Wei didn't walk Wuchen all the way back.
He handed him the apothecary items at the corridor fork and said, "Don't wander," then left like Wuchen was already a habit.
Wuchen carried the ceramic jar and the lacquered pill box inside a wooden tray, both wrapped in cloth so they wouldn't clink. The gray service robe made him look less like prey, but it didn't make his hands stop sweating.
Sweat was dangerous. Sweat loosened wax.
He kept his eyes down and his pace steady, passing inner corridors where voices murmured behind paper doors. Incense drifted from somewhere higher. A bell chimed once, distant, clean.
He reached Gu Yan's courtyard and knelt at the gate.
Wei's voice from inside: "Enter."
Wuchen stepped in and crossed to the pavilion table with controlled movements. Gu Yan sat there with a brush in his hand and a sheet of talisman paper laid out, as if the world existed only to be written on.
He didn't look up immediately. "Place it," he said.
Wuchen set the tray down and bowed. "Stone-marrow paste and three breath pills."
Gu Yan finally lifted his eyes, bright and calm. "Three," he repeated.
Wuchen's throat tightened. "Yes."
Gu Yan opened the lacquered box himself, slow and delicate, like a man opening jewelry. He counted the pills with his eyes, then closed it again.
He didn't praise.
He didn't punish.
That was worse.
He picked up the ceramic jar, turned it once, and inspected the pale wax seal. Then he set it down without breaking it.
"You did not open anything," Gu Yan said softly.
Wuchen bowed. "This one didn't dare."
Gu Yan smiled faintly. "Good," he said. "Daring is expensive."
He tapped the pill box once with a finger. "Do you know why breath pills are rationed?" he asked.
Wuchen hesitated. "Because beasts?" he offered.
Gu Yan chuckled. "Because fear," he corrected. "When Beast Tide Season starts, everyone suddenly remembers they have lungs."
He leaned back slightly. "A breath pill is not just medicine," he said. "It's a permission slip. It lets you enter smoke and come back speaking."
Wuchen's fingers curled inside his sleeves.
Smoke.
Ruin smoke.
Gu Yan had told him not to approach the ruin mouth. Now Gu Yan was holding pills that made ruin smoke survivable.
So Gu Yan hadn't avoided the ruin.
He'd simply kept Wuchen out of it.
Gu Yan watched Wuchen's face closely, as if enjoying the moment the thought landed. "You're thinking," he said.
Wuchen bowed lower. "This one listens."
Gu Yan's smile sharpened. "Better," he murmured.
He set the pill box down and finally broke the wax seal on the ceramic jar with his thumb. A thick, clean herbal smell rose, warm and mineral, like heated stone.
Gu Yan dipped a fingertip in the paste and rubbed it between finger and thumb, testing texture. "Good quality," he said mildly.
He looked at Wuchen. "Remove your robe," he said.
Wuchen froze for half a breath.
Gu Yan's voice stayed gentle. "Your back," he added, as if clarifying something kind.
Wuchen exhaled slowly, stood, and slid the gray robe off his shoulders, then the inner shirt beneath it, exposing the lash scars that had never truly healed. Some were still faintly pink. Some were darker, ridged.
Gu Yan stepped closer, eyes calm, like he was inspecting a tool's cracks.
He didn't touch immediately.
He asked, voice soft, "Did you use Elder Qin's paste?"
Wuchen swallowed. "Yes."
Gu Yan nodded. "It kept you from splitting open in the mountain," he said. "So Elder Qin's gift wasn't wasted."
He scooped a small amount of stone-marrow paste with two fingers and spread it across one lash ridge with slow, deliberate pressure.
Heat bloomed instantly, deep and sharp. Wuchen's breath caught despite himself.
Gu Yan watched that breath.
"Pain teaches," Gu Yan said again, almost fond.
He spread more paste, line by line, working like a man applying ink to a brush, not like a healer. The paste wasn't gentle. It warmed flesh and forced it to knit.
Wuchen stood perfectly still, jaw clenched, hands curled inside his sleeves to keep from shaking.
When Gu Yan finished, he wiped his fingers on a cloth and stepped back.
"Put your robe on," he said.
Wuchen dressed quickly, movements careful.
Gu Yan sat again and picked up the breath pill box. "One of these," he said, "is for me."
He looked at Wuchen. "Two are not."
Wuchen's stomach tightened. "Senior Brother will send someone?"
Gu Yan smiled. "Yes," he said. "I'll send you."
Wuchen didn't flinch. Flinching was useless.
He bowed. "Where?"
Gu Yan's voice stayed mild. "Not the ruin mouth," he said. "Near it. There's a corridor outside the smoke that leads to a side chamber. I need a thing from there."
Wuchen's throat went dry. "What thing?"
Gu Yan's smile widened slightly. "A ledger slate," he said. "Old ruin records. Something that tells me who else has been stealing from the mountain."
Wuchen understood. Gu Yan didn't want treasure. He wanted names.
Names were worth more than cores.
Gu Yan continued, "You'll take one breath pill when you smell smoke," he said. "Not before. If you take it too early, your lungs relax and you get careless. If you take it too late, you cough blood and die."
Wuchen bowed. "Yes."
Gu Yan's eyes stayed on him. "And you will not tell Deacon Han," he added softly. "If Han knows I'm collecting records, he'll pretend to help and then sell my work to Lan."
Wuchen's fingers tightened. "Understood."
Gu Yan leaned forward slightly, smile polite. "Do this well," he said, "and you won't clean latrines again."
Wuchen's throat tightened with something that wasn't relief. It was the feeling of a leash being adjusted.
Gu Yan slid two breath pills across the table in the lacquered box and closed it.
"Tonight," he said gently, "you run back into smoke."