The first thing Xiao Lin felt was warmth.
Not the choking, suffocating heat of fever, nor the burning pain of wounds poorly tended —
but a steady, firm warmth, like sunlight through a thick blanket.
He stirred, eyelids fluttering weakly.
Everything felt... wrong.
Too soft.
Too clean.
No cold dirt floors.
No harsh shouting.
No sting of a whip waiting just beyond sleep.
For a moment, panic seized him — fear that he had died after all, that this was some cruel dream — but then a shadow shifted nearby, and a voice, low and steady, cut through his spinning thoughts.
"You're awake."
Xiao Lin turned his head slowly.
Sitting beside him, a tall man in a simple black tunic watched him with unreadable eyes.
Short black hair fell neatly across his brow.
His skin was tanned, his features sharp and severe — but it was his presence, not his face, that stunned Xiao Lin.
It was like standing at the edge of a vast storm, feeling the restrained force of nature waiting to be unleashed.
And yet... there was something else.
A thread of tension, carefully held back.
A beast, watching.
Guarding.
Xiao Lin swallowed painfully.
His throat felt like sandpaper.
"Y-you're..." He coughed, struggling to find the words. "You're the dragon..."
The man — no, not just a man — inclined his head slightly, like a king acknowledging a subject.
"You saved me," Xiao Lin whispered, voice cracking.
"I'm sorry... I wasn't strong enough to help you before—"
"Enough," the man interrupted, voice quiet but firm.
"You helped more than you know."
Xiao Lin blinked, confused.
The man shifted, sitting back slightly.
There was no hostility in his posture.
No impatience.
Only a strange, steady... waiting.
"I am Sheng Long," he said simply.
"Former Marshal of the Imperial Army."
Xiao Lin stared, mind scrambling to process.
The name sparked faint memories — half-heard stories from the head cook, tales of a legendary hero who had fought against impossible odds.
He had thought it a myth.
Everyone knew the Marshal had died.
And yet...
Here he was.
Alive.
Real.
And for some reason, protecting him.
Xiao Lin's hands trembled slightly where they lay atop the blankets.
He clenched them into fists, forcing the fear away.
"I'm... Xiao Lin," he said, voice barely a whisper.
"Just... nobody important."
Sheng Long's gaze didn't waver.
"You are important," he said simply.
Xiao Lin flinched as if struck.
No one had ever said that to him before.
Not even his mother, though her love had been real, desperate, doomed.
Sheng Long continued, voice even.
"You are SS-rank. You have rare gifts. And..."
A brief pause, almost too brief to catch.
"You showed kindness to something the world considered monstrous."
His dark eyes softened — not much, but enough.
"I owe you my life, Xiao Lin."
The words were not grand or flowery.
No promises of undying loyalty.
No grand speeches.
Just truth.
Plain. Solid.
Like a mountain promising to stand firm against the storm.
Xiao Lin felt something strange swell inside him — not gratitude, not exactly.
Something deeper.
Older.
A recognition.
Two broken souls, battered by betrayal and cruelty, finding a fragile bridge between them.
It wasn't love.
Not yet.
But it was respect.
It was survival.
It was a beginning.
Xiao Lin looked down at his hands, still so pale and thin.
He wanted to say thank you.
He wanted to say he would repay the debt.
He wanted to say... something.
But all that came out was a simple, cracked whisper:
"...I'm glad you're alive."
The Marshall inclined his head again — a gesture of acceptance.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped.
A thin shaft of pale morning light slipped through the window, illuminating the room in a soft, muted glow.
For the first time in many years, Xiao Lin felt — if not safe — then less alone.
And that was enough. For now.