Love Burning Amidst the Ashes. - Chapter 8 -The Migrant Horde

The icy rain beat mercilessly against Xu Qing Feng’s face, mixing with cold sweat and the half-dried blood at the corner of his lips, sending shivers deep into his bones. He knelt on one knee atop the mud-soaked layer of rotting leaves. Every rapid breath tugged at the gaping knife wound on his chest—so deep the bone could be seen—bringing a tearing agony that nearly split his consciousness. The remnants of lightning backlash within his meridians burned like molten needles grinding through flesh.

He clenched the small silver dagger in his hand with all his remaining strength. His bloodshot eyes, wild and feral, locked onto the blurry silhouette slowly approaching through the thick fog.

Was it those relentless pursuers again?
Or… something even worse lurking in this man-eating forest?

Despair and murderous instinct surged once more. He gritted his teeth until blood seeped from his gums. His body tightened, ready for one last, hopeless lunge.

Rustle… rustle…

The footsteps grew nearer, mixed with suppressed coughing, the faint cries of children, and the heavy, dragging squelch of feet sinking into wet leaves. The fog peeled open as if pushed by an unseen hand, and several figures finally came into view through Xu Qing Feng’s blurred vision.

Not pursuers.
Not monsters.

Just a few ragged, gaunt, rain-soaked people—walking corpses in human shape. They leaned on one another, carrying tattered bundles or holding skeletal children in their arms. Exhaustion, hunger, and bone-deep numbness were etched into their faces. An elderly man with graying hair and a hunched back tapped the ground with a crude wooden stick, his cloudy eyes scanning the surroundings with wary caution.

When he saw Xu Qing Feng—blood-drenched, crouched like a wounded beast—and behind him the unconscious, also blood-soaked Xu Qing Xuan half-buried in the wet leaves, he staggered back in shock and tightened his grip around the stick.

“Da… da… dada… there’s… someone!” a sickly-faced woman clutching a baby cried out, shrinking behind the elderly man.

Suspicion and fear flashed through the old man’s dull eyes.
The Burial Forest was forbidden ground—normal folk stayed far away. Two blood-covered youths appearing here, one unconscious and the other with a gaze sharp enough to kill… could not possibly be good news.

He instinctively raised the stick across his chest and rasped, “Who… who are you boys? What are you doing here?”

Xu Qing Feng’s nerves, wound to the breaking point, didn’t relax at the sight of these equally miserable people. If anything, they tightened further. The death of his parents, the destruction of his home—those nightmares had carved distrust so deep that he dared not let anyone approach.

A low, animalistic growl rumbled from his throat. He raised the muddy silver dagger, pointing the tip at the old man like a cornered wolf defending its last scrap of life.

“G-Get… back…! Don’t… come closer!”

He tried to stand, shielding his brother, but pain ripped through his chest and his weakened body nearly toppled. He caught himself on the wet ground, gasping for air.

“G-grandpa… he’s bleeding so much…”
A bony child of seven or eight peeked from behind the old man, pointing at Xu Qing Feng’s ghastly wound, now washed pale by the rain. The boy’s eyes held little fear—only curiosity and a hint of instinctive compassion.

The old man frowned deeply. He looked at Xu Qing Feng’s trembling, ferocious posture… then at Xu Qing Xuan, pale as death and barely breathing. Beneath the stubborn vigilance in his gaze, a thin layer of pity surfaced.

Pitiful souls… all driven to the end of their roads.

He let out a weary sigh. “Young man… we’re not bad people. We’re refugees, same as you… just passing through.”

His voice softened.
“That wound… and your brother… if you stay out in this rain any longer, you’ll both die.”

He pointed toward the fog behind him, where more vague silhouettes waited.

“There’s a rocky hollow ahead—barely enough to keep the rain out. That’s where we’re resting. If you trust us… follow. This cursed forest isn’t a place the living should linger.”

Without another word, the old man turned away, guiding the women and children deeper into the mist. The woman with the baby cast a quick, sorrowful glance at the unconscious Xu Qing Xuan as she passed.

Xu Qing Feng stared after them, his body finally giving out as he collapsed into the mud, panting harshly.
Not pursuers…
Refugees…

The old man’s words echoed in his clouded mind:
If the rain doesn’t stop, your brother won’t survive… The cave… shelter…

Brother!

He jerked around. Xu Qing Xuan’s face was a lifeless bluish white, his lips drained of all color. His breath was so faint it barely existed. The torn, charred wound on his back still leaked wisps of black energy that shimmered coldly under the rain.

Terror crushed every remaining trace of hostility.

He had to get his brother out of the rain.
Now.

He strapped Xu Qing Xuan onto his back again. The leather belt dug painfully into his torn flesh, but it held his brother steady. With no more hesitation, he trudged after the refugees.

After half a stick of incense, the fog parted to reveal a natural rock overhang—shallow, cramped, but dry enough to breathe.

Two or three dozen refugees huddled together inside, silent except for coughs and the soft wailing of infants. The air was heavy with dampness, sweat, and despair.

The moment Xu Qing Feng entered with his unconscious brother, every pair of eyes turned toward him. Suspicious. Guarded. Cold.

The elderly man gestured toward the darkest, furthest corner. “There… there’s still some space.”

It was the best kindness he could offer.

Xu Qing Feng said nothing. Teeth clenched, he carried his brother to the corner and gently set him down against the cold rock wall. Once done, his strength gave out and he slid to the ground, panting as blood soaked through his torn clothes.

“Brother…”
He reached trembling fingers toward Xu Qing Xuan’s nostrils.
A faint breath—barely there—yet still alive.

Relief and dread strangled him at once.

Then—

Cough—! Cough! Cough!

Xu Qing Xuan’s body convulsed violently. He snapped to the side and vomited a mouthful of thick, blackened blood laced with sinister energy. It splattered across the stone floor, sizzling with traces of white steam.

“Brother!” Xu Qing Feng cried, scrambling to hold him. The muddied compass slipped from his robes onto the floor. His eyes widened in fear and helplessness as he stared at the cursed black blood.

He could only pat his brother’s back, trembling, utterly lost.

This horrifying scene startled the refugees huddled inside the rock hollow. One by one, they cast fearful glances at the brothers, subconsciously shrinking back. That blackened blood and the chilling aura it carried made their instincts recoil in unease and dread.

“Th-That’s… baleful energy invading the body… He… he won’t survive…” a gaunt middle-aged man muttered under his breath, voice trembling with fear and superstition.

The old man also frowned deeply. He looked at Xu Qing Xuan’s deathly pale face and the ominous, dark blood on the ground—a sigh of pity flickered in his clouded eyes, but more than that, a numb sense of inevitability. On the desperate road of flight, death was the most ordinary thing. He quietly averted his gaze.

But to Xu Qing Feng, those whispered words “won’t survive” stabbed into his heart like an ice pick.
He snapped his head up, blood-shot eyes blazing with feral rage, and growled like a wounded beast:

“Shut up! My brother won’t die!”

The sheer savagery in his expression—blood-soaked, wild, and trembling—instantly silenced the man, who dared not utter another word.

Yet fury could not banish fear, nor heal wounds. Watching his brother’s breaths weaken, his body trembling as the baleful energy continued to gnaw at him, Xu Qing Feng felt tear-ripping helplessness swallow him whole.
What should he do?
What could he do?!

Just as despair was about to drown his final shred of will—

“Water…”

A voice—faint, hoarse, like sand scraping against stone—brushed past his ear.

Xu Qing Feng froze. He lowered his head, hardly daring to believe it.

Xu Qing Xuan’s eyelids trembled… then slowly lifted, revealing eyes clouded by exhaustion and pain, yet still holding a razor-thin sliver of clarity. His gaze flicked from his brother’s torn chest wound, to the black blood he had just vomited, then toward the rain-soaked forest outside—the swaying shadows of countless wild plants.

“Qing… Feng…” Xu Qing Xuan’s voice was barely audible. “…Find… deep-purple… serrated leaves… white fuzz… stems… dark red… like blood veins…”

Xu Qing Feng stared for a heartbeat—then joy exploded in his eyes.
Brother was awake—awake and telling him how to save him!

Without caring about the rain or the stabbing agony in his own body, Xu Qingfeng threw himself toward the hollow’s entrance and began frantically searching the muddy ground.

Deep purple… serrated leaves… white fuzz… dark-red root…

He scoured the forest floor like a starving wolf hunting prey.
And then—he found it.

A small cluster of strange plants nestled beneath rotting leaves, deep-purple leaves lined with fine serrations, soft white fuzz coating the stems.
He dug them out, hands shaking.

“Brother! Is it this one?!”

Xu Qing Xuan weakly nodded. With tremendous effort, he pointed at the herbs, then at Xu Qing Feng’s own bloody chest wound.

“…Crush it… apply… stops bleeding… heals flesh…”

Without hesitation, Xu Qing Feng set the herbs on a stone and began grinding them with the back of his knife. Soon, a thick, dark-purple paste formed, releasing a strange cool fragrance.

He exposed his gruesome wound and smeared the paste across it.

A sharp hiss escaped him—but then a wave of soothing coolness washed over the burning pain.
Before his eyes, the bleeding slowed—noticeably.

“It’s… working! Brother, it’s really working!”

The refugees inside the hollow also saw it. Their deadened eyes flickered—fear turning into astonishment, then into barely restrained hope. On a road where medicine was a luxury and death a constant companion, someone who could identify and use herbs… was a lifeline.

“Elder… please…”
A woman holding a feverish little girl finally gathered her courage. Voice trembling, she pleaded,
“Could you… ask that young man… to look at my child? She’s been coughing for days… her fever won’t break…”

The old man hesitated. He looked at the sick child, then at the corner where the brothers sat—the younger still wounded, the older barely conscious yet exuding a strange, calm air despite his weakness.

After a long moment, he walked over, keeping a respectful distance, and cupped his hands politely.

“Young man… I am Zhang, guide of this refugee band. I saw your skill in identifying herbs. If it’s not too much trouble… may I ask you to take a look at a sick little girl?”

Xu Qing Feng froze, then instinctively looked toward his brother.

He didn’t know medicine. Everything he did—every bit of skill he showed—was because his brother taught him.

Xu Qing Xuan leaned against the cold rock wall, his face still as pale as paper, yet a faint glimmer of clarity had returned to his once-dim eyes. Though exhaustion clung to him like a shadow, there was now a calm, penetrating sharpness within them—an air of someone who saw through everything. He lifted his gaze slightly, letting it sweep past Elder Zhang, drifting toward the frail little girl in the distance. His eyes lingered on her for a brief moment.

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he made a barely noticeable movement—his fingers twitching ever so slightly as he pointed to his cracked lips, then slowly shook his head.

Xu Qing Feng understood at once.
Brother needed water. And food.
And he himself was starving—the kind of hunger that hollowed out his stomach until chest met back.

He raised his head and looked at Elder Zhang. Though his voice was still hoarse and weak, it carried a steadiness—a negotiation tone—that was distinctly Xu Qing Xuan’s,“Elder Zhang… my brother is badly injured. He needs water… and… a bit of food. If… if you can spare some… my brother… may be able to take a look at the child.”

He deliberately stressed “my brother”, pushing all authority back to Xu Qing Xuan—while preventing anyone from realizing he himself knew nothing of medicine.

Elder Zhang frowned.
Food and water meant more than gold within this refugee band—every bite was a matter of life and death. He looked back at the sick child, at the desperate pleading in the mother’s eyes, then at Xu Qing Xuan’s calm yet frail state. He also noticed the stab wound on Xu Qing Feng’s chest—how rapidly it was healing under the herb paste.

He weighed everything quickly, then gritted his teeth.

“Fine!” he declared.
He turned toward a gaunt middle-aged man with shrewd eyes and a patched-up pack on his back.

“Old Ninth Chen! How much water do you have left in your skin bag? And… the wild yam roots we dug up this morning—bring some here!”

The man called Old Ninth Chen clearly disliked the command. He clutched his bag protectively and muttered,

“Elder Zhang… the water’s down to half a skin… and those yam roots aren’t much—meant to keep us alive…”

His sharp eyes flicked toward the Xu brothers, obviously measuring their worth.

“Enough nonsense!” Elder Zhang’s voice hardened, carrying the weight of leadership. “Bring them out! Saving lives takes priority! If that child dies, will your conscience let you sleep?”

Chen was choked speechless. He looked at the sick child, then at Elder Zhang’s stern face. In the end, he reluctantly took off a swollen leather water bag from his waist and fished out a few mud-stained, thumb-sized shriveled yam roots—painfully handing them over.

Elder Zhang accepted the water and roots, then placed them on a drier patch of stone in front of the brothers.

“Young man, this is all we have. The water is little, and the yam roots… will at least ease the hunger. Please… look at the child.”

His tone was earnest.

Xu Qing Xuan glanced at the half-bag of murky rainwater and the dried yam roots. His expression did not shift. He merely gave the slightest nod. When he tried to sit up straighter, the movement pulled at the wound on his back; he exhaled a muffled groan as beads of cold sweat gathered on his brow.

“I’ll do it, brother!”
Xu Qing Feng immediately supported him, then gently lifted the water bag to Xu Qing Xuan’s cracked lips, letting him drink a few small mouthfuls. The cool liquid soothed his parched throat, and his gaze seemed to sharpen a little.

Then Xu Qing Feng took the smallest yam root, scraped off the dirt with his silver knife, cut it into tiny pieces, and fed them to his brother. Xu Qing Xuan ate extremely slowly, chewing each bite with deliberate care—absorbing every remaining drop of energy the meager food offered.

After half a yam root and a few sips of water, a faint, fragile tinge of color finally returned to Xu Qing Xuan’s face. He signaled for his brother to stop, then gave Elder Zhang a slight nod. His voice was low and hoarse,

“…Help me over… I’ll see the child…”

Xu Qing Feng immediately supported him, following Elder Zhang to the woman who held the ill little girl. Every gaze in the rock hollow locked onto them—tense, hopeful.

Xu Qing Xuan ignored them all. Leaning against his brother, he bent slightly to examine the girl. She was around three or four years old, her face flushed a scorching red, breath rapid and strained, each inhale producing a rattling “heh-heh” sound from deep in her throat. Her tiny body trembled with every bout of coughing.

Xu Qing Xuan lightly placed two fingers on her slender wrist. His motion carried an almost rhythmic precision, as though his fingertips sensed something unseen. After a moment of silent concentration, he inspected the child’s tongue coating, eyelids, and throat.

He said nothing throughout. Only his pale, handsome face showed change—brows occasionally tightening, then easing.

A moment later, he withdrew his hand.

“…Wind chill in the lungs… phlegm-heat obstructing the chest… if dragged on… it may turn to lung abscess…”

The diagnosis was succinct—yet frighteningly accurate.

The woman didn’t understand most of it, but the words “lung abscess” struck like a thunderclap. Her face turned white. She dropped to her knees with a thud, clutching her child.

“Y–Young master! I beg you! Save my little Niu Niu! I–I’ll kowtow to you!”
She was about to bow.

Xu Qing Xuan raised a weak hand to stop her, then turned his gaze toward Elder Zhang and Old Ninth Chen.

“…We need herbs… to clear heat, resolve phlegm… open the lungs and ease the breath… Within a hundred paces of this place… there should be three usable plants…”

He listed their characteristics one by one,

“Leaves long and willow-like… grey-green… blooms tiny grain-sized flowers… yellow-white… pungent and cooling to the taste…”

“Grows flat to the ground… round, thick leaves… full of juice… breaks with white sap… bitter…”

“A vine winding around dead trees… bears pods… inside are flat seeds… slightly numbing when chewed… can dispel phlegm…”

He described them with such detail that it was as though this terrifying forest of corpses was merely a giant herbal cabinet in his eyes.

Then he turned to his brother, voice soft but absolute,

“Qing Feng… go find them.”

“Yes, brother!”
Without the slightest hesitation, Xu Qing Feng sprang to his feet. Ignoring his own untreated wounds, he plunged straight into the downpour and thick, ghostly mist outside the rock hollow.

Silence settled inside. Only the rain and the child’s ragged coughing filled the space. Everyone held their breath, waiting. Zhang Lao Zhang exchanged a glance with Chen Lao Jiu—both seeing the same shock in each other’s eyes.
This youth… was anything but ordinary.

It wasn’t long before Xu Qing Feng stumbled back in, drenched from head to toe, covered in mud, but clutching several plants of varying shapes and textures—the exact three herbs Xu Qing Xuan had described.

Xu Qing Xuan gave a faint nod, motioning for his brother to lay the herbs onto a clean stone slab. Forcing himself to stay conscious, he guided Xu Qing Feng through sorting, rinsing them with rainwater, chopping them finely with the silver blade, and mixing them together. Then he picked out a smooth stone and had Xu Qing Feng grind the mixture into a thick paste.

“…Take… a little of the paste…” Xu Qing Xuan murmured, gesturing toward the deep green medicine paste that carried a mingled cool-bitter scent.
“…place it beneath her tongue… let it dissolve… the rest… apply it to her… Tian Tu point…”
He pointed with precise accuracy at the hollow beneath the child’s throat.

The woman, now reverent beyond measure, obeyed without hesitation.

Strangely enough, within moments of the paste touching the girl’s tongue root, her violent coughing began to ease. The harsh wheezing softened, her breathing gradually smoothing out. Though the fever still lingered, the suffocating tightness visibly lessened, and the painful distortion on her tiny face slowly relaxed.

“It’s… miraculous! Truly miraculous!”
Whispers of awe spread through the crowd.

The woman burst into tears of relief, bowing repeatedly to Xu Qing Xuan while clutching her daughter.
“Thank you, young sir! Thank you for saving her life!”

In that instant, a sharp glint flashed in Zhang Lao Zhang’s eyes. His gaze toward Xu Qing Xuan changed—now filled with respect… and a faint, instinctive sense of reverence. He quickly turned, whispering to Chen Lao Jiu and several others who still had bits of food hidden away.

Soon, a small bundle of mixed grains—coarse rice, beans, and a few thumb-sized wild root chunks—along with a cracked bowl filled with relatively clean rainwater, was placed before the brothers. Though still pitifully meager, compared to what they had been given earlier, it was practically a feast.

“Young sir, your skill is extraordinary. Please accept this humble offering. You must nourish your body,” Zhang Lao Zhang said with a respectful bow.

Xu Qing Xuan looked at the “generous” offering with the same unreadable calm and gave a slight nod.
“…It was within my ability… Thank you.”
He made no effort to refuse. He knew all too well—any scrap of food could mean survival.

Xu Qing Feng carefully gathered the food, admiration for his brother swelling to the point of bursting. His brother had used a few humble weeds to trade for food and clean water—literally life.

Xu Qing Xuan said no more. Leaning against the cold stone wall, he closed his eyes to rest, using this fleeting moment to battle the lingering baleful energy within his meridians. The yin-yang pendant in his arms emitted a faint, steady coolness, weaving through his chaotic consciousness and guarding the last spark of his life. The once-fallen black compass now rested against his chest—icy, heavy, and ominously silent.
He could faintly sense… a thread of spiritual fluctuation within it.
But now was not the time to probe deeper.

Outside, the rain gradually lightened, though the sky remained dark as ink. After the brief commotion, the refugee group returned to their exhausted quiet. Yet in the corner, the two blood-soaked brothers—especially the silent, calm youth who wielded strange medical skill—had become figures no one could ignore.
Respectful, uneasy glances drifted toward them from time to time.

Near the entrance, Zhang Lao Zhang stared at the thick fog outside, brows tightly furrowed. After a long hesitation, he turned toward the emaciated refugees and the two battered brothers. Finally—like a man who had reached a decision—he rose with the help of his wooden staff.

“The rain has eased. We cannot remain here. This Corpse-Burial Forest is not a place for living men. If we stay longer, we don’t know what unclean things we might attract. Pack up—we move out! Head west. We must leave this forest before nightfall!”

He paused, turning toward the brothers, his tone both inviting and carrying a weight that left little room for refusal.

“You two young men—if you have nowhere else to go… would you walk with our group? We can look after one another.”

Xu Qing Feng immediately looked to his brother.

Xu Qing Xuan slowly opened his eyes. In the dim light, those clear, cold eyes seemed impossibly deep. He swept his gaze over Zhang Lao Zhang, the ragged refugees who could—however temporarily—offer shelter, and finally, his brother’s chest wound still covered in herbal paste.

“…Very well.”
A faint nod, weak but firm.

Joining the refugee band, moving under their cover, escaping this death-soaked forest—was the wisest path for now.
As for what lay ahead…
He closed his eyes once more, gathering what little strength his battered body could muster. Survival came first. Only then would the future open.

Supported by his brother, Xu Qing Xuan followed the weary procession out of the temporary haven. They stepped once again into the cold, mist-choked expanse of the Corpse-Burial Forest. The rain was icy, the path uncertain.
Behind them lay blood feud and a desperate struggle for life.
Before them stretched a desolate wilderness and the unknown road of exile.

The brothers—two leaves swept into the flood of fate—walked with the ragged refugees, stumbling step by step toward the west, into the uncertain distance.