The battle was over. The stench of blood mixed with the salty sea air as bodies—some dead, some barely clinging to life—littered the ship’s deck. Zhao Ming wiped the sweat and grime from his face, his body aching from the bruises sustained during the fight. The Azure Dragon Disciples stood vigilant, weapons still in hand, while the mercenaries kept their grip firm on their captives.


    A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the crashing waves.


    "Secure the ship! Check for injuries!" Gao Ren barked, his deep voice cutting through the momentary lull. The crew sprang into action, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten as they moved with practiced efficiency.


    Murong Xue sheathed her sword, but her free hand clutched her abdomen, where a deep slash stained her robes crimson. She grimaced but said nothing. Zhao Ming noticed and frowned.


    "You''re hurt," he said, stepping closer.


    "It''s nothing," she replied, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her pain.


    Zhao Ming grabbed her wrist gently but firmly. "Go to your cabin. Tend to your wound and get some rest."


    Murong Xue stiffened. "I can still fight. There’s work to be done."


    "You''ve already done enough," Zhao Ming said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "If that wound worsens, you''ll be a liability. Let us handle this."


    She opened her mouth as if to protest but then exhaled sharply. The exhaustion was catching up to her, and even she knew he was right. With a reluctant nod, she turned and made her way toward her quarters, though her movements were slower than usual.


    A sudden gust of wind howled through the rigging, followed by a deafening crash as a wave slammed against the side of the ship, causing it to lurch violently. The wounded groaned, and the scholars huddled near the cargo, their faces pale.


    "We have a storm coming," one of the sailors muttered, glancing nervously at the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.


    Zhao Ming turned to Gao Ren. "What’s the status of the ship?"


    "Not good," Gao Ren replied, his expression grim. "Sails are damaged, so our speed is cut. The mast’s ropes are frayed—if they snap, we lose control. We need to reinforce them now if we want to make it to Beihai in one piece."


    Zhao Ming nodded. "Then we work fast."


    The crew, despite their fatigue, moved swiftly. Some climbed to secure the mast’s ropes, while others patched the sails as best they could. Meanwhile, the mercenaries dragged the unconscious first mate and hooded man below deck, tying them securely.


    Near the helm, the captain lay unconscious, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Blood pooled beneath him. One of the crew members knelt beside him, pressing a cloth to his wound, but it was clear—the man wouldn’t last long without proper treatment.


    Zhao Ming clenched his jaw. There was no time to mourn. If they didn’t stabilize the ship, they might not make it to shore at all.


    "Hold steady!" a sailor shouted as another wave rocked the ship.


    The battle had ended, but the fight for survival had only just begun.


    <hr>


    The wind howled like a vengeful spirit, whipping against the sails with merciless force. Towering waves crashed against the ship’s hull, sending tremors through the wooden deck. Rain pelted down in relentless sheets, soaking everything and turning the planks beneath their feet slick with water.


    "Hold the line!" Gao Ren bellowed as another wave threatened to tip the ship sideways. The crew scrambled, gripping the ropes and railings for dear life.


    Zhao Ming steadied himself near the helm, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos. The storm had come faster than expected, and with their damaged sails and frayed ropes, the situation was far from ideal.


    "Secure the mast!" he shouted. "If we lose it, we''re finished!"


    Two sailors fought against the wind, struggling to tie down the ropes before they snapped completely. The force of the storm made every movement treacherous. One lost his footing, nearly tumbling overboard before a fellow crew member grabbed his arm just in time.


    Zhao Ming didn’t hesitate. He dashed forward, grasping a loose rope and tying it down himself. The wind roared in defiance, but he pulled with all his strength, securing it as another sailor reinforced the knots.


    "More hands on the sails!" Gao Ren ordered. "We need to keep control, or the wind will tear us apart!"


    The crew worked in frantic unison. Mercenaries and Azure Dragon Disciples, despite their injuries, assisted where they could. Even the scholars, though terrified, did their best to help by holding down crates and barrels to prevent them from rolling across the deck.


    Zhao Ming moved swiftly between groups, assessing their struggles. Some sailors were near exhaustion, their hands trembling from strain. He needed to distribute the workload before fatigue took them all.


    "You—help with the ropes! Keep that secured!" he commanded, pointing to an available mercenary. "And you, reinforce the main sail with them!"


    The men obeyed without hesitation, their movements fueled by survival instinct.


    Another monstrous wave rose, towering over the ship like a beast about to swallow them whole. Zhao Ming gritted his teeth.


    "Brace yourselves!"


    The wave crashed down with a deafening roar. The ship tilted sharply—too sharply. The left side nearly dipped beneath the water. Crew members screamed, gripping whatever they could as seawater flooded across the deck.


    For a moment, Zhao Ming felt the gut-wrenching sensation of the ship beginning to capsize.


    No.


    Gao Ren and several others threw their weight against the opposite side, counterbalancing the force. Zhao Ming did the same, using every ounce of strength to help push the ship back into stability.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The ship groaned in protest—but it held.


    He exhaled sharply, his heart pounding. They had survived that one, but the storm showed no signs of relenting.


    "We''re not through yet," he muttered.


    He turned to the crew, his voice unwavering despite the chaos. "Stay focused! We ride this out, and we will reach Beihai!"


    The men roared in determination, gripping the ropes with renewed strength. The battle was no longer against swords and assassins—it was against the raging sea itself.


    And Zhao Ming refused to lose.


    <hr>


    With the storm raging outside, Zhao Ming made his way below deck. The lanterns swayed violently, casting erratic shadows over the wounded men scattered across the cabin. Blood mixed with seawater on the wooden floor, filling the air with a thick, metallic scent.


    The Azure Dragon Disciples sat against the walls, their faces pale from exhaustion and pain. Some clutched their wounds, while others breathed heavily, their bodies too battered to move.


    Zhao Ming didn’t waste time. He reached into his robe and pulled out a pouch of medicinal herbs. "Take these," he said, tossing small packets to those who could still move. "Apply the powder to stop the bleeding. If you have bruises, rub the ointment on the skin. This vial is for internal injuries—only a few drops at a time."


    The disciples caught the medicine, their movements sluggish but determined. Those who were still conscious helped their injured comrades apply the treatments, following Zhao Ming’s instructions without question.


    A low groan came from one corner.


    "Ah! Don’t press so hard!" one disciple winced as his companion applied the medicine.


    "Quit whining. It needs to go in properly," another grumbled, though he did ease up.


    "At least use a gentler touch!"


    A sigh followed. "Fine, fine, stop squirming."


    Zhao Ming smirked faintly at the exchange before turning to Gao Ren, who stood nearby with arms crossed.


    "Do your mercenaries need medicine?" Zhao Ming asked.


    Gao Ren shook his head. "We’ve got our own supplies. Focus on your men."


    Zhao Ming nodded. "Good." His gaze swept over the room once more, assessing the condition of his people. They were exhausted, but for now, they would manage.


    "I’m going to check on Murong Xue," he announced, turning toward the hallway. "You all take care of each other. Rest when you can."


    The disciples gave weak but grateful nods as he left.


    <hr>


    The candlelight flickered, casting soft shadows across the small cabin. Zhao Ming stepped inside, his eyes immediately locking onto Murong Xue. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her posture rigid yet visibly drained. The hastily wrapped bandages on her abdomen were already stained with blood, and her complexion was pale from exhaustion.


    “You should be lying down,” Zhao Ming muttered, closing the door behind him.


    Murong Xue gave a weak chuckle, though it lacked her usual sharpness. “If I lie down now, I might not get up again.”


    He sighed, stepping closer. The room carried the faint scent of herbs, but beneath it, there was the unmistakable smell of dried blood. Zhao Ming knelt beside the bed, inspecting her injuries more closely. The cut on her abdomen was deep—too deep. If left untreated, it could fester.


    “How bad is it?” he asked, voice calm but firm.


    She hesitated before finally exhaling. “Worse than I let on.”


    Zhao Ming’s expression darkened. “I need to treat it now.” He retrieved a small jar of medicinal paste from his pouch and set it beside him. “I should get a female disciple to help dress the wound. It would be more appropriate.”


    Murong Xue shook her head without hesitation. “No. You do it.”


    He looked at her, surprised. “Are you sure?”


    She offered a faint smile. “I trust you.”


    A beat of silence passed between them. Zhao Ming inhaled deeply before nodding. “Alright. Let’s take care of it.”


    He reached for the sash of her outer robe, hesitating slightly before loosening it. Murong Xue neither flinched nor protested, though a slight flush colored her cheeks. As he carefully peeled away the fabric, his gaze fell upon her exposed skin.


    Her abdomen was smooth and pale, a stark contrast to the deep crimson of the wound marring her otherwise flawless complexion. The candlelight highlighted the gentle curves of her waist, her skin appearing delicate and untouched—save for the fresh injury. Zhao Ming quickly pushed aside unnecessary thoughts and focused on his task.


    “This might sting,” he warned before dipping his fingers into the medicinal paste.


    Murong Xue inhaled sharply as the cool medicine met her wound, her body tensing beneath his touch. Zhao Ming worked carefully, spreading the paste with gentle precision, ensuring that every inch of the cut was covered. His fingers brushed against her skin occasionally—warm, soft, yet fragile in her weakened state.


    Once he finished, he reached for fresh bandages. “Hold still.”


    Murong Xue obeyed, allowing him to wrap the cloth around her waist, securing it tightly but not uncomfortably. His hands lingered for a brief moment before pulling away.


    “You need to change into clean clothes,” Zhao Ming said, standing up. He moved toward a nearby wooden chest and retrieved a fresh robe for her.


    Murong Xue accepted it with a small nod. Zhao Ming turned his back to give her privacy, but the rustling of fabric and the soft swish of silk reached his ears. The sound of the robe slipping off, the faint whisper of cloth against skin—it was impossible to ignore.


    He clenched his fists lightly, focusing on the dim candlelight flickering against the wooden wall.


    After a moment, Murong Xue spoke, her voice quieter than before. “You can turn around now.”


    Zhao Ming turned, meeting her gaze. She was dressed in a fresh robe, though fatigue still clung to her features.


    “You should rest now,” he said, his voice softer than before.


    Murong Xue gave a small nod. “Stay… just for a little while.”


    Zhao Ming hesitated, then pulled a chair closer, sitting beside her bed. “Alright. Just for a little while.”


    <hr>


    After ensuring Murong Xue was resting, Zhao Ming left her cabin and headed to the lower deck, where Gao Ren and the mercenaries were guarding the prisoners. The first mate remained unconscious, but the hooded man had regained consciousness, shifting uncomfortably against his bindings.


    His eyes snapped open, scanning his surroundings before narrowing in frustration. “Tch… bastards.”


    “You’re awake,” Gao Ren noted. “Good. Saves us the trouble of waking you up.”


    The hooded man scoffed. “You think this is over? You have no idea who you''re dealing with.”


    Zhao Ming stepped forward. “Then why don’t you enlighten us?”


    The hooded man smirked but remained silent.


    Zhao Ming’s gaze remained steady. “This attack wasn’t about gold. What were you after?”


    The prisoner let out a low chuckle. “Money? We were never after that.” His voice carried a hint of mockery. “It was the cargo. If we couldn’t take it, we were ordered to destroy it—and kill everyone on board.”


    Gao Ren frowned. “Who gave that order?”


    The hooded man grinned. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to kn—”


    His words cut off abruptly. His eyes widened.


    He choked.


    A violent shudder ran through his body as he gasped for air. His mouth opened, and black blood oozed out, thick and putrid.


    The liquid dripped onto the wooden floor with a sickening hiss, eating through it like acid.


    “Poison,” Gao Ren muttered, stepping back as the stench of decay filled the air.


    The hooded man convulsed once more before his body slumped lifelessly.


    Zhao Ming furrowed his brows and activated Insight. A faint glimmer passed through his pupils as information surfaced before his eyes.


    <blockquote>


    [Deceased Target: Hooded Assassin]


    Affiliation: Low-Level Mysterious Group


    Rank: Cannon Fodder


    Cause of Death: Suicide Poisoning (Enforced by Command Seal)


    </blockquote>


    Zhao Ming exhaled quietly. The results were underwhelming—just basic details, confirming what he had already suspected.


    The enemy had no intention of leaving loose ends.


    “Even their own men aren’t safe,” Zhao Ming muttered, glancing at the corroded floor.


    Gao Ren clicked his tongue. “Fanatics.”


    Zhao Ming turned to the unconscious first mate. “And him? Is he part of the same group?”


    Gao Ren nudged the first mate with his boot. “Doubt it. He’s just a disposable pawn. Probably bribed or threatened into helping.”


    Zhao Ming studied the unconscious man for a moment. Unlike the hooded assassin, the first mate’s breathing was still steady—no signs of poison.


    “A tool, then,” Zhao Ming mused. “One they didn’t bother silencing.”


    “That means he might actually know something,” Gao Ren noted. “If he wakes up.”


    Zhao Ming nodded. They would have to wait.


    With the interrogation at a dead end, there was nothing more to be done for the night.


    The storm outside had weakened, but the ship still rocked from the lingering waves. The crew was exhausted, and those who weren’t on duty took whatever rest they could.


    Zhao Ming and Gao Ren exchanged a glance.


    “We should rest as well,” Gao Ren suggested.


    Zhao Ming didn’t argue. They would need their strength once they reached Beihai.


    He cast one last look at the first mate before turning away.


    By morning, the ship would hopefully reach its destination.