My face changed; the person arriving now was certainly no friend. I quickly motioned for Zhuoma Yangjin to be careful in a low voice. She was much calmer than I had imagined, already composing herself rapidly, and asked, "Who is it?"

Then, a gentle, subdued voice sounded from outside the door: "Hu Bugui. Forgive this intrusion; I am truly sorry. Please forgive the intrusion, Princess."

Zhuoma Yangjin paused, "Hu Bugui?" She looked at me, and I shook my head; I didn't know this person. She immediately retorted swiftly, "I dislike being called Princess. And I don't know anyone named Hu Bugui. Luo Lian doesn't know him either."

Still, Hu Bugui’s voice was unhurried, refined, and elegant: "The Grand Hierophant is indisposed to come here, so this humble servant requested that he return."

Hearing this, Zhuoma Yangjin abruptly drew a gleaming Tibetan dagger from her bosom, saying in a deep voice, "Wangmu, you should go back. I can handle things here." As she spoke, she shoved the dagger into my hand and pulled the covers back over me, concealing the blade. "Be ready to act according to the situation later," she whispered close to my ear, then, maintaining a perfectly normal demeanor, she walked over and sat upright on the sofa after giving my cheek a light kiss before I could react.

"Yangjin..." I was still completely weak, struggling even to speak. I wanted to get up and help her, wanted to tell her to keep the dagger for defense, wanted to call for Eighty-Seven and the others outside, but I couldn't tell friend from foe in that moment...

Zhuoma Yangjin gave me a faint smile and said softly, "Luo Lian, don't worry. I can manage." I gripped the small dagger she had given me with effort; if anything happened to her, I would fight to the death to save her. I had never held such a firm conviction—I could not lose her.

Zhuoma Yangjin sat erect and called coldly to the door, "Since Mr. Hu is so capable, are you unaware of Luo Lian’s current condition?"

Outside, Hu Bugui replied, "Light and wind sensitivity."

Zhuoma Yangjin glanced at me, then added, "If that’s the case, why are so many of you standing by the door? Are you afraid no one will know something major has happened here?"

I didn't hear Hu Bugui answer, but Eighty-Seven spoke up first with a cheerful laugh, "Yangjin, do you still doubt my abilities? Within a three-li radius, even the mosquitoes are my spies and informants. Do you believe it or not?"

Zhuoma Yangjin maintained a stern expression and said nothing.

Hu Bugui continued, "The medicinal incense you used on him is ineffective. Not only will it fail to draw out what you want, but I fear his very life is in danger... If he is currently weak throughout his body and unable to move, then my services are required. Otherwise, even if you manage to fetch the Grand Hierophant after enduring a grueling journey, it will be useless."

This person, he actually knew my current state? "Yangjin..." I tried to say that this was exactly my condition. She waved a hand at me, signaling she knew. But she didn't rush to answer those outside. After thinking for a long moment, she called out twice, "Wangmu, Wangmu."

Wangmu immediately responded from outside.

Eighty-Seven laughed, "Haha... Yangjin. Even if we had the audacity, we wouldn't dare harm you, please rest assured. Haha..."

Zhuoma Yangjin remained pensive. Suddenly, Hu Bugui spoke a sentence in an exceedingly peculiar intonation. Zhuoma Yangjin's expression shifted drastically, and she immediately replied in the same tone. He spoke two more phrases. Then, a look of extreme joy suddenly appeared on Zhuoma Yangjin's face. "Luo Lian, you're all right..." As she spoke, tears began to stream down her cheeks.

"Yangjin, is he one of ours?"

"Yes, he was speaking to me in the ancient Tibetan dialect, the obscure dialect only understood by the Guge people. Luo Lian, Luo Lian... you finally have a cure..." While saying this, she walked over and tucked me in tightly, leaving only a small gap for breathing. Finally, she still worried and cautioned me, "You must keep the knife handy, just in case of any accident... though... I doubt they would dare attempt anything."

After that, I heard the sound of her footsteps, followed by the clatter and crash of various bottles and jars being tidied from the table. Then, the door creaked open and quickly slammed shut, followed by the sound of several sets of hurried footsteps. When the noise subsided, Zhuoma Yangjin offered polite excuses about not having been able to host everyone properly in her haste. This was followed by exchanges of courtesies between Eighty-Seven and Hu Bugui.

Right, there were three people. Zhuoma Yangjin, Eighty-Seven, and Hu Bugui.

After the three exchanged pleasantries, I heard Zhuoma Yangjin say something again in that ancient Tibetan tone. For some reason, I felt I should understand it, but when I strained my ears, I comprehended nothing at all. I grew extremely anxious internally, constantly blaming myself for being unable to recall it.

Hu Bugui replied to her again in the ancient Tibetan dialect. Judging by the situation, the two of them were completely ignoring Eighty-Seven.

Zhuoma Yangjin and Hu Bugui spoke for a while, then one person opened the door and left—it seemed to be Eighty-Seven—but I dared not lift the covers to look, instinctively terrified of the wind, even the air outside the room.

Hu Bugui was a man with a very powerful aura, gentle yet strong. Even though he was covered by the blanket and I could not see him, the moment he approached, I immediately sensed it was him.

I didn't get that same feeling when Zhuoma Yangjin approached; I could only judge it was her by the rhythm of her footsteps. "Luo Lian, this Mr. Hu has a way to save you. Don't worry." Then she pulled back my covers, sat beside me holding my hand, and quietly watched Hu Bugui.

Only then did I see Hu Bugui clearly. He was around thirty-five or thirty-six, with short, ordinary hair, a pale complexion, patchy stubble on his face, intensely black eyebrows, and large, deep eyes. At first glance, it seemed he was smiling humbly at people, but upon closer inspection, it was merely a pretense; there was no genuine smile within, like a perfectly still, bottomless pool of water, revealing nothing of what he was thinking or seeing. The corners of his mouth were slightly upturned, as if smiling too, but looking closely, that too was a performance for others, with no real joy behind it. His clothing was a very plain overcoat; everything about his attire was ordinary, yet he radiated an unmistakable, distinctive aura—gentle yet dominating.

This man was like a perfectly rendered Gongbi painting (meticulous realism): every detail was deliberately humble and low-key, and only upon true examination could one perceive the emotion behind the artist's every stroke. Behind his strokes was an intense, ineffable melancholy, yet on the surface, he feigned happiness. Therefore, he must have an extraordinary story hidden behind that facade.

However, I had neither the opportunity nor the propriety to press him suddenly. Seeing him approach, I quickly greeted him and exchanged polite words. He responded courteously, then mentioned that he had brought something that could help me and hoped I wouldn't mind if he used it. He was excessively humble. I quickly assured him I did not mind at all.

Zhuoma Yangjin moved aside as well, signaling that he could begin. He glanced at the two of us, a flicker of pain crossing his eyes before immediately returning to normal. Though it was instantaneous, I saw it clearly.

After that, I heard the sound of her footsteps, followed by the clatter and crash of various bottles and jars being tidied from the table. Then, the door creaked open and quickly slammed shut, followed by the sound of several sets of hurried footsteps. When the noise subsided, Zhuoma Yangjin offered polite excuses about not having been able to host everyone properly in her haste. This was followed by exchanges of courtesies between Eighty-Seven and Hu Bugui.

Right, there were three people. Zhuoma Yangjin, Eighty-Seven, and Hu Bugui.

After the three exchanged pleasantries, I heard Zhuoma Yangjin say something again in that ancient Tibetan tone. For some reason, I felt I should understand it, but when I strained my ears, I comprehended nothing at all. I grew extremely anxious internally, constantly blaming myself for being unable to recall it.

Hu Bugui replied to her again in the ancient Tibetan dialect. Judging by the situation, the two of them were completely ignoring Eighty-Seven.

Zhuoma Yangjin and Hu Bugui spoke for a while, then one person opened the door and left—it seemed to be Eighty-Seven—but I dared not lift the covers to look, instinctively terrified of the wind, even the air outside the room.

Hu Bugui was a man with a very powerful aura, gentle yet strong. Even though he was covered by the blanket and I could not see him, the moment he approached, I immediately sensed it was him.

I didn't get that same feeling when Zhuoma Yangjin approached; I could only judge it was her by the rhythm of her footsteps. "Luo Lian, this Mr. Hu has a way to save you. Don't worry." Then she pulled back my covers, sat beside me holding my hand, and quietly watched Hu Bugui.

Only then did I see Hu Bugui clearly. He was around thirty-five or thirty-six, with short, ordinary hair, a pale complexion, patchy stubble on his face, intensely black eyebrows, and large, deep eyes. At first glance, it seemed he was smiling humbly at people, but upon closer inspection, it was merely a pretense; there was no genuine smile within, like a perfectly still, bottomless pool of water, revealing nothing of what he was thinking or seeing. The corners of his mouth were slightly upturned, as if smiling too, but looking closely, that too was a performance for others, with no real joy behind it. His clothing was a very plain overcoat; everything about his attire was ordinary, yet he radiated an unmistakable, distinctive aura—gentle yet dominating.

This man was like a perfectly rendered Gongbi painting (meticulous realism): every detail was deliberately humble and low-key, and only upon true examination could one perceive the emotion behind the artist's every stroke. Behind his strokes was an intense, ineffable melancholy, yet on the surface, he feigned happiness. Therefore, he must have an extraordinary story hidden behind that facade.

However, I had neither the opportunity nor the propriety to press him suddenly. Seeing him approach, I quickly greeted him and exchanged polite words. He responded courteously, then mentioned that he had brought something that could help me and hoped I wouldn't mind if he used it. He was excessively humble. I quickly assured him I did not mind at all.

Zhuoma Yangjin moved aside as well, signaling that he could begin. He glanced at the two of us, a flicker of pain crossing his eyes before immediately returning to normal. Though it was instantaneous, I saw it clearly.