The sun bled across the horizon like an open wound, staining the cracked plains in shades of rust and dying fire.
Feng Kuan no longer walked like a man. He moved like something already half-dead.
The stump where his left arm had been throbbed with every heartbeat. The cauterized flesh had split open again during the long night march, leaking thick, foul-smelling pus that soaked through the rags. Fever raged through his body like dry grass set ablaze. Sweat poured down his face despite the morning chill. His vision blurred at the edges, and the world tilted in slow, nauseating waves.
The baby, still nameless, still his little ghost, rested in a makeshift sling across his chest, held in place by his one remaining arm. She had gone quiet hours ago, too exhausted even to cry. Her tiny weight felt heavier than iron.
Behind him, the five surviving bandits trudged in grim silence. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes hollow. They had lost too many men in too short a time. The raid on Black Ox's granary had given them grain and guns, but the jiangshi horde that followed had taken almost everything else.
Scar Wang rode at the front on the lone remaining horse, cleaver strapped to his saddle. He kept glancing back at Feng Kuan with growing disgust.
"You're slowing us down, one-armed ghost," Scar Wang growled. "That fever's eating you alive. You smell like death already."
Feng Kuan did not answer. Speaking took too much strength. He focused only on putting one foot in front of the other.
In the distance, on a low ridge, three figures stood watching.
Little Sparrow.
The young bandit boy he had trained.
And one of the men who had died in the breakout.
They stood perfectly still, faces pale and cracked like old porcelain. Thin black lines spider-webbed across their skin. They did not speak. They did not move closer. They simply watched, heads tilted, eyes empty.
Feng Kuan blinked hard. The figures remained.
By the time Li Zicheng's main rebel headquarters appeared on the horizon, Feng Kuan was barely conscious.
The camp was a sprawling fortress of tents, makeshift walls, and captured Ming banners flying upside down. Smoke rose from dozens of cookfires. Armed men patrolled the perimeter. The air smelled of horses, unwashed bodies, and gunpowder.
Scar Wang rode ahead and spoke with the sentries. After a tense wait, the group was allowed inside under guard.
The commander's tent was larger than the rest, a captured Ming general's pavilion, patched but still imposing. Two guards stood outside.
Inside, Commander Zhao sat behind a low table covered with maps and scrolls. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, weathered face, gray-streaked beard, sharp and calculating eyes.
Beside him stood his daughter, a seventeen year old girl with her father's strong jaw but softer features. Long black hair tied back simply, plain but well-made robes, and eyes that immediately flicked to the baby in Feng Kuan's weakening arms.
Scar Wang explained everything in clipped, bitter sentences, the raid, the jiangshi pursuit, Feng Kuan's value as a trainer, the bite, the amputation, the spreading fever.
"He helped keep us alive," Scar Wang finished. "Gave us fire tactics against the stiff ones. We ask only for proper treatment. If he recovers, he can train more of your men."
Commander Zhao studied the sick man for a long moment. Feng Kuan was barely standing, swaying between two bandits, sweat pouring down his face, the stump wrapped in filthy rags.
The commander's daughter stepped forward without waiting for permission. She gently took the baby from Feng Kuan's grip.
The little ghost opened her eyes and looked up at the young woman. For the first time in days, she did not cry.
"I'll take care of her," the daughter said softly but firmly. "She needs milk and warmth. Not to be carried by a dying man."
Feng Kuan tried to protest. His mouth opened, but only a dry rasp came out. The fever made the world tilt violently. He could not form the words.
The daughter cradled the baby against her shoulder, rocking her gently. "She'll be safe with me. You focus on living."
Scar Wang smirked. "See? Even she knows you're useless right now."
Commander Zhao leaned back, eyes narrowing. "One month," he said at last, his voice measured and final. "You may stay and receive treatment, medicine, food, rest. My healers will tend to you. If you recover enough to be useful again, you may remain and train my men. If not… you will be escorted beyond the walls at the end of the month."
The daughter's head snapped toward her father. "No," she said clearly, her voice steady. "The child stays. She will not be thrown out with him. I refuse to let her go."
Commander Zhao raised an eyebrow, but the girl met his gaze without flinching. "She is innocent. She did not ask for any of this. I will take full responsibility for her."
A long silence filled the tent.
Finally, Commander Zhao exhaled slowly. "Very well. The child stays under your care. The man… one month. No more."
Feng Kuan tried to speak again. His legs buckled. The world spun faster. He felt strong hands catch him before he hit the ground.
The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was the commander's daughter walking away with the little ghost, the baby's small hand resting trustingly against the young woman's neck.
And on the edge of his fading vision, standing just outside the tent flap, were the cracked figures of Little Sparrow and the dead bandits. They watched him in silence, faces split by thin black lines, as if the world itself was breaking apart around them.
They did not speak.
They simply waited.
Feng Kuan's eyes closed.
The fever dragged him under like deep, black water.