"Now, Why Did I Transmigrate Into a Protagonist?!?"

The healers bowed deeply to Yīchéng, their faces tense with cautious respect.

"We've examined the young master," the lead healer said carefully. "It appears he has exhausted all of his physical strength and suffered a severe shock to his meridians. Fortunately, there are no permanent injuries. With rest and the aid of a few medicinal pills, he should recover."

He set down a small, jade-inlaid box on the low table, filled with warm, glowing pills.

"Please have him take these at proper intervals. We will take our leave, Young Master."

Another deep bow followed before the healers excused themselves, their footsteps fading swiftly down the hall.

Left alone in the quiet of his quarters, Yīchéng sat beside Xīngyào's unconscious form, his heart still unsettled.

The scene replayed vividly in his mind—how he had rushed to Xīngyào after dragging Mèng Wei to safety.

Kneeling pitifully on the cracked earth, Xīngyào's small frame had trembled as though even breathing was a battle. His lips were turning an alarming shade of blue, and his face was so pale it looked almost translucent under the muted light.

In desperation, Yīchéng had tried to circulate his Qi into Xīngyào, hoping to stabilize him.

But the moment his Qi touched Xīngyào's body—it was slapped away.

It couldn't even enter.

No matter how he adjusted, how he focused, it was the same—Xīngyào's body was sealed tight, even biting back at his Qi like a cornered beast.

Probably because of that damn seal, Yīchéng thought grimly.

When he had taken Xīngyào into his arms, lifting him close, a frigid cold began to seep outward from Xīngyào's very core, creeping into Yīchéng's bones with eerie silence.

It wasn't the normal cold of winter or injury—it was something stranger, colder, heavier.

He couldn't even put a name to it.

The boy's skin hadn't felt simply "cold" in the usual sense; instead, it was like holding a block of silent, biting death.

That chilling force gnawed into Yīchéng's meridians, clawing its way inward toward his heart.

He had hurriedly circulated his own Qi to shove the frigid force back out—or else he was pretty sure he'd have ended up as a Yīchéng-flavored ice sculpture.

Even now, the memory made his skin crawl. Thankfully, after carrying Xīngyào back, the strange cold had gradually faded away.

Yīchéng glanced at the boy lying quietly on the bed, breathing shallowly, his face ghostly but peaceful.

A heavy frown dug into Yīchéng's brow.

Finally, he couldn't hold it back anymore. With a mental sigh, he asked,

"Angella, any idea what's wrong with him?"

Angella's voice rang sugar-sweet and way too cheerful in his mind:

"Host, how would I know that?"

Yīchéng let out a long, exhausted breath and dragged a hand through his hair, almost yanking a few strands out.

"Useless," he muttered darkly.

He slumped back in the chair beside the bed, arms crossed, one leg swinging lazily in boredom.