The wind had subsided.
For the first time, I felt that the Northern Desert could actually be this quiet. It wasn't the terrifying dead silence that makes one afraid—it was the quiet of people who finally didn't need to run, didn't need to shout, and didn't need to press on wounds while waiting for dawn. Someone was gathering scattered arrows, inserting them back into quivers one by one, their movements slow, as if their arms could no longer lift. Others sat directly on the ground, leaning against wagon wheels, with blood and mud still uncleaned from their faces. Some had already fallen asleep, slumped against the sides of tents, their snores audible even from a dozen paces away.
I stood there and looked around. Someone had replanted a fallen flag into the earth; it stood crookedly, but no one bothered to straighten it. Nearby lay a single boot; where the other one had gone, no one knew.
I sighed and stuffed the empty medicine bottle I had been clutching back into my sleeve pocket.
The camp was slowly tidying itself up. No one was shouting slogans; no one was celebrating. They were simply gathering what needed to be taken away, leaving what had to be left behind in this sandy soil. On the northern horizon, the scattered cavalry that had been defeated was nowhere to be seen. The scouts had returned reporting that they had retreated far away. No one pursued them. Not because they didn't want to, but because they couldn't.
I walked toward the center of the camp. Sand had gotten into my boots, grinding painfully against my heels, but I was too lazy to shake it out. After a few steps, I saw Zhu Zhanji nearby. He was speaking with several generals, his voice low; I couldn't make out the words. His light armor was still on; the plate on his left shoulder was newly replaced, shining brighter than the worn ones beside it. He stood there, his back straight, just as he had been during the battle. But looking closely, one could see it—a dark ring around his cuff. It was blood. Dried. It was from before I had bandaged him yesterday; he hadn't had time to change yet.
I watched for a moment. This person seemed to never stop. During the battle, he stood on that high ground waiting; now that it was over and others had sat down, he was still talking. His voice wasn't loud, but it never ceased.
I walked over.
"Sit down."
He glanced at me. "It's fine."
I directly grabbed his arm and dragged him toward a wooden crate nearby. "It's not fine." He said nothing more, allowing me to push him down onto the seat. The crate was unstable; it wobbled, and his knee bumped against the edge with a dull thud. He didn't mind, just resting his hands on his knees and looking at me.
I squatted beside him and took his hand. The dried blood around the cuff had stuck the fabric together. I tugged gently, but it wouldn't budge. Using scissors, I cut a small section along the edge, revealing the gauze underneath—it was the wrapping I had done yesterday; the knot was still the same, not loosened. There was a small patch of seeped blood on the gauze, not large, already dried to a brownish color. I stared at that ring of gauze for a moment, then looked up at him.
"You moved around after you went back yesterday?"
"Not much."
"How much is 'not much'?"
He didn't answer. I glared at him, lowered my head, and unwrapped the gauze. The wound had improved since yesterday; the edges were starting to close, with no signs of inflammation. I pressed the skin nearby; he didn't flinch or make a sound.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Liar."
He didn't respond. I reapplied the medicine; this time, my hand didn't shake. The powder fell onto the wound in a thin layer. As I re-wrapped the gauze, I couldn't help but say, "You really got lucky this time."
He said indifferently, "Is that so?"
I looked up and glared at him. "If you do this again, I won't save you next time."
He looked at me and smiled very lightly. "You say that every time."
I paused. It seemed... I had said it. I said it when bandaging him in the military tent last time, and before that, when changing the Great General's medicine in the Eastern Palace side room. Every time I said "I won't save you next time." But when those words came out, they never sounded true.
My fingers paused on his arm for an instant, then I lowered my head, finished wrapping the gauze, and tucked the end into the last loop.
"Done."
He didn't move; he just sat there. I stood up and took a step back.
"It'll be better once we go back," I whispered.
He didn't respond. The wind blew from the grasslands, very light, carrying the scent of earth and withered grass. He sat on that wobbling wooden crate, looked up at me. Just one glance, quick, so quick I didn't know what it meant. But I knew he heard me.
I turned and walked toward my own tent. After a few steps, I suddenly heard him say from behind, "Your medicine chest."
I turned around. He was standing up, holding that medicine chest—the one I had rummaged through messily yesterday. The lid was closed properly; the bottles and jars were all put back, the large ones on the left, the small ones on the right. Even the scissors had been put away, tucked into the corner.
"I forgot," I said.
He walked over and handed the chest to me. It wasn't heavy, but when I took it, my fingers brushed against his—his fingers were cold, colder than mine.
"Don't forget next time," he said.
"Mm."
I hugged the medicine chest and walked back. After a few steps, I looked back again. He was still standing there, watching me. Moonlight shone on his face; he stood there, just as quiet as when he was sitting on the crate moments ago.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Hmm."
"Go to sleep early."
He didn't answer. He just stood there, watching me. I waited a while; he didn't speak. Then I turned back and continued walking. There were no footsteps behind me; he was probably still standing there. I didn't look back.
Back in the tent, I placed the medicine chest on the table and sat on the low stool, staring at the box for a while. The lid was neatly closed; the bottles and jars were arranged by size. I reached out and opened the lid, seeing the empty golden wound powder bottle tucked in the corner, its mouth facing up. I took it out and placed it on the table. The bottle was very light, so light it felt like it held nothing. Yet it was placed here, picked up from the ground, wiped clean, tucked into the corner of the box, and brought back.
I clenched the bottle in my palm. Cold. Then slowly warming up.
Outside, people were talking, their voices low, indistinguishable. Someone laughed, a very light laugh, carried over by the wind, then scattered. The camp was slowly quieting down.
I put the bottle back into the box and closed the lid. Standing up, I blew out the lamp.
Lying down, I stared at the tent ceiling.It'll be better once we go back. During these days in the Northern Desert, he stood before me and said, "You were over there." He sat opposite me and said, "But I didn't want to gamble." I bandaged him, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the medicine bottle. Once we go back, they won't shake anymore. Not because the Northern Desert was bad. But because once we go back, he won't need to stand in front of me anymore.
I turned over and closed my eyes.
Outside, the wind was still blowing. Very gently now.
(End of Chapter Nineteen)