Chapter 15

Straw Mat and Clay Pot

After Qingshan had cheerfully shown Jon and the dog their new abode, waving them a hearty goodbye, Jon took a moment to survey the room. Well, 'room' might be a grand term for the space. It housed a straw mat that pretended to be a bed, a zafu*—because apparently, elegance in this world was synonymous with ancient Asian minimalism—and, as a mark of sheer luxury, a large clay pot sat regally in the corner. The pot hosted water and sported a clay cup on its brim like a crown, possibly for drinking, or maybe for a minimalist bathing experience.

"Haaa," he exhaled, a sound that seemed too loud in the sparse room. Glancing down at his dog— wait, when did it become his? Oh well. The creature that had managed to look both pitiful and dignified sprawled beside the zafu. "I guess we'll have to sleep here while figuring out how to get back home, buddy."

The dog, who had been sniffing the straw mat with an expression that Jon swore looked skeptical, paused to give him a glance that said, Really? This is what you've got? Jon could only spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. "I know, I know, it's not exactly the Ritz-Carlton."

Jon plopped down on the mat, which crackled under his weight like it was laughing at his misfortune. He eyed the zafu next to him, considering its use. Meditation might be necessary after all, if he was to survive this spiritual and quite literal back-to-nature retreat.

The dog, deciding that the straw mat wasn't a threat—or perhaps just too tired to care—curled up and settled down. Jon watched him, the sight stirring envy in him. "Must be nice to adapt so quickly," he murmured, already missing the soft, forgiving embrace of his memory foam mattress. And his Xbox. And toilet paper.

He leaned over to dip the clay cup into the pot, drawing some water. Holding it up to the dim light filtering through the bamboo-covered window, Jon squinted suspiciously at the liquid. "Well, here goes nothing," he said before taking a cautious sip. Surprisingly, it tasted just like water—plain, refreshing, and without a hint of dysentery or other unknown and potentially mortal illness. Yet.

Setting the cup down, Jon lay back, the straw crackling a soft protest that sounded like a laugh track mocking his predicament. The ceiling was a simple thatch affair, probably home to an eclectic community of insects and ancient dust particles. He made a mental note to not open his mouth when looking up.

The straw rectangle masquerading as a door rustled softly, followed by Yulian's voice, "May I enter?"

Jon, seated cross-legged on the zafu, turned towards the sound and responded cheerfully, "Come in!"

Yulian stepped into the modest dwelling and noticed the dog sprawled out on the straw mat, already deep in slumber. Jon, catching her gaze, smiled and patted the dog gently. "I'll let him stay until his leg is healed. For now, I think he deserves some rest," he chuckled.

"Very well then," Yulian replied, setting down a small bag she had carried in. "I brought the necessary to treat your injuries. Could you take off your top clothing for me to see your clavicle?"

Jon's smile widened playfully. "Whoa there, buy me a drink first at least! I am not an easy man, you know?"

Yulian's lips twitched into a smile, though her fist clenched slightly—a clear attempt to mask her irritation. "One more quip about me being a woman and I'll break your nose."

"My nose is already broken," Jon retorted.

"I'll break it some more," Yulian shot back, the threat delivered with a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Sensing that he might have pushed the joke a bit too far, Jon raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, truce. Let's just focus on the clavicle, shall we?" he said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

Yulian nodded as she opened her bag to reveal an array of bottles, herbs, and bandages. "Lie down, please. This might sting a bit," she warned as she prepared a dark, viscous salve.

Jon complied, lying back carefully on the straw mat, which complained under his weight with a soft, crinkly sound. As Yulian applied the salve, a sharp, biting sensation seared through his skin, causing him to hiss in pain. "That's... quite the sting," he grimaced.

"It helps with the healing," Yulian explained, her hands steady despite her earlier irritation. "Try to stay still."

As Yulian finished applying the last of the salve—which Jon was fairly certain was just spicy mud—she handed him a cup filled with something entirely white and suspiciously fragrant. "Here, drink this," she instructed.

Jon peered into the cup. "This isn’t milk, is it? 'cause I'm lactose intolerant." he asked, eyebrows arched in skepticism.

"It's a calming potion," Yulian explained. "It'll help before I set your bone."

Jon's eyes darted from the cup to Yulian, a cascade of thoughts flooding his mind. "So...I'll be unconscious for that part?" he queried, hoping his tone hid his rising alarm.

"Yes," she replied bluntly, her hands busy preparing another suspicious concoction.

Jon chuckled nervously, "Listen, not that I don’t trust you but... I just don’t feel comfortable enough to be unconscious around you."

Yulian sighed, clearly not in the mood for more of Jon's quips. Before he could react, her fingers darted out towards him in a blur, pressing down on several points along his shoulder and neck. Jon felt his muscles seize, an involuntary paralysis that anchored him helplessly to the spot.

“Hey!” Jon protested, but Yulian was already positioning her fingers along his shoulder, her touch deceptively gentle.

Jon's heart pounded like a drum solo at a rock concert. Could she actually be an assassin? Of course, she’s an assassin. And why the heck did I let my guard down so easily? If I'm really in some novel right now, then the author is terrible at writing believable characters, lazy bum.

“You’re overthinking this,” Yulian commented, misinterpreting the horror on his face as fear of the procedure. “Relax. I’m not going to kill you.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one to be magically paralyzed by Doctor Ninj–aaaaahh!,”

Before Jon could finish his sentence, Yulian had deftly repositioned his clavicle with a swift move, accompanied by a sharp crack that sliced through the air—and Jon’s scream. “Jesus! What is wrong with you?!”

“My name is Yùlián,” she corrected, “not 'Jee-suh'” Her smile was warm, yet somehow menacing—a grin that grew as Jon winced in pain. This was the first time Jon had seen her genuinely smile, and it unnervingly seemed to be sparked by his discomfort.

“And nothing is wrong with me. I asked you to drink the sedative, and you refused.”

Jon tried to muster a comeback, but Yulian smoothly hummed a tune, adjusting his collarbone further. The sudden tweak sent another jolt of pain through Jon, cutting off his words and eliciting another agonized howl. “Aouuuugh!”

“There, there,” Yulian cooed mockingly, her teeth now fully on display. “How is a big man such as you so sensitive to a little bone adjustment? Oh?" She leaned in close, eyes glinting. "Are those...tears I see?"

“...I am not crying,” Jon managed through gritted teeth, a tear betraying him as it slid down his cheek.

This was now a battle of wills. Yulian watched him, still smiling, while her hands worked his collarbone with a vigor that was almost enthusiastic. Jon, his eyes red and nose runny, couldn’t move away; all he could do was endure and stare back. He promised himself he wouldn’t scream again; he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. And as he suffered silently, a stray thought about her mask crossed his mind...

As he attempted to wield his last shred of dignity with a low, pained jab, "The facial hair on your mask is ugly," Yulian merely paused, her smile never faltering.

The room fell into a brief, anticipatory silence before Yulian, still smiling warmly, increased the pressure on Jon's newly aligned clavicle. The intensified ache made his eyes water more fiercely, squeezing them shut like his lips, as he braced against the urge to scream.

"Who's ugly now?" Yulian asked, observing Jon's involuntary grimace.

Jon could only shoot her a look of indignation, unable to formulate a retort through the haze of pain.

"Well, the clavicle is done," Yulian announced. "Now, onto the nose."

"I'll drink it! I'll—" Jon's protest was cut short as Yulian deftly grasped his nose, her fingers expertly positioned. With a swift, calculated twist, she corrected the misalignment.

The sensation was immediate and intense. Jon felt a sharp, searing pain shoot through his nasal passages, radiating up into his forehead and watering his already tear-filled eyes. His vision blurred further, a veil of red clouding his sight as the acute sting forced a muffled groan from his lips.

As the initial wave of pain subsided, a dull, persistent throb settled in, the kind that made Jon keenly aware of every breath, every slight movement that sent ripples of discomfort across his face. His nose felt strangely clearer, though swollen, as if the air passed more freely but with a tender reminder of the ordeal.

With his head spinning slightly from the sudden readjustment, he squinted at Yulian through teary eyes. He tried to muster the energy to speak, to protest or perhaps even to lob another weak insult her way, but the words dissolved into a pained sigh.

"There," Yulian said, stepping back to survey her handiwork. "That should do it. Breathing should be easier now, though it might still feel tender for a while."

He looked up at Yulian. "Thanks, I guess," he managed to say, his voice hoarse.

Yulian turned her attention to the dog, which had roused from its rest at the sound of Jon's anguished cries. Sensing what was coming, the dog attempted a feeble escape, its movements hindered by the broken leg.

Jon held the dog firmly as it attempted to flee. “Hop, hop, hop, where are you going, buddy?” Jon said, the dog pausing and turning its head to look at him with a betrayed expression that seemed to say, Et tu, Jon?

“I have suffered, and so will you,” Jon murmured to the dog, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the lingering pain in his face. His eyes were still red, his nose slightly swollen, making his attempt at sternness more pitiful than authoritative.

Yulian, observing their interaction, approached with the cup of white sedative. Her eyes narrowed. "How did you do that?"

Jon blinked at her innocently. "Do what?"

"I struck your paralysis points," she stated flatly. "You should not have been able to move until I released them myself. Yet you moved freely."

Jon gave her a perplexed look. "I have no idea what you're talking about. The dog seemed like it was going to get underfoot, so I just stopped it. " He raised an eyebrow. "Also, do you guys really have no respect for personal boundaries around here? That little paralysis stunt was basically assault with a deadly finger."

Yulian opened her mouth, an acerbic retort ready, but then seemed to think better of it. With a curt nod, she simply said, "Very well."

She offered the sedative to the dog, which looked between Jon and the cup warily. I really should have taken it myself, Jon thought, watching as Yulian gently coaxed the dog to drink. With a resigned sigh, the dog lapped at the sedative, soon growing more docile under its effects.

*****

Several hours after Yulian left, Jon's condition had deteriorated. Waves of searing heat crashed through his body, his skin slick with sweat that soaked the sheets and mat beneath him. His skull felt ready to split open, throbbing in agonizing pulses that made coherent thought impossible. Yulian had warned him of a rough night, and it seemed she was right, yet, she did not say it would be this intense.

Beside him, the dog panted heavily, radiating heat as if suffering the same malaise. Perhaps it was the fever, or just the peculiar way time seemed to warp when you were ill, but Jon couldn't tell if it was still day or had the night already enveloped them. His fevered mind played tricks on him, twisting the dog's ragged breaths into grating words that Jon could swear sounded exactly like Morgan Freeman's deep baritone. "Water..." the dog seemed to rasp in a gravelly voice. "So...thirsty..."

What the... Jon opened his mouth to respond, but only a harsh, guttural groan escaped his cracked lips. A white-hot lance of agony lanced through his lower abdomen, doubling him over as nausea roiled in his gut. He clutched at his stomach, body convulsing, but the searing pain refused to abate.

Each shallow, ragged breath felt like shards of glass were being driven into his chest. Jon squeezed his eyes shut, but hallucinations bloomed brightly behind his lids.

He tossed and turned in desperation on the straw mat, but no position could ease the agony ravaging his abdomen, chest and head simultaneously.

Coherent thoughts were impossible. All sense of time disintegrated into an endless spiral of pain, delirium and misery. His mind grew hazy, darkness encroaching on the edges of his consciousness as he teetered on the brink of oblivion.

He lay there, a low groan escaping his lips every so often as he shifted to find a less uncomfortable position on the straw mat. The dog, too, seemed restless, its occasional shuffles and soft whines letting Jon know of their shared misery.

Then, as if the universe decided to throw them a bone, a wave of relief washed over Jon. It was sudden and soothing, like drifting atop a gentle cloud.

His body relaxed, the tension seeping out of his muscles, and his mind cleared of all thoughts save for one: sleep.

Jon blinked slowly, the room seeming to undulate around him in a dizzying swirl of colors and shapes. Definitely a trip. A really, really bad one...

For the first time since his unexpected journey began, absolute peace enveloped him, wrapping his consciousness in a cocoon of comfort and dragging him down into the depths of a healing slumber.

*****

The day after, at dawn...

From the rugged slopes of the surrounding mountains, a panting old man descended towards Zhilan Village. His frame was stooped under the weight of dry wood. Despite his age, his shoulders bore a greater burden than the donkey that accompanied him, which was laden with a modest pile of timber.

He paused, resting for a moment to catch his breath, the lines on his face deepening as he squinted against the rising sun. "This old man is no longer the vigorous youth he used to be," he muttered.

He leaned heavily on a gnarled walking stick, shifting some of the wood's weight from his aching back to the ground. With a grunt, he straightened just enough to gaze towards the village far, very far below. From his elevated vantage point, he could make out new figures moving about the village square—unfamiliar faces.

"Hmm," he grunted, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps it is time we leave this place, right, Tianma?" he addressed the donkey which, for its part, flicked its ears and snorted, as if in agreement.