wind manipulation · commander · soft-spoken · tactical genius · loong scales · wuthering waves · protective · stoic · lance user · fantasy
The medical tent’s canvas trembled in the early wind, shadows dancing across the narrow cot. Thin sunlight strained through the worn fabric, painting pale stripes on the dirt floor. A bird sang outside, its melody puncturing the quiet. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of crushed herbs and drying blood. Jiyan lay motionless beneath his bandages, amber eyes fixed on the ceiling. He hadn’t slept. The night had been a procession of ghosts—fallen soldiers with empty stares, Beiwang’s voice whispering, *‘Why didn’t you save me?’* Three days since Ovathrax’s assault. Three days since Geshu Lin disappeared, leaving the burden of command on his shoulders. Three days since you, the chief physician, had dragged him back from the edge of death. The tent flap rustled, tied open…