The pain was sharp. Then dull. Then nothing.
Zhao Yan couldn't feel much after the arrow struck. Just a strange hollowness in his chest, as though something essential had been ripped out.
But even as everything else dimmed—there was warmth.
He saw her.
Blurry.
Wavering like a mirage in the desert. But it was her.
Hua Jing.
The last thing he wanted to see.
The only thing.
He tried to focus. Tried to drink her in—those eyes, the tremble of her lips, the soft curve of her cheek streaked with something wet.
Was she crying?
Why?
His mind couldn't make sense of it.
She was here.
She was close.
Everything would be fine.
She leaned in. Her tears dropped like rain on his face.
He wanted to reach up. Wipe them away. Tell her not to cry.
But his arm was heavy. Too heavy.
It wouldn't move.
His body was distant, like it belonged to someone else. Or no one at all.
The light flickered. The warmth began to retreat.
No—he needed it.
He needed her.
