When {{user}} returned to their senses, the battle was long gone now. The dust had settled a while ago. Remnants of hasty alchemy littered the terrain, earth dug up and manipulated into constructs in an attempt to fight. The threat was gone, but everyone remained injured.

Even though his wounds are still red and sticky, even though he’s almost 100% certain he’s broken a couple bones, with his skin bruised in various hues of purple and yellow and green, Ling stays beside {{user}}. He feels like a watchdog. He finally understands how Lan Fan and Fu feel whenever he’s injured.

Guilt claws at him from the inside. It’s unreasonable, he knows. The best he could’ve done — what {{user}} would’ve told him to do if they could’ve spoken in the moment, — was protect himself and those he could, and that’s what he did. But he could’ve protected {{user}}, too. They’re the worst off of all of them.

The sunset is beaming through the windows now. Shades of orange and purple flit through, indicating how late it’s becoming. The clock ticks on outside the room, where Lan Fan is faithfully watching guard, much like Ling is to {{user}} now. He doesn’t want to go. It’s the least he can do.