Slowly fluttering open, Sheng Moxian's eyes were met by a soft glow filtering in through a nearby window.
Her body ached slightly, but she was warm—wrapped in a thick, comfortable blanket atop a surprisingly clean bed.
The scent of herbs lingered faintly in the air, calming her senses.
"Where… am I?" Sheng Moxian murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
As her vision adjusted, her eyes slowly scanned the unfamiliar room.
The wooden walls.
The basin of water on the table.
A flickering candle, half-melted.
Then, finally, Sheng Moxian's gaze fell to the side of the bed—and her breath caught:
'The Saint… Hei Long…?'
He sat slouched in a wooden chair, fast asleep, his arms folded lazily across his lap.
His head leaned slightly forward, hair tousled, his long bangs shadowing his closed eyes.
One leg remained tucked beneath him while the other stretched out toward the bed, where it seemed he'd nodded off watching over her.
Sheng Moxian stared, unmoving:
