Chapter 246 - Feeding him medicine

Chapter 246: Chapter 246 - Feeding him medicine

Jian stepped into the dimly lit room, his breath slightly ragged, his body drenched in thick, glistening tar-like blood that dripped in trails behind him. The dark liquid clung to his skin, staining every inch of his body like a grotesque armor. It wasn’t his own blood—none of it was. It reeked of Graylings, their decay already setting in. He didn’t even flinch.

His eyes immediately found Xing Yu lying motionless on the bed. The man’s skin was flushed red with fever, sweat glistening along his hairline and neck, his breathing shallow but steady. Beside him, Li Wang had been doing his best—placing a damp cloth over the general’s forehead, fanning him with an old folded paper—but he was trembling. The battle had shaken him to his core.

"Go check on the others," Jian said softly. His voice, though low, carried an edge of calm command. "I’ll take care of him."

Li Wang opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. His eyes flicked to Jian’s bloodstained hands and the slashes on his clothes. Without a word, he nodded and stepped out.

Jian closed the door gently behind him.

He walked to the basin, filled with clean water they’d drawn earlier that evening. Steam still curled from it. He picked up a fresh towel, then paused. His own hands were still coated in gore. Silently, he stripped off his tattered, bloodied shirt and pants and tossed them aside. There was no time to wash properly. He stepped over to a nearby pitcher of cold water and dumped it over himself in one go, the shock of it biting into his skin, causing him to inhale sharply. The black sludge loosened and fell away in thick globs, splattering against the wooden floor. He scrubbed his arms and neck as best he could, then dried off with an old rag before slipping into one of Xing Yu’s spare tunics.

Then he returned to the bedside and sat on the edge.

He dipped the towel in the warm water, wrung it out, and began gently wiping the sweat from Xing Yu’s brow. The man’s skin was burning to the touch, almost scalding. Jian didn’t flinch—he just focused on the motions. He wiped down his temples, then his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and then carefully swept down the neck and along the sides. He soaked the towel again and this time laid it lightly across Xing Yu’s chest, letting the coolness seep in. Xing Yu flinched slightly but didn’t wake.

Jian leaned in, gently brushing aside strands of damp hair that clung to the man’s forehead.

"You should’ve told me," he whispered, voice thick. "That you were this sick."

He reached for a new cloth and began cleaning the man’s arms, wiping from the shoulders down to the fingertips. With each pass, he moved with such care—as if afraid he’d break something.

The strong, untouchable general looked so vulnerable now. So human.

Jian paused and placed a hand gently on Xing Yu’s chest. His heart beat sluggishly but steadily beneath his palm.

"You kept pushing yourself," he whispered. "Because of me. Because you didn’t want me to see her alone."

He lowered his gaze. A few stray drops of water from his still-damp hair fell onto Xing Yu’s collarbone and soaked into the tunic.

"You big idiot..."

For a while, he just sat there, changing the cloth every few minutes, watching the rise and fall of Xing Yu’s chest, listening to the distant sounds of Eren and Varon checking the perimeter, Nansick’s muffled footsteps pacing the hallway. Outside, the air was beginning to shift again—growing colder.

A single thought throbbed in Jian’s mind.

We’re not safe here anymore.

But that wasn’t something he wanted to think about just yet. Not while this man—the man who had once called him "my child" in a voice so hoarse and full of regret—lay unconscious in front of him.

So he stayed. Quietly tending to Xing Yu’s fevered body.

Wiping down the heat.

Waiting.

Jian sat beside the bed, the warmth of the room curling around him in strange contrast to the cold dread that had taken root in his chest. He had laid a new towel across Xing Yu’s forehead, but the man’s fever showed no signs of abating. His face remained flushed, sweat dotting his brows and temples in a glistening sheen, and his breathing still came in shallow, uneven puffs.

Jian reached into the small medicine pouch they had retrieved during their first stop on the planet—a pouch he now bitterly regretted letting sit unused. His fingers trembled slightly as he retrieved the sealed vial, its label a complex swirl of Farian script and numbers. With a steady exhale, he poured the thick blue liquid into a cup of lukewarm water, stirring it until it dissolved.

"Alright... this should bring the fever down," he whispered more to himself than to the man lying unconscious.

He dipped a spoon into the solution and carefully brought it to Xing Yu’s lips.

"General... come on... just a little bit..."

But the spoon met resistance. Xing Yu’s jaws were clenched tight, lips refusing to part. Jian tried coaxing, tried nudging the corner of his mouth with the spoon, even whispered his name again—but there was no response. Only the faint twitch of an eyelid.

Jian’s throat tightened.

"Damn it..."

He looked down at the cup, then back at Xing Yu. There was no other way to get the medicine in—not unless they had a feeding tube or injector, which they didn’t. And they didn’t have time. The fever was climbing, and each minute wasted only pushed the general closer to collapse.

His hands tightened around the cup, knuckles paling.

He swallowed.

Then glanced at Xing Yu again, eyes widening slightly as the thought formed, ridiculous and alarming—but logical.

He flushed at the idea. No, that’s...

But it was the only way.

Jian set the spoon aside and slowly lifted the cup to his own lips. He drank a small mouthful, just enough, letting it sit carefully in his mouth.

Then he leaned forward.

His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t hear anything else. His breath hitched as he hovered over the man, only inches away now. Xing Yu’s face was so close—too close—and Jian’s vision took in everything in heightened clarity: the silver lashes damp from fever sweat, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the small scar at the edge of his lip.

You’re only doing this to help. Just give him the medicine.

He cupped Xing Yu’s face with one hand, fingers gentle, trembling, and then pressed their mouths together.

At first, there was nothing—Xing Yu didn’t respond. But Jian gently pried his mouth open with his tongue, just barely, easing the medicine through in careful motion. The liquid slid into the older man’s mouth, and reflexively, he swallowed.

It worked.

Jian quickly pulled back, flushed and breathing harder than he should be. His hand covered his mouth as he stared at Xing Yu, wide-eyed, heart thudding against his ribs.

The silence between them now felt charged.

His own face was hot, burning worse than any heat from the battle. He turned his face away, trying to will the color down from his cheeks.

"I-It’s just medicine," he mumbled to himself, lips tingling.

Still... he couldn’t help but glance back. Xing Yu lay there the same as before, but Jian could swear—he could swear—that the man’s lashes had fluttered faintly just before he moved away.

Just the fever. Nothing more.

Still flustered and fighting the thrum in his chest, Jian returned to the cup, preparing another small mouthful.

Once more, he leaned forward. This time, his hand steadied against Xing Yu’s collarbone as he brought their mouths together again. The contact sent another jolt through him—but he forced himself to stay focused, easing the rest of the medicine into the general’s mouth.

Again, a swallow.

Again, that subtle response.

He sat back once more, swallowing hard. His fingers shook slightly as he set the cup aside. For a long moment, he just stared at the older man, watching the fever slowly begin to ease, watching the faint relaxation of his brows, his breath growing more even.

"You better get better after this," Jian muttered, then covered his face with both hands.

He couldn’t tell if the burning in his chest was leftover adrenaline from the battle, the awkward intimacy of what he’d just done—or something else entirely.

...and as sleep tugged at the edges of Jian’s awareness, he reached out across the narrow space between them. His fingers hovered for a moment over Xing Yu’s hand—calloused, cold, unmoving.

He swallowed hard, then gently slipped his hand into it, curling his fingers around the man’s long, trembling ones. A rush of warmth spilled into his chest—not from Xing Yu’s skin, which was still far too cold—but from the feeling of holding him, anchoring him here, to this moment. To life.

His thumb brushed slowly over the back of Xing Yu’s hand, almost absentmindedly, as though he feared letting go would cause the fever to swallow the man whole.

"...good night," Jian murmured into the space between them, his voice so low it barely stirred the air.