The grim arithmetic of survival continued long after the torches had burned down to embers. Dawn found the outpost's courtyard transformed into a vast, open-air ward.
The air, once thick with dust and panic, now hung heavy with the smells of boiling herbs, vinegar, and the sweet-rotten odor of festering wounds. Men lay in rows on rough pallets, their breathing a ragged chorus of pain and exhaustion.
Lin Wei moved among them in a haze, his body operating on a memory of rest his mind could no longer access. The system's cold efficiency was now his only compass.
He changed dressings, checked for the tell-tale red streaks of sepsis, and administered tiny, precious doses of poppy extract for the worst of the pain. Each patient was a calculation. Each bandage a finite resource.
Captain Guo watched from his own pallet, propped up against the stockade wall. The fire in his thigh had been banked to a throbbing ache, a constant reminder of the line between life and death he had straddled.
His eyes followed Lin Wei, the convict doctor, as he worked. There was no ceremony, no grand speeches. Just the relentless, practical application of care. Guo saw the way Lin Wei handled the stinking, mangled limb of a regular soldier from the Fifth with the same focused intensity he gave to a penal troop member. The last of the captain's prejudice crumbled away, replaced by a solid, unshakeable respect. This was not a man defined by a crime; he was defined by his actions in the crucible.
"See that he has whatever he needs," Guo rasped to his own lieutenant, who had survived the battle with minor wounds. "Water, cloth, wine. If the outpost quartermaster says something, just use my name."
The return to the main camp, when it came days later, was a funeral procession without bodies. The survivors marched with a hollow-eyed stare, the horror of the valley etched into their souls.
But as they passed through the camp's main gate, a shift occurred. Regular soldiers, hearing the whispers of what had happened—of the convict doctor who had saved Captain Guo and dozens more—did not look away in disdain. They nodded, a silent, solemn acknowledgment passing between them. Lin Wei's reputation, once a thing of muttered curiosity, had solidified into something tangible. He was now the "Doc," a figure of awe and necessity.
Commander Xin met them with his usual granite demeanor. He listened to the report, his eyes scanning the ranks of the wounded who had returned alive. The numbers were undeniable. The Fifth Battalion had been savaged, but the Seventh's casualties, particularly among the wounded, were disproportionately low. The data was a weapon, and Xin knew how to use it.
He didn't summon Lin Wei for praise. He issued a new standing order. "The care and convalescence of all battle wounded from the forward battalions will be managed by the medical unit of the Seventh Penal Battalion. physician Lin Wei will have authority to requisition necessary supplies." It was a masterstroke of pragmatism.
He had sidestepped the entire traditional medical corps, leveraging Lin Wei's proven success to maximize the fighting strength of his command. He had given Lin Wei immense responsibility with zero official rank, a move designed to get results without upsetting the political apple cart.
But the apple cart was already teetering.
From the entrance of his own, now-quiet medical tent, Physician Wang observed the scene. The quiet respect the common soldiers showed the convict were slaps on his dignity. His life's work, his lineage, his very identity, were being rendered obsolete by this upstart's brutal, effective heresy. The public acclaim was a humiliation that demanded a response.
His revenge was not a shout, but a whisper. A few days later, as Lin Wei was inventorying his stretched-thin supplies, Wang approached. His face was arranged in an expression of conciliatory concern.
"Physician Lin," he said, his voice oily smooth. "I see the burden you carry. The court physicians must stand together for the good of the army." He held out a small, carefully tied pouch. "This is a rare and powerful herb, Xuejie (Blood Knot). It is excellent for staunching internal bleeding and preventing wound fever. A gift. For your most critical patients."
Lin Wei was wary. But the offer was public, and the need was real. To refuse would seem churlish, and he could not afford to turn away any potential resource. He accepted the pouch with a curt nod. The system, scanning the dried, dark-red slivers within, provided a neutral analysis:
"[Substance: Dried plant matter. Resembles *Salvia miltiorrhiza* (Danshen). Common use in traditional medicine for circulation.]"
There was no warning. Wang was too clever to use an obvious poison.
That night, Lin Wei applied the poultice to three men with deep, worrying internal injuries, including one of Captain Guo's most loyal sergeants. For a day, there was no change. Then, on the second day, the sergeant was seized by violent convulsions, his heart hammering against his ribs, his skin burning with a dry, frantic heat. It was not infection. It was a toxin.
Physician Wang arrived with a squad of military police before Lin Wei could even begin to diagnose the cause. His face was a mask of theatrical horror and outrage.
"I knew it!" he cried, his voice ringing through the hospital area, drawing a crowd of horrified soldiers. "I warned Commander Xin! This convict's methods are nothing but quackery and poison! He does not heal—he murders! He is a Jin agent, sent to weaken us from within!"
He pointed a trembling finger at the convulsing sergeant. "My own gift of medicine, given in good faith, he has twisted into a weapon! Arrest him!"
The guards moved forward. Lin Wei, his mind racing, looked from Wang's triumphant face to the terrified, betrayed eyes of the soldiers around him. The system flashed, now re-analyzing the herb with the patient's symptoms:
"[Re-evaluation: Substance likely adulterated with undetermined cardiotoxin. Symptoms consistent with Aconitum (Wolf's Bane) poisoning.]"
But the analysis was too late. Cold iron manacles were clamped around his wrists. He had survived the battlefield, only to be captured by the far more treacherous weapons of pride and politics. The real battle for his life had just begun.