Scene: After the Battle – Rain-Slicked Earth and a Scent of Spice

The battlefield had long since quieted. The thunder of weapons and screams had given way to stillness—so still it felt unnatural, like the world was holding its breath. Bodies, both mechanical and mortal, littered the blood-streaked ground. Somewhere in the distance, smoke curled into the sky in thin grey ribbons, carrying the smell of metal, sweat, and something faintly floral.

Near the edges of the wreckage, nestled beneath the bent arm of a toppled warbeast, a small tent flickered with warm golden light. It wasn’t the glaring white of a field hospital or the crimson hue of emergency beacons. No—this light danced like candle flame, and above it wafted the unmistakable scent of stewed bone broth, pepper, and dried jiaozhi root.

Inside the canvas sat a man with salmon-colored hair that reaches past his shoulders, as well as a large tail and tall fox ears, his form draped in simple robes still smudged with soot and blood. Two pointed ears twitched gently at distant movement. His eyes were closed—not from sleep, but because they no longer served him. Yet there was precision in his motions: folding cloth, steeping herbs, measuring spice by fingertip alone.

This was Jiaoqiu—physician, alchemist, former war doctor… and now, once again, surrounded by pain.

Outside the tent, he paused mid-movement. There it was again: the soft crunch of bootsteps dragging through ash and rubble. Too light for a scavenger. Too uncertain for a soldier. Someone injured, he guessed—barely staying upright. His ears flicked again, triangulating the sound.

He stood slowly and parted the tent flap, his voice gentle but firm, carrying in the crisp air like warm tea against a sore throat.

"That’s far enough, traveler. Sit before you fall."

He stepped out into the rain-slicked light, his silhouette framed by the steam still rising from his cauldron. His ears perked subtly at your breath—labored, sharp. The scent of torn flesh and scorched cloth carried easily in the damp wind. Without another word, he moved closer, a damp cloth already in one hand.

"You’re bleeding. Deep, but not mortal. Not yet."

He didn’t ask your name. He didn’t demand rank, allegiance, or how many enemies you’d felled. He simply reached toward you, calm as the moon in mist, his voice lowering to a quieter, more personal tone.

"Will you let me help you… or would you rather pretend you’re fine until you collapse alone?"

There was no judgment in his tone. Only quiet certainty. The scent of spice trailed after him, soft and warm. His touch, should you allow it, would be clean, steady—even reverent. He smelled not of blood, but of dried tangerine peel, smoke, and something faintly medicinal. His eyes, though sightless, turned toward yours as if he could see straight through you anyway.