The work continued through the night.
By dawn, the refugees had cleared a quarter-acre of ground, turning the poisoned soil with their bare hands and broken tools. They had dug a new channel to the well, increasing its yield. They had built two additional shelters from salvaged wood and stone. They had, against all odds, made the Drowned Fields feel like home.
But Gu Yao was fading.
The petrification had spread to his chest. He could feel it now—a cold, dead weight pressing against his ribs, stealing the heat from his blood. The wound on his spine had stopped bleeding, but the flesh around it had turned grey and waxy, the color of old tallow. When he breathed, the air came in shallow, ragged gasps, and each exhale carried a faint, sweet-sour scent of decay.
He did not tell anyone. He did not want to break the fragile hope that was blooming in the camp. Instead, he spent the morning walking among the refugees, offering encouragement, correcting their techniques, and pretending that his legs were not trembling beneath him.
By noon, he could no longer pretend.
He was helping to haul a heavy stone for the new well casing when his left leg gave out. He fell forward, the stone tumbling from his grip, and landed hard on the muddy ground. The impact sent a shockwave of agony through his spine, and for a moment, the world went white.
"Gu-ge!"
Xiao Liu was the first to reach him, dropping to his knees in the mud. Other refugees rushed over, their faces pale with alarm.
"Get back! Give him room!" Shen Yi's voice cut through the crowd, sharp and commanding. She pushed through the press of bodies and knelt beside Gu Yao, her hands already moving to check his pulse.
It was faint. Irregular. The rhythm of a heart that was losing the will to beat.
"Help me turn him over," she said, her voice tight with controlled panic.
They rolled him onto his side, and the gasps that rippled through the crowd were sharp with horror. The wound on his spine was worse than any of them had realized. The flesh around the fourth nail's remnants was blackened and weeping, and the petrification had spread in a spiderweb of grey cracks across his entire back.
"He's been hiding this," someone whispered. "He's been hiding it the whole time."
Shen Yi's jaw tightened. She tore a strip from her tunic and pressed it against the wound, but the cloth soaked through almost instantly.
"We need medicine," she said. "We need proper bandages. We need—"
She stopped. There was nothing they had. Nothing anyone could give. They were in a poisoned wasteland, with no supplies and no access to help.
"Don't," Gu Yao rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't... waste your strength on me. Focus on... the camp. The work. The future."
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"You are the future," Shen Yi said, her voice fierce. "You are the reason they're still alive. If you die, this all falls apart."
Gu Yao tried to smile, but it came out as a wince of pain. "Then... you'll have to... keep it together. You're stronger than me. Always were."
Shen Yi shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm not. I'm not strong. I just... I just didn't want you to be alone."
The crowd had fallen silent. Three thousand refugees stood in a ring around them, their faces tight with fear and grief. They had seen Gu Yao survive a hundred impossible things—the lightning nets, the Heavenly Stars, the wrath of Qing Yangzi himself. But this was different. This was something they could not fight.
"Carry him inside," Xiao Liu said, his voice thick but steady. "We'll make a bed. We'll keep him warm. We'll figure something out."
They moved to lift him, but Gu Yao raised his good hand—the one that was still flesh and blood—and waved them off.
"Leave me," he said. "Just... leave me for a moment. I need to... rest."
He closed his eyes, and Shen Yi felt her heart crack open.
She sat beside him for hours, her hand clasped around his. The petrification was still spreading, slow and inexorable, creeping up his neck like a cold hand closing around his throat. His breathing had grown shallower, his skin colder, and the pulse at his wrist was so faint she had to press her ear to his chest to feel it.
"Don't you dare die," she whispered. "Don't you dare leave me here."
Gu Yao's eyelids fluttered. His lips moved, and she leaned in to catch the words.
"Barley tea," he murmured. "I want... barley tea."
Shen Yi let out a choked sob that was almost a laugh. "I don't have any barley tea. We're in a wasteland. There's no—"
She stopped. In her mind's eye, she saw the old farmer's journal. She saw the entries about the crops he used to grow—wheat, barley, herbs. She saw the hope that the refugees had built on those memories.
"Stay here," she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Stay here and don't die. I'll be right back."
She ran to Xiao Liu, who was standing by the well, his face drawn with worry.
"I need barley seeds," she said. "Wheat seeds. Anything that can grow. The journal said the farmer planted here. There have to be remnants. Old storage pits, grain bins—something."
Xiao Liu's eyes widened. "We searched the farmhouse. There was nothing."
"Search again. Dig deeper. Check under the floorboards, the foundations, anywhere a farmer might have hidden a reserve." She gripped his shoulders, her voice fierce. "I need something, Xiao Liu. I need to make him tea."
Xiao Liu nodded and sprinted away, gathering a group of refugees to help him. Shen Yi returned to Gu Yao's side and resumed her vigil, her hand never leaving his.
An hour passed. Two. The sun began to set, painting the Drowned Fields in shades of orange and amber.
Then Xiao Liu's voice echoed across the camp, high and excited.
"I found it! I found seeds!"
He ran toward her, clutching a small clay pot to his chest. His hands were shaking, his face streaked with tears and dirt, but his smile was radiant.
"Under the hearth," he gasped. "There was a loose brick. The farmer buried it there. It's barley, Shen-jie. It's barley."
Shen Yi took the pot with trembling hands. Inside, nestled in a bed of ash and dry cloth, were a handful of tiny, dark seeds. They were old, shriveled, and brittle—but they were seeds.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."
She took the seeds to the well, filled the water skin, and found a clean piece of cloth. She boiled the water over the campfire, crushed a few of the seeds into a coarse powder, and mixed them into a thin, pale liquid. It was not proper barley tea. It was barely more than flavored water. But it was hot, and it smelled of the earth, and it was something.
She knelt beside Gu Yao and lifted his head, bringing the cup to his cracked lips.
"Gu Yao," she said, her voice soft. "I made your tea."
His eyelids fluttered. His lips parted. And he drank.
The liquid was thin and bitter, but as it slid down his throat, something changed in his face. The tension eased. The lines of pain softened. His breathing deepened, settling into a slow, steady rhythm.
Shen Yi set down the cup and pressed her forehead against his.
"I told you," she whispered. "The tea's not cold. It's never going to be cold."