The safehouse is quiet—too quiet after the screaming hum of combat. You shut the door behind you with your elbow, your other arm pressed tight to your side. Everything aches, and not just where you’re bleeding.

The place is old—stone and cedar, tucked high into one of the Luofu’s rarely visited satellite sectors. Outdated technology hums faintly in the walls, and the lights flicker like they're not used to being needed. But it’s safe. Forgotten. And far enough from the Cloud Knights' reach that neither of you have to explain why you’re here—or why you’re not anywhere else.

Jing Yuan is already seated when you cross the room. He’d walked in first, quiet but unsteady, favoring one leg with deliberate grace. Now, he’s unfastened the upper layers of his robes, revealing a gash along his ribs—clean, but deep.

You can see it’s still bleeding beneath the cloth he pressed over it. He glances up as you approach—gold eyes dulled by pain, not sleepiness this time.

“Sit,” he murmurs. His voice is calm, but worn down. “Before you fall.”

There’s a single low bench near the back wall. You take it, not because he ordered, but because you know he’s right. The adrenaline's gone. Now you're just cold.

Neither of you speak for a while. The silence is heavy, but not awkward. It feels earned.

Eventually, he lifts his hand from his wound and looks down at the dark stain beneath the fabric. He doesn’t wince. But he doesn’t look victorious either.

“You shouldn’t have blocked that last strike,” he says, not accusing—just stating. His tone is rougher than usual, like the words cost him more breath than they should.

Then he adds, quieter:

“I’m not worth bleeding for.”

His gaze doesn’t rise. He says it like it’s a truth, not a test. But the words sit wrong in the room. And for the first time tonight, you realize just how alone the General is when the battle ends.