The stiffness intensified until Zaric could no longer move. The numbness crept from his limbs to his chest, to his head—smothering his senses one by one. Sight dimmed, sound warped, and his tongue turned to stone.
He could only feel Lyra's tears splashing on his cheeks.
Her lips moved frantically, her voice breaking through the haze in distorted echoes, as though from another world.
Zaric refused to die like this. Summoning the last spark of will, he forced his stiff tongue to move.
"R…Ren… Ren Flintclaw…"
Though the words slurred, Lyra caught them. "Ren Flintclaw? Ren hurt you!?"
Zaric couldn't answer. The cold paralysis had reached his heart. If it stopped beating, that was the end.
He felt like a fish thrown onto dry land, thrashing for air that wouldn't come. The world darkened—then suddenly, a cool current blossomed in his chest.
It was a familiar sensation, pure and clean, like spring water flooding through him.
The Yellow Amethyst!
It had awakened again.
Just as the last threads of life began to unravel, the gem pulsed. Zaric felt a tiny whirlpool spin within his heart. The currents expanded—then whoosh!—a subtle sound rippled through him.
The deadly energy in his meridians vanished in an instant, devoured by the amethyst.
The stiffness dissolved. His limbs loosened. Air rushed back into his lungs.
Zaric gasped and sat up, drenched in cold sweat.
He flexed his hands. No pain. No weakness. Just a trembling disbelief.
Already fine?
The stone near his heart glowed faintly beneath his skin. What in the world are you?
"Zac! Don't scare me like that!" Lyra clung to him, her voice cracking. His stillness moments ago had nearly broken her.
"I'm fine, Sister Lyra. Totally fine…"
But even as he said it, something churned deep in his gut.
"Ugh—"
Without warning, nausea overwhelmed him. Zaric bent forward and vomited—not bile this time, but thick, black blood, stinking of rot and iron.
Lyra froze in terror. In this world, vomiting blood usually meant death.
But Zaric didn't stop. More black clots spilled from his mouth, and his sweat turned inky and foul, coating his skin like tar.
The stench filled the small house, but Lyra didn't flinch. She wiped his mouth, patted his back, whispering his name over and over.
When at last the last clot left him, Zaric slumped back—and blinked in surprise. He didn't feel weak. In fact… he felt stronger.
His chest rose steady, his skin tingled with life. Only hunger gnawed inside him, a deep, feral hunger.
"I'm fine, sis," he said hoarsely. "Just… starving. And I really need a bath."
Lyra exhaled shakily, then actually smiled. "Hungry is good. Hungry means alive."
She hurried to boil grain porridge, heating water for a bath while cleaning up the dark stains.
When Zaric sank into the wooden tub, he nearly groaned with relief. The sticky black residue washed away, leaving his skin bright and smooth.
But something else felt different. His eyes…
He blinked toward the window and could suddenly see each droplet hanging from a leaf eight meters away. The faint mist rising from the porridge pot, the grain of the wood—everything was sharper, more vivid.
"What…" he whispered, flexing his fingers. His whole body felt lighter, faster—reborn.
"Zac!" Lyra's call broke his trance. "The porridge's ready!"
The aroma made his stomach twist with need.
He sat down and ate. The same bitter grain porridge that used to taste like dirt now tasted sweet, the warmth spreading through him like energy itself.
He devoured two bowls and still felt like he could eat more.
Lyra watched him with shining eyes. "You really are better…"
She didn't understand how, but the way his eyes glowed, the way color had returned to his cheeks—it was a miracle.
She reasoned the way any villager would: he'd vomited black blood, not red. That must've been the bad blood, the poison leaving his body. Even the filthy sweat was the sickness draining away.
"Zac," she said, tears streaking down her cheeks again, "thank the heavens you're fine…"
Before he could answer, she hugged him tightly, trembling. "I thought I'd lost you again."
He hesitated, then wrapped his arms around her. "I'm not going anywhere, Sister."
When she finally pulled back, she asked quietly, "Earlier—you said Ren Flintclaw's name. Was he the one who hurt you?"
Zaric paused, then nodded. "Yeah. I think… he wants you, Lyra."
Her cheeks flushed scarlet. "You're still a child. Don't talk nonsense."
But her eyes hardened. "That man… he's evil."
She clenched her fists, teeth grinding. She hated Ren Flintclaw for harming her brother, yet she was helpless. He commanded the warriors, controlled their rations, ruled the tribe like a god.
"Peng!"
The door exploded open.
The wooden frame splintered, and a massive man stepped through, his shadow filling the room.
His eyes burned like coals as they locked onto Zaric and Lyra.