The next morning.
The sky had just begun to brighten, and everything was shrouded in a misty haze.
Rosalind York, carrying her basket for collecting herbs, made her way to the mountain near the village to gather medicinal plants.
The mountain slopes were enveloped in heavy fog. Venturing deep into the wilderness, Rosalind found herself surrounded by a vast sea of white, as if she had stepped into a fairyland.
In her hand, she held a small spade for digging up herbs, walking through the mountains and searching for the plants she needed. She knew the terrain of this area so well that she could navigate it with her eyes closed.
As she searched, a patch of blood-stained grass at the base of a large tree caught her attention.
Due to its steep terrain and thick underbrush, the locals rarely ventured into these mountains. Where could this blood have come from? It certainly didn't look like the result of an animal's injury.
For Rosalind, who was well-versed in the properties of herbs, the blood-soaked plant was also a valuable medicine that could be used to heal and save lives.
She didn't mind the blood, and casually pulled the herb out of the ground, placing it in her basket.
Following the trail of blood-soaked grass, she walked about a hundred meters and discovered a man lying beneath a tree, his body covered in blood.
It seemed that the man had fallen from a great height and was caught by the branches of the tree before landing. There were no signs of struggle or combat around him.
Perhaps his luck had placed him here instead of on the edge of a cliff, where he would have been crushed to death.
Approaching the man, Rosalind saw a face that was even more handsome than those of the most famous film stars. Despite the cuts and blood on his face, they did little to obscure his strikingly good looks.
He wore a high-end bespoke suit that suggested considerable wealth and a distinguished status.
Leaning in, Rosalind examined the man's injuries and found multiple fractures across his body, along with a life-threatening gunshot wound to his chest. His wounds were already infected, indicating he had been injured for at least two days.
The fact that he had managed to drag himself several hundred meters while in such a condition spoke volumes about his indomitable willpower.
Rosalind was not one to interfere in others' business, but today, something inexplicable compelled her to save this man. Perhaps it was because he looked so appealing, she thought to herself.
Moving the man in black was no easy task, but leaving him on the ground wasn't an option either. Rosalind leaned forward, carefully avoiding the areas where he was fractured, and lifted him with surprising ease, heading towards the small wooden hut where she often rested when gathering herbs.
For a slender girl to carry a fully grown man through the thickets and deep forest would seem unbelievable to anyone who witnessed it. But Rosalind was no ordinary girl. To her, it felt as though she were simply carrying a sleeping child, walking with the grace and ease of someone treading on flat ground.
The small wooden hut was built by Rosalind herself, primarily for resting after tiring days of herb-gathering or seeking shelter from the rain. Inside, the furnishings were sparse—nothing but a bed, a pile of firewood in the corner, and a table.
She entered the hut and laid the man gently on the small bed. The room was bare except for these few essentials. Rosalind undid the man's clothing and found that his injuries were worse than she had imagined. The bullet was deeply embedded, and if not removed soon, he would surely lose his life here.
There was no time to prepare anesthetic for surgery. Fortunately for the man, he had met Rosalind today; if it had been anyone else, even a deity might have found it impossible to save him.
She took off her basket and used the water she carried for drinking to clean around the man's wound. Without antiseptic, she had to make do with the water.
Next, she tore her own coat into strips to use as bandages for dressing the deeper wounds.
Finally, she retrieved her dagger, heated it with a lighter, and proceeded to extract the bullet.
The dagger went into the man's body, and blood splattered everywhere, staining Rosalind's hands and face. Yet, she seemed oblivious to the mess, her focus entirely on the man's wound. Her hands moved swiftly, the speed so fast that only blurs were visible, much like a butterfly fluttering through the air.
Without any anesthetic, the unconscious man winced in pain but did not awaken.
Soon, she finished treating the wound, chewing some hemostatic herbs from her basket until they were thoroughly mashed, then applying them directly to the wound. She bound it tightly with the torn strips of cloth and secured the man's fractured limbs with dry twigs and branches.
By the time she was done, Rosalind was drenched in sweat. Performing what would normally be a multi-person operation alone was incredibly draining.
She stood up and stretched her neck, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, unlabeled bottle. She tipped a few pills into her hand and gently placed them in the man's mouth, thinking to herself, "Well, since I've started, I'll finish the job!"
If anyone from the black market had seen those pills, they would have thought she was mad. They were known internationally as the miracle drugs that could bring the dead back to life—priceless and nearly impossible to obtain, yet she had just given several to a complete stranger. It was a waste of such precious resources.
Rosalind shouldered her basket and stepped out of the small wooden hut. It was almost dusk, and she walked briskly toward home.
When she arrived, she saw the butler's car parked by the courtyard, with the man himself sound asleep inside. Ignoring him, she went straight into the house.
Inside, her grandmother had already prepared dinner. Seeing Rosalind, she said, "You've been out gathering herbs again. Dinner is just ready, go wash your hands and eat while it's hot! Oh, and go ask the butler to join us for a meal."
"No need to bother him. He wouldn't appreciate our simple fare."
Rosalind remembered how last night her grandmother had invited the butler to join them for dinner, but he had looked down upon their humble courtyard, preferring to eat dry rations and sleep in his car rather than come inside.
Rosalind wasn't about to coddle him, especially not when he showed such disdain.
"Young lady, you should know better. A guest is a guest, and we must show respect," the old woman chided gently.
The elder then walked out to the courtyard and tapped on the car window. The butler, hearing the knock, lowered the window with a look of impatience and asked, "What is it?"
Ignoring the butler's poor attitude, the old woman smiled warmly and said, "Nothing much, just inviting you in for a hot meal."
"No thanks, I have my own food. You go ahead and eat yours. Just tell that girl to hurry up and get ready to head back to the city with me. I don't want to stay in this godforsaken place a second longer," the butler replied rudely.
The butler's arrogance stemmed from knowing that Mr. and Mrs. York were bringing Rosalind back not to enjoy a life of luxury, but to take the place of her stepsister in a marriage arrangement.
The York family had a matrimonial agreement with the noble Norman family. However, rumors circulated that the Norman heir had been disfigured in a car accident years ago, leaving him hideously scarred, with a violent temper and a cruel disposition. Women who fell into his hands were said to meet tragic ends.
Mrs. York naturally did not want her beloved daughter to suffer such a fate, which led her to think of Rosalind, who had been raised in the countryside.
By having Rosalind marry into the Norman family in place of her daughter, Mrs. York justified she was securing a good future for her. After all, such a prestigious match was something Rosalind could never achieve on her own in the countryside. This was how Mrs. York convinced her husband.
Mr. York, indifferent to the daughter he had never met and who was born from his previous marriage, agreed to his wife's plan.
The old woman paid no mind to the butler's tone and smiled, saying, "Alright, I'll let Rosie know." Then she turned and went back inside.
Seeing her grandmother enter, Rosalind said, "I told you not to bother him. Now you've just embarrassed yourself."
After dinner, Rosalind tidied up and returned to her room, lying down to rest. Unconsciously, her thoughts drifted to the man she had saved earlier that day, wondering how he was doing now.
The next morning, before dawn broke, she made her way to the small wooden hut where she had left the man to check on his condition.
Seeing that his injuries were stable and showing no signs of worsening, it seemed he would wake up later that day. She reached into her pocket, took out the pills she had given him the day before, and placed two more in his mouth, leaving the remaining pills in his hand.
Looking at the man whose beauty was breathtaking, she murmured to herself, "I have to leave here. From now on, it's up to your luck." With that, she turned and left the hut.
Unbeknownst to Rosalind as she walked away, the man had heard her words and his fingers twitched, but he couldn't muster the strength to wake up.
He struggled desperately to open his eyes and see the face of the person who had saved him, but his efforts were in vain. All he could do was listen to the footsteps of his savior fading into the distance.