The wounds left by the fall of Qingfeng Sect were far worse than they appeared.

  Three days had passed since their return to the star?lit chamber.

  Ye Lingyun’s face was still pale.

  Each time he tried to regulate his breath, a sharp pain shot through his left shoulder,

  forcing his qi into chaos, cold sweat sliding down his back.

  It was not a surface wound.

  It was an internal injury left by a strike of pure force—

  ordinary herbs were useless.

  Sunri saw all of it,

  and worry tightened in his chest.

  He had tried using the chamber’s power to imagine medicine—

  the herbal paste villagers used in his world.

  The stone platform did not respond.

  Only then did he recall the rule:

  It could only create things he had personally experienced.

  The chamber answered deep memory and bodily knowledge,

  not things merely seen or heard of.

  “He needs someone who can heal internal injuries.”

  Sunri whispered to the chamber,

  though it sounded more like he was speaking to himself.

  The sun?mark on his palm warmed.

  The ancient book on the stone platform opened on its own.

  New words surfaced on the page:

  “Entry 1208: World ‘White Robe’. A healer resides there.”

  “Note: No Yueqiao fragment detected. This visit is for treatment only.”

  Sunri turned.

  Ye Lingyun tried to stand,

  but staggered,

  coughing up a mouthful of blood.

  “Let’s go.” Sunri caught him,

  no longer hesitating.

  As the golden light rose,

  Mòdou leapt down from above,

  landing beside Sunri's foot.

  Ye Lingyun looked at the star?spiral one last time.

  His gaze held a swordsman’s pride,

  and a wounded man’s weakness.

  The first thing they felt after the light faded

  was a strange kind of cleanliness.

  The air carried a sharp, chemical scent—

  some kind of powerful cleansing agent.

  Then they saw the corridor.

  Long. White walls.

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  Smooth grey tiles.

  Cold lights glowing evenly overhead.

  Ye Lingyun steadied himself against the wall,

  eyes wide.

  “This place… without fire or candles, how is it bright as day?”

  Before Sunri could answer, Ye swayed again.

  His skin was cold to the touch.

  The black cat landed softly,

  golden eyes sweeping the corridor.

  Its tail flicked once

  before it slipped silently around the corner.

  It was scouting ahead.

  “This way.” Sunri said quietly.

  The sun?mark pointed deeper inside.

  They turned a corner.

  A door stood slightly open.

  Doctor’s Lounge, the sign read.

  They pushed it open.

  A young man in a white coat sat on the sofa,

  head lowered, hands pressed to his forehead.

  He looked up at the sound.

  He was about twenty?five, wearing thin?framed glasses.

  Handsome, but exhausted.

  Dark circles under his eyes.

  A fatigue that went deeper than lack of sleep.

  “…Who are you?” His voice was hoarse.

  “We need a doctor.” Sunri helped Ye Lingyun sit.

  “He’s badly injured.”

  The young man—Lin Che—glanced at Sunri,

  then at the blood on Ye Lingyun’s clothes.

  Instinct overrode confusion.

  He stood and approached.

  “Where does it hurt? How were you injured? How long ago?”

  Ye Lingyun raised a hand with effort,

  pointing to his left shoulder and chest.

  “A palm strike. Three days.”

  Lin Che frowned.

  Internal injuries from a palm strike belonged in fiction,

  but he didn’t question it.

  He loosened Ye’s collar to examine him.

  The bruise was faint,

  but the muscle beneath felt wrong—

  as if struck by tremendous force.

  Not a blunt injury.

  More like high?energy trauma causing internal bleeding.

  “Possible severe internal hemorrhage. He needs imaging…”

  Lin Che muttered, then shook his head.

  “But you’re not registered patients…”

  His voice trailed off.

  Because Pardy peeked out from Sunri’s arms,

  quietly watching him.

  Lin Che froze.

  The child’s eyes were too clear.

  Something in his chest tightened.

  He remembered another small face.

  “Please help him,” Sunri said softly.

  “We’re not from this world. We can’t go to anyone else.”

  It sounded absurd.

  Lin Che didn’t argue.

  He silently took out a first?aid kit.

  His movements were practiced,

  but heavy with exhaustion.

  The stethoscope touched Ye Lingyun’s chest.

  Ye stiffened—

  no one had ever listened to his heartbeat with metal.

  “Irregular rhythm. Coarse breath sounds,” Lin Che murmured.

  “Likely organ damage and internal bleeding.

  He needs rest. Medication. No exertion.”

  Ye Lingyun gave a faint, bitter smile.

  At that moment,

  the door opened.

  A middle?aged man in a suit stepped in,

  expression stern.

  His eyes swept the room,

  brows tightening.

  “Lin Che. Why are you still here?

  During investigation, you should remain at home.”

  His gaze moved to Sunri and Ye Lingyun’s strange clothing.

  “Outsiders need to leave. Now.”

  “Director Chen,” Lin Che stood,

  his voice suddenly cold,

  “They’re injured.”

  “Injured people go to the ER.” Chen’s tone sharpened.

  “You’re already in trouble. Don’t make it worse.

  The family came again yesterday. They want punishment.

  I’ve been trying to smooth things over—”

  “Smooth things over?” Lin Che laughed.

  A dry, cracked sound.

  “Master, that day…

  were you really ‘meeting important guests’?

  Or giving cosmetic injections to the deputy director’s daughter?”

  Chen’s face changed.

  “Nonsense!”

  “I checked the schedule. You had no surgeries that afternoon.”

  Lin Che stepped closer, voice trembling.

  “But you told me you’d come soon.

  You told me to start the operation alone.

  And in the end… you never came.”

  “You left a two?year?old’s heart surgery

  to an intern.

  Why?”

  His eyes reddened.

  “Was it because the risk was high?

  If it succeeded, the credit was yours.

  If it failed, the blame was mine.”

  “Enough!” Chen barked.

  “Your mental state is unstable! I order you—”

  “Order me to confess?

  To carry a fault that isn’t mine?”

  Lin Che’s voice broke.

  “That child died.

  She was only two.

  And the person I trusted most—

  you—

  was the first to say it was my mistake.”

  Silence filled the room.

  Ye Lingyun slowly opened his eyes.

  His breath was weak,

  but his voice cut through the stillness.

  “Being betrayed by one you trust…

  I, too, have tasted that.”

  Small Theater

  “Alright, that’s a wrap.”

  The author clapped, ready to end the scene.

  Director Chen stretched, took a step—

  and something soft brushed his ankle.

  He pitched forward, barely catching himself.

  Mòdou walked past with perfect grace,

  tail flicking lightly.

  “You cursed cat…” Chen muttered.

  He tried to stand.

  His foot caught on a cable.

  He fell again—this time straight into a desk.

  “I’m not a villain! I’m just an actor!”

  Chen shouted, panicked,

  as if afraid the script would condemn him.

  He reached for the desk—

  which flipped over the moment he touched it.

  Three seconds of silence.

  Everyone looked away, shoulders shaking.

  Sunri watched Chen’s near?teary face,

  about to offer comfort—

  when he saw it.

  A faint wisp of black smoke

  rising from Chen’s body.

  Sunri froze.

  A thought surfaced:

  …Is he really just an actor?

  Mo-dou sat nearby,

  licking its paw,

  golden eyes half?closed—

  as if it already knew.