Chapter : 735

Its own momentum carried it forward. The dead weight of the half-ton beast crashed into Lloyd, a final, posthumous blow. He was thrown backward, the Iffrit form finally giving out under the strain. He landed in a heap at the base of the banyan tree, the demonic armor dissolving around him, leaving him in his torn and bloodied traveler's clothes.

The Crimson-Striped Sabercat, one of the most feared predators in the Dahaka Jungle, lay sprawled on the ground a few feet away, its magnificent form still and silent, a single, neat, cauterized hole in the side of its neck the only sign of the fatal blow.

The battle was over. The doctor’s gambit had succeeded. And Lloyd, a man who should have been dead a dozen times over, was alive. He was exhausted, he was wounded, and he was in a considerable amount of pain. But he was alive. And in the Green Hell, that was the only victory that mattered.

The silence that descended upon the clearing was as sudden and absolute as the violence that had preceded it. The cacophonous symphony of the jungle, which had been a constant, oppressive presence, was gone. It was as if the very air was holding its breath, stunned into quiet reverence by the fall of its king. The only sound was the faint, sizzling hiss of the Iffrit armor as it fully dissolved into motes of crimson light around Lloyd, and the soft, ragged sound of his own breathing.

He lay slumped against the gnarled root of the banyan tree, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. The world was a spinning, nauseous kaleidoscope of pain and exhaustion. The fight had taken everything from him. Maintaining the suppressed Iffrit form, taking two direct hits from a Tier-4 beast, and then channeling all his remaining will and energy into that single, perfect strike had drained his reserves to the absolute dregs.

His real, physical body was a mess. His left shoulder felt like a bonfire, the deep claw marks a network of searing agony. His ribs protested with every breath, likely bruised or cracked from the final impact of the beast’s dead weight. A dull, throbbing headache hammered behind his eyes, a souvenir from the intense, repeated use of his [All-Seeing Eye]. He felt weak, vulnerable, and profoundly, achingly mortal.

From her hiding spot, Sumaiya slowly, hesitantly emerged. She moved like a dreamer, her dark eyes wide and fixed on the magnificent, still form of the dead Sabercat. She couldn’t reconcile the reality of it. The monster from the legends, the unstoppable force of nature, was dead at her feet, slain by the quiet doctor.

Her gaze then shifted to Lloyd, and the awe in her expression was instantly replaced by a sharp, piercing alarm. The invincible, god-like demon was gone. In its place was just a man—a wounded, bleeding, and dangerously pale man, slumped against a tree, his tunic soaked with blood.

“Zayn!” His name was a sharp, panicked cry that shattered the silence.

She rushed to his side, her movements now swift and certain. She dropped to her knees in the damp earth beside him, her previous mystery and aloofness completely forgotten, consumed by a wave of raw, unfiltered concern.

“You’re hurt,” she stated, her voice trembling slightly. It was a stunningly obvious observation, but it was all her shocked mind could produce.

Lloyd managed a weak, pained grimace that was probably intended to be a reassuring smile. “It is… as I said. A mere scratch.” He tried to push himself up, to regain some semblance of control and dignity, but a fresh wave of agony shot through his shoulder, and he collapsed back against the root with a sharp, involuntary hiss of pain.

“A scratch?” Sumaiya’s voice was incredulous, a mixture of anger and worry. “You are bleeding through your clothes! Your armor—the spirit—it didn’t protect you?”

“Suppression has its price,” he managed to say, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. “The beast was… more formidable than my initial assessment predicted.” He was deliberately understating the truth, but even the sanitized version was a confession of his own fallibility. He had won, but it had not been a clean victory. It had been a messy, brutal, and costly one.

Sumaiya’s hands hovered over his wounded shoulder, her fingers trembling, unsure of what to do. She was a woman of action, of will, but faced with this, with the reality of his injuries, she felt a profound sense of helplessness. He had been her protector, her shield. Now, the roles were reversed, and she was terrifyingly unprepared.

Chapter : 736

“We need to treat this,” she said, her voice taking on a new, firm tone as she forced her rising panic down. She was channeling his own calm, borrowing his strength. “The claws of these beasts are notoriously foul. The wound will fester if we don’t clean it.”

She looked around the clearing, her eyes scanning for anything useful. Her gaze fell on the small leather satchel he had dropped during the fight. She crawled over and retrieved it, her hands fumbling slightly as she opened the clasps. Inside, she found his medical supplies: a small bottle of a clear, alcohol-like antiseptic, clean linen bandages, and a small jar of a thick, green healing salve.

She brought them back to him, her expression now one of fierce, focused determination. “This will hurt,” she warned.

Lloyd simply closed his eyes and gave a faint nod of assent. He braced himself for the sharp, stinging pain of the antiseptic. He had endured far worse in his past life. He could endure this.

Sumaiya gently, carefully, began to tear away the blood-soaked fabric of his tunic around the wound. As she exposed the injury, she let out a soft, sharp gasp. It was not a scratch. It was a horrific quartet of deep, parallel lacerations, torn through skin and muscle, stopping just short of the bone. The flesh was already starting to turn an ugly, bruised purple at the edges.

Seeing the true extent of the damage, seeing the price he had paid to shield her, did something to Sumaiya. The last vestiges of her suspicion, her mystery, her carefully constructed walls, they didn't just crack; they crumbled into dust.

In that moment, he was not a mystery to be solved. He was not a potential threat or an enigma. He was just a man. A brave, foolish, and impossibly heroic man who had willingly placed his body between her and certain death, not once, but twice.

A powerful, unfamiliar emotion welled up inside her, a feeling that was equal parts overwhelming gratitude, profound respect, and a deep, aching tenderness. It was a seed of admiration, planted in the blood-soaked soil of the jungle floor, and it was already beginning to take root.

“Hold still,” she whispered, her voice now impossibly gentle. She uncorked the bottle of antiseptic, her hands steady now, her purpose clear. The Saint of the Coil was wounded, and she, his unwanted companion, would be his healer.

---

The sting of the antiseptic was a sharp, clean fire that lanced through the dull, throbbing ache in Lloyd’s shoulder. He flinched, a sharp hiss escaping through his gritted teeth, but he held himself perfectly still, enduring the pain with the stoic discipline of a soldier. He could feel Sumaiya’s touch, her fingers surprisingly steady and gentle as she meticulously cleaned the deep gouges.

Her proximity was a new kind of trial. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her, a mixture of soap, sweat, and the wild, earthy aroma of the jungle itself. It was an intimate, human scent that cut through the sterile fog of his tactical mindset. He was acutely aware of the warmth of her hands, the soft sound of her breathing, the focused intensity of her gaze. It was… distracting. Deeply distracting.

The Major General within him barked a mental order to re-establish professional distance, to regain control of the situation. But the exhausted man slumped against the tree found that he didn’t have the energy, or perhaps the will, to obey. For the first time in a very long time, he was allowing someone else to care for him. The feeling was profoundly unsettling and, to his own secret shame, not entirely unpleasant.

“You are a terrible liar, Doctor,” Sumaiya murmured, her voice a low, chiding hum as she worked. “’Mere scratches.’ If these are scratches, I would hate to see what you consider a serious wound.”

“A matter of perspective,” he grunted, his eyes still closed. “A serious wound is one that inhibits combat effectiveness. This is merely… an inconvenience.”

“An inconvenience that will leave a spectacular scar,” she retorted, her tone dry but laced with an undeniable warmth. She finished cleaning the wounds and began to apply the thick, green healing salve from his medical kit. The salve was cool and soothing, immediately taking the edge off the burning pain. Her touch as she applied it was impossibly careful, as if she were tending to a priceless, fragile treasure.

“You saved my life,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. The words were simple, a statement of unadorned fact, but they were filled with a weight of emotion that resonated in the quiet clearing. “Twice. You threw yourself in front of that… that thing. For me. Why?”