The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis
Chapter 85: Saving Sun Longzi

Chapter 85: Saving Sun Longzi

"I’ve never even seen the woman before," Sun Longzi muttered, rolling his eyes before he looked back at Deming. "She’s my mother’s idea of a perfect daughter-in-law. In fact, I’m pretty sure that dying is better than marrying her."

"Don’t say that," growled Zhu Deming, not willing to even consider the possibility.

Sun Longzi’s lips twitched. "I’m serious. Knowing my mother’s taste in women, I will be miserable."

Deming reached for his sword belt, gripping the leather so tightly his knuckles turned white. "There’s a divine healer in Baiguang. We’ll find him. We’ll bring him here. I don’t care how far it is."

Longzi’s eyes drifted closed for a moment.

"I can’t do this without you," Deming said, voice cracking. "You’re the only one who’s always been with me. You know what life is like for me, and you never made me feel lesser. I can’t do this without you." He bowed his head until it touched the edge of the cot. "I won’t lose you. I can’t."

Footsteps interrupted the silence.

Unhurried. Casual.

Zhao Xinying entered the tent without ceremony, her hands still streaked with ash, the hem of her dress blackened from the field. She looked at the body on the cot, then at the medics, then at Deming.

"You all are being ridiculous. You are acting like he is your wife," she said flatly. "He’s not dying."

Deming lifted his head. "You weren’t there—he’s—"

"I heard everything," she interrupted. "He’s not dying. Not if you don’t want him to."

Sun Longzi opened his eyes again, barely. "You’re not a healer," he said, voice low and mocking.

"I’m a lot of things," she with a smirk on her face. "Most of which, you don’t know."

She knelt beside him, unfazed by the blood or the cot. Her fingers hovered over his chest as she inspected the wound. The arrow had been taken out, but the medic must have been trying to kill Sun Longzi slowly, because no one had tried to even stop the blood. Looking over her shoulder, she narrowed her eyes at the three men in medic robes.

The medics backed away instinctively, their eyes to the ground.

Deming moved to protest, but Yaozu stepped behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Let her try," he said quietly with a shake of his head.

Xinying glanced at them both. "Honestly," she muttered, "you act like he’s already dead."

Longzi chuckled faintly. "You’re terrible at comfort."

"I’m not here to comfort you," she replied. "I’m here because Deming would apparently be inconsolable without you, and I’m not done using you yet."

Deming gave a shaky laugh, but everyone in the tent knew that she wasn’t joking.

Zhao Xinying stepped beside the cot, rolling her eyes as she lifted one hand. A white mist began to gather at her fingertips—slow at first, then faster, pouring from her palm like smoke pulled from moonlight. It drifted upward, cool and silent.

Sun Longzi’s eyes snapped open. "Wait—" His body jerked instinctively. "That’s—!"

He had seen her mist before. He had seen what it did. The last time she raised her hand on the battlefield, a hundred men died without taking a second breath.

"Relax," she said dryly. "If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be gone."

The white mist flowed gently over his body, sinking into the wound without ever touching his skin. The bleeding slowed. His breath steadied. The color began to return to his face—not suddenly, but with the certainty of tide pulling back from the shore.

Deming stared, speechless, but she didn’t so much as blink. "You’re not dying," Xinying said calmly. "Not if I say you’re not."

Sun Longzi’s eyes fluttered shut again—not from pain this time, but exhaustion.

And for the first time since the arrow struck, his chest rose in a full, even breath.

Zhu Deming was the first to move.

He stepped forward silently, reaching for a fresh cloth and kneeling beside the cot. Without speaking, he began to clean the dried blood from Longzi’s ribs, careful not to disrupt the mist that still clung to the skin like dew.

"As good as new," Xinying said, standing up and brushing her palms against the folds of her skirt. "Probably better, to be honest. Everything is healed, the aching bones, the ones that didn’t sit right, the pulled muscles, and of course, the arrow wound that managed to puncture your liver and your lungs."

Longzi didn’t respond. His breathing was slow and steady now, each inhale deeper than the last. He was almost scared to believe what she had say, but he could feel the truth of her words.

Or, to be more precise, he could feel the distinct lack of pain that he had been living with for the past ten years.

Zhao Xinying tilted her head, studying the result with mild disinterest. "Not my best work," she muttered. "But he’ll live. Probably longer than most of you deserve."

Zhu Deming let out a breath, the tension leaving his shoulders all at once. His head dropped forward again, not in grief this time—but in relief so overwhelming it left him lightheaded.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You’re not thanking me," she replied. "You’re thanking yourself. You wanted him alive. I just honored the request."

Deming’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once.

She turned toward the medics still standing awkwardly near the back of the tent. "If he so much as coughs wrong, send someone for me. For some reason, I don’t exactly trust you right now not to screw this up and blame me for his death."

The medics bowed deeply. "Yes, Crown Princess."

She blinked. "Crown Princess? Since when are you all so formal? I am pretty sure that you had a whole different name for me just a little bit ago."

The eldest medic swallowed nervously. "We weren’t sure what to call you. The Witch... seemed inappropriate while you were saving someone."

Zhao Xinying smirked faintly. "Let’s stick with ’Witch.’ The rest of the world seems to think that’s what I am."

Shi Yaozu stood and handed her a damp cloth, the blood already soaking into its folds. "You should wash your hands."

She glanced at the cloth but didn’t take it.

"They’re fine," she said. "It’s not the first time I’ve ever had blood on my hands." Her words weren’t cold. Just tired. The battle had drained everyone except her, but even she could feel the fatigue of killing so many people.

Yaozu nodded, withdrawing without another word.

She turned back to Sun Longzi once more. "He’ll wake up hungry. Don’t let him eat anything from that stew pot. It smells like boiled socks and regrets."

Deming let out a surprised laugh, small and hoarse.

Zhao Xinying didn’t smile, but her expression softened for a moment.

Then, without warning, she turned on her heel and walked out of the tent.

No dramatic exit.

No farewell.

She was simply gone.