Sunrise found the ravine bathed in soft gold, the stones reflecting muted warmth. Lan Zhuoran stretched, grimacing at the stiffness in his shoulder. Yin Feiyan stirred, blinking away slumber. Gao Tianrong, already alert, stamped out the last embers of their fire.
They resumed their journey, climbing out of the ravine. The day promised more heat, and all three travelers conserved water, aware of how quickly their supplies dwindled. Feiyan's footsteps lagged at times, but she pressed on with unwavering resolve, the relic snug against her side.
By midday, the terrain shifted once again—a series of rolling plains with patches of tall, yellowing grass. A faint wagon track emerged, heavily rutted but still visible, carving a path into the east. Gao Tianrong studied the marks, then looked to Lan Zhuoran. "This might be part of an old trade route. If we follow it, we could reach a larger settlement."
Lan Zhuoran's spirits lifted. "Let's do it."
They trudged along the tracks, eyes peeled for any sign of life. The sun climbed high, scorching overhead, beads of sweat rolling down their faces. Even the mule slowed, ears drooping. Occasionally, they passed broken fence posts and scattered debris—rusted buckets, rotted planks—remnants of past attempts at civilization. Each sign told a story of effort abandoned under relentless hardship.
Then, late in the afternoon, a distant shape flickered on the horizon: a small caravan of wagons, slowly making its way across the plains. The sight of other travelers stirred equal parts hope and caution. Gao Tianrong motioned for them to keep a low profile. "We don't know if they're friendly or part of something worse."
Yin Feiyan's brow furrowed, but desperation clawed at her voice. "If they have supplies or medicine, it could help. At this point, I don't know how much longer I can keep going without proper treatment."
Lan Zhuoran weighed the options, scanning the distant caravan. At least a half-dozen wagons formed the group, pulled by weary-looking oxen. Figures walked alongside, though it was too far to see any distinguishing marks. "We can approach carefully," he proposed. "If they're Syndicate or bandits, we'll retreat."
Gao Tianrong nodded. "I'll circle around from the side, keep an arrow ready."
They advanced slowly. As they neared, the caravan came into sharper focus: a motley assortment of travelers, some with children, others dressed in patchwork clothing. Several carried farming implements or meager possessions. One wagon bore crude banners, though no official crest was visible. It didn't resemble a Syndicate convoy, at least.
Sensing potential allies, Lan Zhuoran hailed them from a safe distance. A wiry middle-aged woman at the head of the caravan stepped forward, squinting in the bright sun. She raised a hand, signaling the others to pause. Cautious but curious, she approached.
"Strangers on the road," she said, voice tinged with fatigue. "What do you want?"
Lan Zhuoran lowered his staff to appear less threatening. "We're travelers heading east. Our companion is injured. We wondered if you have any medicine to spare—or know of a place we can get help."
Her gaze flickered to Yin Feiyan, who leaned against the mule for support. Then she studied Gao Tianrong, who kept a purposeful distance, arrow nocked but pointed downward. "We have some herbs and bandages. But we're refugees ourselves. Lost our home to bandits. We're hoping to reach the next town before the rains come again."
Yin Feiyan mustered a polite nod. "We can pay for any supplies you can spare."
The woman sighed. "We have a traveling healer in our group—he might look at your wounds. No payment needed unless we actually have spare herbs."
Relief washed over Lan Zhuoran. "Thank you."
She beckoned them forward, guiding them toward the wagons. Gao Tianrong cast a quick, warning glance at Lan Zhuoran, but relaxed slightly when no weapons were drawn. As they joined the caravan, curious faces peered from beneath tarps and shabby cloaks. Lan Zhuoran noticed how thin many appeared, with the haunted eyes of those uprooted from their lands.
A stooped old man emerged from one of the wagons, leaning on a crooked staff. Though his hair was sparse, his gaze remained sharp. "A patient?" he asked, eyeing Feiyan.
Lan Zhuoran helped her dismount, explaining her arm injury and the journey they'd endured. The old healer nodded gravely, then waved them over to a makeshift bench set up behind a wagon. He unwrapped Feiyan's bandage, clucking his tongue at the bruising and swelling.
"You've traveled far on this wound," he said softly. "And it shows. I have a few tinctures that might help with the pain, and herbs to stave off infection. But they're not miracles."
Feiyan's eyes shone with relief. "It's more than we've had in weeks."
Nearby, caravan members watched curiously. Lan Zhuoran caught murmurs of sympathy when they saw Feiyan's condition. A few came forward to offer water or a cushion. Gao Tianrong, still on guard, hovered at a distance, scanning the perimeter.
As the healer applied a fresh poultice, Feiyan winced but nodded in appreciation. Lan Zhuoran felt a weight lift from his shoulders. For the first time in days, they had encountered strangers who neither attacked nor demanded exorbitant trade. The group, though battered, showed genuine kindness.
"Rest with us for the night," the woman suggested once Feiyan's arm was re-bandaged. "We'll share what we can. Strength in numbers, yes?"
Lan Zhuoran glanced at Gao Tianrong, who gave a hesitant nod. Feiyan, eyes half-lidded from relief, quietly whispered, "Thank you."
Thus, they found themselves in the company of weary refugees bound eastward, forging an impromptu alliance in a world rife with danger. For one evening, at least, they would dine together under the open sky—no battered huts, no crumbling ruins—just shared hope that somewhere ahead, a safer haven awaited them all.