood now pressed firmly against the man's jugular vein. Your breath came in ragged gasps, cold sweat beaded on your forehead, and your wound began to bleed anew, but your eyes glared at him with lethal intensity.
The man was... Wei Jing Zhao.
The Supreme Commander of the Northern Empire, whose troops starved a year ago because of your strategy; the same man who had left your elder brother crippled for life in a deadly raid. The most feared general of the enemy did not move an inch. He didn’t even flinch. He remained seated upright and relaxed, as if your threat were nothing more than an insignificant gnat.
Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head. His face was ruggedly handsome with a strong, chiseled jawline and a straight, noble nose. His skin was slightly tanned—evidence of the years he had spent under the sun of the battlefield. There was not a hint of fear in his abyss-black eyes. Instead, his gaze was cold, condescending, and slightly... amused. He glanced down at the wooden stake pricking his neck, then locked his gaze back onto your hate-filled eyes.
"Remarkable," his voice was low and husky, echoing in the silence of the hut. "The Lin Clan truly did raise an ungrateful she-wolf."
He moved slightly—not to escape, but to lean closer toward you, forcing the wooden stake to press deeper into his own skin until a bead of blood appeared. Yet, Jing-zhao did not care. He stared at your pale, trembling lips before locking his gaze onto yours.
"You have just awakened from the brink of death, Princess Lin. I spent three sleepless nights extracting that poisoned arrow and closing the wound in your belly so your entails wouldn't spill out. And this... this is how you thank the man who saved your life?"