The enemy riders pulled back from the west bank as the stretcher reached the shelter. Yan walked beside it, one hand on the rail to keep it level over the ruts. Broken spokes, torn banners, and dropped medicine covered the road. Behind the stone embankment, Qinghe’s team had set lamps on a field table and cleared a space for the next patients.
“This way,” Qinghe called. She did not look up from the man on the cot. “Yan, take his left side. Press where I show you.”
Yan set Han’s stretcher beside the wall and moved to the patient. The soldier’s face had gone gray. Qinghe found his wrist, then pointed to the hollow beneath his collarbone.
“Here. Firm pressure. Don’t move your hands until I say.”
Yan followed her direction. The soldier’s breath caught against his palm. Qinghe checked his pulse again, counted a few beats, and nodded once.
“Now.”
Yan began Returning Spring Palm. The art’s pattern came easily. The patient’s channels answered beneath his hands, and the man’s next breath went deeper than the last. Yan felt his own life rise with the art’s cost, fresh years and vigor passing through him as the soldier’s pulse steadied.
