72

Just as Su Junxin finished speaking, the floral bushes quivered slightly, followed by a hoarse cough from within.

"...It's me."

Upon hearing this voice, she was taken aback. She sheathed her dagger and quickly approached.

As she parted the bushes and focused her eyes inside, what she saw astounded her—

Zhang Zi'ang was laying weakly on the ground. His face was so pale it resembled paper, his breathing was so faint it was hardly noticeable, as if he could pass away at any moment.

What was strange, though, was that he had no signs of injury on him, not even the faintest scent of blood could be detected.

Not wasting any time, Su Junxin quickly crouched beside him and put the back of her hand on his forehead.

It was chilling to the touch and a bit damp, likely from sweat.

"Zhang Zi'ang, what happened?"

Zhang Zi'ang struggled to open his eyes, his lips moved slightly, uttering a few syllables.

"What did you say?" She leaned forward, bringing her ear closer to his lips.