The corridor lay silent as a tomb.

  Every gaze clung to YiChen—shock, awe, even a flicker of fear glimmering at the edges.

  —How could one man bring down such a horror?

  —Was he still human… or a figure torn from myth?

  Elena stood frozen, lungs locked, until a sharp sting lanced her palm.

  She looked down—and her pupils shrank.

  The fair skin of her hand was blotched black, veins crawling with dark stains. Sticky fluid seeped from the cracks, reeking faintly of rot.

  “Ah—!” The cry slipped before she bit hard into her lip, smothering it.

  Not far away, Doctor Lin staggered with a groan. He tore up his trouser leg—mottled flesh revealed, purple-black and festering.

  “Doctor Lin!”

  Doctor Mark lurched forward. His face sank at the sight, a curse rasping through his teeth before his voice cut sharp:

  “YiChen! Here!”

  YiChen crouched at once. His gaze swept the wound, hardening. “…The monster’s poison.”

  He pressed his palm to the inflamed flesh. Spirit surged—warm light seeping deep. The black taint writhed, twisting violently under the glow before slowly unraveling.

  At last, the stains receded, leaving raw but living skin.

  “It’s done,” YiChen said evenly, withdrawing his hand. “Rinse with salt water. Rest, and you’ll recover.”

  But then his gaze snapped elsewhere—

  Elena’s hand.

  Her palm was worse than Lin’s. The blotches climbed her wrist, the veins beneath faintly black.

  “Hand.” His voice was low, clipped. No room for refusal.

  Elena hesitated—then, lips pressed white, extended it.

  YiChen enclosed her trembling hand in his. Spirit flared, warmth flooding her skin, chasing the venom through her blood.

  The pain ebbed. The black stains faded, retreating vein by vein.

  Elena dared a glance upward—

  and found his face inches away.

  Shadow fell from his lashes. His nose cut sharp against the glow. His lips pressed thin, every line taut with unyielding focus.

  So close.

  So steady.

  Heat surged unbidden. Her gaze darted downward, cheeks aflame, staring at her shoes as though they might swallow her whole.

  The corridor held its breath.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  At last, YiChen released her hand. His voice came calm, flat:

  “Done. Soak it later. You’ll be fine.”

  “Th-thank you…” Elena whispered. The word was barely sound—yet her ears burned crimson, as though it had set her whole body alight.

  —————

  YiChen’s gaze swept the corridor—sharp, unrelenting.

  Patients gasped shallow breaths. An injured doctor swayed, barely upright. Nurses stood pale with exhaustion. Families clung together, wide-eyed, trembling. And the burly man—fists still clenched, though his strength was fraying at the seams.

  Above all—on the second floor—newborn cries still waited. Nurses still waited.

  YiChen’s decision fell like steel.

  “We move to the second floor.” His tone left no room for air, no space for doubt. “The maternity ward has baths and a rest area. Easy to defend. I’ll hold the door.”

  He paused, eyes hard as tempered iron.

  “If we endure until dawn—we live.”

  No one argued. No one even dared breathe too loud. In their eyes, YiChen was no longer just a youth with an axe. He was the beam holding up a collapsing sky.

  Mark shifted beneath Doctor Lin’s arm, steadying his stagger. The burly man bent, lifting an elderly patient across his back with a grunt. Elena clutched her father’s sleeve, her bandaged hand pressed tight to her chest where YiChen’s spirit had burned the poison away.

  Step by step, together, they began to climb.

  And in every chest, the same vow beat like a war drum:

  Just reach the sunrise.

  Just live to see tomorrow.

  ?

  The nursery doors creaked open.

  Two nurses spun around—faces ashen, each clutching a wailing infant. When their eyes found YiChen, they froze. Then they trembled, tears spilling hot down their cheeks.

  “You—” one stammered, voice breaking. “You really came back! This last hour we… we thought—”

  Her throat seized. The rest never came.

  It didn’t need to. In a hospital drowned in darkness, every passing second had been a blade pressed to the throat.

  YiChen stepped inside.

  More than twenty infants lay in their cribs—some whimpering, some lulled into shallow sleep. The talismans he had pasted earlier still clung to the glass. Faint gold rippled across them, thin but unbroken, holding the night at bay.

  “You’ve done well.”

  Only four words.

  But they fell like fire into frost. The nurses sagged where they stood, shoulders trembling. For the first time in hours, breath steadied. In their weary eyes, strength flickered back to life.

  ?

  The men moved first.

  The burly fighter and several young patients dragged cabinets, carriages, and hospital beds into the hall, piling them into barricades. Metal legs shrieked against tile, rubber wheels clattered over cracks, every crash echoing like war drums.

  Beside them, YiChen knelt by the frames. With calm, deliberate strokes, he painted talismans onto strips of cloth. Spirit bled into each line. Pressed to the wall, the symbols shimmered faint gold—thin, resolute, alive. Each pulse drew hushed gasps, eyes widening as if at a miracle.

  Women and children threw themselves into work. From nearby wards came blankets and quilts, spread thick over the cold corridor floor. A nursing cart was rolled in, sheets draped across bloodstains that could not be scrubbed away.

  Quick-handed youths dismantled IV stands, rigging sheets between them. Thin curtains rose—clumsy shelters, yet shelter all the same.

  Doctors Mark and Lin moved among the injured, rewrapping wounds, murmuring reassurance with steady hands.

  Elena, cheeks flushed, ferried bottles of water and packets of biscuits from the station. As she pressed them into weary palms, she noticed something subtle: though exhaustion carved every face, the suffocating dread had eased. Keeping busy—having something to do—let hope breathe.

  ?

  At last, the decision was set. Every ward door sealed. All survivors gathered here, clustered around the nursery.

  “The infants stay inside,” YiChen said, pointing to the nurses and elder women. “You’ll guard them. Everyone else—rest in turns. Someone always keeps watch.”

  He counted heads.

  Forty-three.

  Not including the infants. Among them were the gravely wounded, frail elders who could barely stand. A group like this could never cut through a hospital crawling with Fiends.

  There was only one path—

  Hold. Until dawn.

  ?

  When the final talisman burned faint gold into the wall, the clock struck eleven.

  Outside, the wind battered the glass, howling like grief. The darkness pressed closer, thicker, smothering.

  But here—within thin walls, amid trembling hands and hollow hearts—

  there was still light.