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Chapter 23 - Chapter Twenty-Three: The Stockade’s Hidden Room

The Butcher led the way without a word, fast and sure-footed.

He didn't take the obvious mountain road that wound up to the main gate. Instead, he slipped into a game trail buried under vines and waist-high grass. The path climbed and pinched, forcing them at times to scramble up slick rock or turn sideways through knife-thin cracks.

Lin Yan was half dragged, half carried by A Jin. Every jolt sent a black curtain across his eyes; his left shoulder burned like fire, fresh blood seeping through the crude bandage. He clenched his teeth and made no sound. Willpower alone kept him moving.

A Jin stayed sharp—supporting Lin Yan, keeping pace with the Butcher, and silently mapping every twist of the route. She noticed how the Butcher moved as if he owned these hills: a casual step here, a sudden detour there—yet each choice neatly avoided where sentries or traps might be.

After about a stick of incense, they reached a sheer wall of stone. The Butcher stopped, pulled aside a curtain of creeping ivy, and revealed a narrow, black mouth in the rock—barely high enough to duck through, its edges showing the marks of tools long ago.

"In." His voice left no room for argument. He crouched and went first.

A Jin hesitated only a breath, glanced at Lin Yan's paper-white face, then bit down and helped him inside.

The entrance squeezed them at first—single file, shoulders scraping. After a dozen paces the space opened into a man-made chamber: not large, but solid. Chisel marks scored the walls. In one corner sat dusty sacks and crates; the air smelled faintly of mildew—and, oddly, herbs. Someone had lived here. Dry straw lay piled as bedding, a rough stone table stood with stump stools, and a cold fire pit waited beneath a smoke hole.

With a soft pop the Butcher lit a fire stick and touched it to a wall lamp. Oily yellow light spilled out, sharpening the planes of his scarred face.

"Put him on the straw," he said.

A Jin eased Lin Yan down. The moment he lay flat, the pain and exhaustion crashed in. His breath went ragged; the world blurred.

The Butcher knelt, tore away the blood-stiff bandage, and exposed the wound. Even A Jin sucked in a breath: a long, torn gouge across the shoulder, edges swollen and angry, a glimpse of white at bone. The flesh was inflamed; foul water had done its work.

"Glancing bolt," the Butcher said, brow furrowed. "Three layers deep, into the tendon. Soaked in dirty water—already suppurating." He pressed around the edge with a callused finger. Lin Yan's body jolted; a strangled groan slipped out.

"Be gentle!" A Jin snapped, anger and worry bleeding together.

The Butcher cut her a cold look and stood. He hauled a scuffed wooden kit from behind the sacks and flipped it open: clean bandage rolls, small porcelain bottles, needles and thread, and a neat fan of thin, gleaming blades—the tools of a field surgeon.

Some of A Jin's fear eased. Brutal or not, he knew what he was doing.

He held a blade to the lamp flame until it blued, uncorked a bottle, and the bitter sting of strong liquor filled the room.

"Boy. Bite down," he said, voice rough but steady. "If I don't clean and cut the rot, you'll lose the arm." To A Jin: "Hold him. Don't let him buck."

She pinned Lin Yan's forearm and shoulder with all her strength.

Cold liquor poured over raw flesh—then the knife. The Butcher worked without hesitation, shaving away blackened meat, scooping pus, following the track until clean red tissue trembled beneath the light.

Lin Yan screamed once despite himself, a sound torn from the gut. Sweat streamed. His muscles knotted and shook beneath A Jin's grip; she turned her head, eyes wet, and pressed harder.

The Butcher didn't flinch. His hands were quick and exact; the blade seemed to know where to go. At last he rinsed the wound again, then dusted it with a cool, dark powder whose scent cut through the blood. The fire in Lin Yan's shoulder ebbed to a deep numb throb.

Limp as a soaked cloth, Lin Yan sagged into the straw, chest heaving, eyes rolled half-closed.

The Butcher wrapped the shoulder in clean bandage—surprisingly neat, almost gentle—then straightened, wiped something (sweat or blood) from his brow, and exhaled. He tossed A Jin a water skin and a hard cake of food.

"Get some water into him. He won't die," he said, dropping onto a stump and lifting a grimy wine pouch to his mouth. He drank, then stared at Lin Yan through the lamplight, thoughts hidden behind that ruined face.

A Jin trickled water past Lin Yan's lips. His breathing, though shallow, settled into a steadier rhythm. Only then did she allow herself a small, shaking breath. She slid down the wall, gnawed the dry ration, and studied the man who'd saved them.

He radiated danger—old blood and old fights clinging to him like a second skin. And yet he'd patched Lin Yan as deftly as any healer. His tie to the "Mute Uncle" made him even harder to read.

"You… knew Uncle Mute well?" she tried, breaking the hush.

The Butcher paused mid-swig. The lamp caught a flicker in his clouded eyes. He didn't answer at once. Another swallow. Then, instead of replying, he rasped:

"That cut isn't from some petty feud. The hand that shot him—trained. Army hand-crossbows."

His gaze cut clean through pretense.

"Who did you two anger?"

A Jin's heart lurched. She opened her mouth, shut it again. Lin Yan's real name, his enemies—those secrets could not be spilled.

The Butcher snorted, let it drop. He thumbed the wine pouch, eyes settling on the sleeping boy, and his voice dropped to a murmur, more to himself than them:

"So the old mute left the iron to a whelp like this… and the trouble snapping at his heels isn't small." A crooked smile without humor. "Looks like these times won't stay quiet."

Silence crept back in. The lamp crackled softly. Lin Yan slept on, breath even, bandage clean.

But beneath that fragile calm, darker currents moved.

What did the Butcher truly want?

Would he shelter them—or sell them?

And in a place like Blackwater Stockade, where law bowed to knives, what future did two outsiders really have?

A Jin looked from Lin Yan's pale face to the hulking figure at the table. Relief never came. Only a deeper, heavier awareness:

They hadn't escaped the game.

They'd stepped onto a larger board—with far fewer pieces to play.

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