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## Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Swiftest Rescue
Yan Zhen's raw, desperate pleas tore at his throat, each word a rasp against the biting wind. He sagged against the invisible spiritual barrier of the Azure Harmony Sect, the frigid mist clinging to his bruised face, mimicking the tears he no longer had the energy to shed. His body was a symphony of protest—aching muscles, throbbing head, the shallow burn of starved lungs. Thirty days of relentless travel, of carrying Lin Feng's increasingly heavy, lifeless form, had stripped him bare, leaving only a core of unyielding, desperate will. Yet, the two sect guards at the black jade gate remained as impassive as the ancient stones around them, their calm, unyielding presence a stark contrast to his frantic desperation.
"We cannot permit unauthorized entry," one guard stated, his voice devoid of emotion, a cold knife to Yan Zhen's fading hope. "Your friend's condition is grave, but without proper identification or invitation, the sect cannot risk the integrity of its sacred grounds."
"Please! He's dying! You're known for your healing arts! There's no one else in the world who can save him!" Yan Zhen choked out, the words dissolving into gasps. He pressed Lin Feng's still form closer, as if his own dying warmth could somehow keep a flicker of life in his friend. His vision swam, the majestic, mist-shrouded peaks of the Azure Harmony Sect mocking his futile efforts. So close, yet utterly barred from the salvation he sought.
Just as the last vestiges of hope threatened to extinguish within him, replaced by a cold, crushing despair, a ripple disturbed the very fabric of space beside him. It wasn't a sound, but a visual distortion, a shimmering tremor in the air that defied natural law. Before Yan Zhen's exhausted brain could even begin to process this impossibility, a figure materialized as if conjured from pure spirit.
It was **Patriarch Xing**. His youthful face, so serene yet etched with an ancient, burning intensity, was fixed solely on Lin Feng. He moved with a speed that transcended perception, blurring the line between physical motion and instantaneous presence. One moment, Yan Zhen was desperately cradling Lin Feng, the next, a firm, ancient hand was on his arms, gently, yet with an undeniable, absolute authority, taking Lin Feng's unconscious form.
Yan Zhen's breath hitched, caught in his throat. His mind, already pushed past its limits, struggled to register the impossibly fast transfer, the sheer, overwhelming power radiating from this stranger. He tried to speak, to protest, to ask, but no sound escaped. In the milliseconds it took for his brain to process the shift, Patriarch Xing was already turning, Lin Feng secure in his embrace.
The Sect Leader's voice, low and resonant, was the only thing that managed to penetrate Yan Zhen's profound shock. "He will be cured."
And then, as suddenly as he appeared, Patriarch Xing, holding Lin Feng, was gone. Not merely vanished from sight, but utterly **vanished from existence**, as if they had been plucked from the very fabric of reality. The air where they had stood rippled for another fleeting second, and then stillness returned, leaving only the unyielding gates and the impassive guards.
Yan Zhen remained frozen, his hands still instinctively curved as if holding Lin Feng, the phantom warmth of his friend's body lingering. His mind reeled, spiraling into a terrifying abyss. What had just happened? Who was that phantom-like figure? He had traveled for a month, begged for hours, only for some unknown, impossibly fast being to snatch Lin Feng away at the very threshold of salvation. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at his throat. Lin Feng was gone, taken by a phantom, and there was no trace, no explanation.
*Is he truly gone? Is he lost forever after all this? Did I fail him? Was that a demon, an illusion?* The questions screamed in his head, threatening to shatter his already fractured composure.
Just as the panic threatened to consume him whole, a voice, ancient and familiar, resonated directly within his mind, soothing the chaotic edges of his terror. It was Elder Xuan.
*"Calm yourself, Yan Zhen,"* Elder Xuan's voice echoed, gentle but firm, a steady anchor in the storm of his fear. *"That person... he is the **Patriarch Xing**, the Sect Leader of the Azure Harmony Sect. He took Lin Feng to bring him to safety and to attempt a cure. Trust that Lin Feng is now in the hands of someone incredibly powerful and capable. Your arduous task is done."*
The words, though startling in their directness and the sheer mystery they contained, were a profound balm to Yan Zhen's frantic heart. The Sect Leader. He *would* cure Lin Feng. The overwhelming panic receded, replaced by a profound, if still bewildered, sense of relief. Lin Feng was safe, in powerful hands. But the departure, the sheer power of the Patriarch, and the unexplained speed left Yan Zhen with a hundred new, lingering questions about the mysterious, impossibly powerful man who had appeared and vanished like a whisper in the wind.
As Elder Xuan's voice faded, the silence that followed felt vast and oppressive. Yan Zhen's body, which had been operating purely on adrenaline and sheer will, finally gave out. His knees buckled, and he sank to the cold, damp earth at the foot of the formidable gates. The profound exhaustion, held at bay for a month, crashed over him like a tidal wave. He gasped, each breath a painful, ragged effort.
The two guards remained at their posts, their gazes still impassive, betraying no reaction to the impossible events that had just transpired. They stood as stone sentinels, seemingly unfazed by the Sect Leader's sudden appearance and disappearance. To them, perhaps, such displays of power were commonplace. But to Yan Zhen, who had just witnessed the blurring of reality, it was a terrifying display of a power far beyond his understanding. He wondered if they had even heard Elder Xuan's voice within his mind. Probably not.
He was still outside the sect. That cold, undeniable fact settled upon him. He had fulfilled his desperate promise, brought Lin Feng to the only place that could save him. But his own journey had culminated not in refuge, but in continued isolation at the gates of an unyielding fortress. He looked at his scraped, trembling hands, then at the impenetrable mist that shrouded the sect, a symbol of its power and its aloofness.
Lin Feng was being cured. Elder Xuan had said it. This Patriarch Xing, with his impossible speed, would save him. But *how*? And what was so special about Lin Feng that would cause such a powerful being to act so swiftly and strangely? He still knew so little. The hope that bloomed was fragile, overshadowed by the uncertainty of Lin Feng's fate and his own. He was adrift, exhausted, and profoundly alone at the threshold of a world he barely understood. The immediate threat to Lin Feng was gone, but the mystery had only deepened, leaving Yan Zhen to face an uncertain future, utterly at the mercy of forces he could not comprehend.