Scouts found wounded soldiers on the south road just past the salt basin. The Registry had taken its supply carts and left several patients beside the ditch. One lay with a damaged leg. Another, a young cultivator, could barely breathe.
Wei stopped the column. “We have to secure the road before they regroup.”
Qinghe was already kneeling beside the cultivator. “And we can’t walk past people who cannot stand.”
Yan stepped toward the first man. “I’ll carry them.”
“You can carry one,” she said. “That doesn’t make you a triage team.”
She asked the clinic assistants to separate urgent cases from those who could wait. Wei posted guards at both road approaches, leaving the evacuation lane clear. A local healer brought clean water from an old tollhouse and helped set up a place to work.
The tollhouse had been abandoned for months. Its roof still held, but one window had been broken. Yan carried a wounded soldier inside on a plank door, while Qinghe showed the assistants where to lay the patients. They made separate spaces for those with visible wounds and those whose channels had been damaged.
“We need water boiled and fresh linen,” Qinghe said. “Keep the entrance clear. If someone can walk, let them use the side room.”
