The Ashen Healer

Chapter 5

Silence. The silence of the Red Wastes was heavier than the noise of the city. There were no birds. No crickets. Only the wind, whispering over the sharp rocks.

Evans lay against the boulder. He counted his breaths. In. Out. In. Out. He had to stay calm. Panic was a killer. He knew this. He had studied medicine. He had studied survival. He was smart.

"Assess," he whispered to himself. "Assess the damage."

He tried to sit up. A sharp pain stabbed his left side. Broken rib? Maybe just bruised. He pressed his hand against his side. He flinched. Bruised, definitely. Maybe a hairline fracture.

He looked at his legs. His pants were torn. Blood oozed from a long cut on his shin. The blood looked bright red against the dusty ground.

"Stop the bleeding," he thought.

He reached for his inner power. He reached for his Qi.

For years, it had been as natural as breathing. He would focus his mind, and a warm current would flow from his belly to his hands. He could use that energy to seal wounds, to ease pain, to strengthen his skin.

He closed his eyes. He focused on his center. Flow. Move. Heal.

Nothing happened.

It was a terrifying sensation. It felt like reaching for a limb that had been cut off. He pushed harder with his mind. He strained until his forehead sweated.

His Dantian—the core of his power—was shattered. It was like a cracked cup. No matter how much water you poured in, it all leaked out. He was empty. He was just a boy. Just flesh and bone. "No," he gasped. "No, no, no."

He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Not just from fear, but from shock. His body was going into shock. "The bag," he said.

He looked down the slope. The canvas bag the enforcers had thrown was there. It was only ten feet away.

Ten feet. It looked like ten miles.

Evans grit his teeth. He dug his fingers into the red dirt. The soil was strange. It was gritty, like ground glass. It stung his skin. He pulled himself forward.

Drag.

Pain shot through his ribs.

Drag.

His knee scraped over a sharp rock. He cried out, but he did not stop. He was Evans. He was the son of a scholar. He would not die here.

He reached the bag. His fingers brushed the rough fabric. He pulled it close. He fumbled with the knot. His fingers were stiff and clumsy. Finally, the knot gave way.

He opened it.

His heart sank.

Inside, there was a water skin. It was flat. Empty. There was a loaf of bread, but it had been crushed by the fall. It was just crumbs mixed with dirt. There was a small knife, dull and rusty. And there was a single bandage roll.

"They didn't want me to survive," Evans realized. "They just wanted to say they gave me supplies."

He grabbed the water skin. He shook it upside down. A single drop of water fell onto his dry tongue. That was all.

He looked back at his leg. The cut on his shin was changing.

In the city, a cut would stay red for hours. Here, in the Red Wastes, something was wrong. The edges of the wound were turning purple. Dark veins were spreading out from the cut, crawling under his skin like spiderwebs.

" toxins," Evans whispered. "The dust... it's toxic."

The Red Wastes were not just dry. They were poisonous. The very earth was trying to eat him.

He grabbed the bandage roll. He needed to cover the wound. He needed to stop the dust from getting in.

He wrapped the cloth around his leg. His hands shook so badly he dropped the roll twice. Dirt got on the bandage.

"Useless!" he screamed. His voice cracked. "I am useless!"

He had spent ten years learning to be a healer. He knew the names of every herb. He knew the pressure points of the body. He knew how to stitch flesh.

But without Qi? Without clean water? Without tools?

His knowledge was a cruel joke. He knew exactly how he was going to die. He knew the infection would enter his blood. He knew the fever would start in an hour. He knew his organs would shut down.

He knew it all, and he could do nothing to stop it.

He sat back against the rock. The purple lines on his leg were growing. They were an inch long now.

He felt a hot flush rise in his cheeks. The fever. It was starting already.

"So fast," he murmured. "It happens so fast."

He looked up at the sky. The sun was beginning to dip. The shadows of the rocks stretched out, looking like long, dark fingers reaching for him.

Scene 3: Collapse

Night in the Red Wastes did not fall gently. It crashed down.

One moment, the sun was a burning eye in the west. The next, it dropped behind the jagged horizon. The light vanished.

And the cold arrived.

It was not a normal cold. It was a biting, unnatural frost that seemed to rise from the stones themselves. The temperature dropped forty degrees in minutes.

Evans’s teeth began to chatter. Clack-clack-clack. He could not stop it. He hugged his chest. His torn shirt offered no protection.

He needed shelter. If he stayed in the open, the wind would freeze the sweat on his skin. He would be an ice statue by morning.

"Move," he told himself. "Get up."

He tried to stand. His legs refused. The infection in his shin was burning like a hot coal. The rest of him was freezing, but his leg was on fire.

He rolled onto his stomach. He began to crawl again.

He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to find a hole. A cave. A crack in the earth. Anything to get out of the wind.

The red dust was cold now. It sucked the heat from his palms.

His vision began to swim. The fever was spiking.

Shadows danced in the corner of his eyes. He saw movement where there was none.

"Evans..."

He froze. He heard a voice.

"Father?" he whispered.

He looked around. The darkness was thick. The rocks looked like people standing still.

"You disappointed us, Evans," the voice said. It sounded like the Clan Elder. The old man with the white beard who had sentenced him.

"I didn't..." Evans gasped. "I didn't do it."