We were simply woken up — early, when the horizon was only just beginning to lighten, and the sky still held onto shades of gray.
We were given bowls of some kind of porridge.
Ordinary. Bland.
But I noticed how some of my classmates ate it as if tasting it for the first time — cautiously, with surprise, as if they didn’t quite understand whether it was food or part of a dream.
We almost didn’t talk.
Everyone was drained after yesterday.
The teachers gave a short order — and we moved back to the infirmary.
The second day was… no easier.
We simply already knew what we were going to see.
Cots.
Blood.
Bandages.
Moans.
For the first half hour, almost no one spoke — we worked.
Mechanically.
Precisely.
Much more confidently than yesterday.
But there were more wounded.
Far more.
An entire chain of wagons stretched toward the field camp, and we were no longer surprised when three wounded were brought in at once — those who had… almost no chance left.
I moved almost on autopilot.
Stopping bleeding, cauterizing wound edges, pulling skin together, sealing tissue with a thin mana film.
The teachers noticed my movements out of the corner of their eyes — but seemed to write it off as “natural talent.”
And that was good.
I didn’t want to explain what I was doing.
She worked nearby.
Her face remained as composed as ever —
but her hands trembled almost imperceptibly when she applied healing seals.
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She wasn’t one to give up.
Everyone she rushed to, she treated to the end — until she was certain death was no longer imminent.
Dirt on her hands mixed with blood, her hair stuck to her cheeks, but she kept moving from cot to cot.
When another hundred wounded were brought in, she finally exhaled quietly:
“It… doesn’t end…”
But she went on anyway.
They almost forced us to rest.
The teachers understood that we couldn’t heal endlessly — we would simply collapse.
We barely made it to the tents.
Someone collapsed immediately.
Someone trembled from what they had experienced.
Someone lay in silence, staring at the ceiling — and I wasn’t sure those eyes would ever again be able to look at the world the same way.
I sat by the fire near the tent.
I looked at my hands.
At the blood under my nails.
At the burn marks I had left on myself while cauterizing flesh.
The fire crackled softly, as if afraid to disturb us.
The flames reflected in the metal of the bowls, in the eyes of those who hadn’t yet fallen asleep, and in the black shadows of the tents.
I sat with my elbows on my knees, staring at my own hands.
The blood beneath my nails had already dried.
My fingers trembled from exhaustion, from the mana I had been squeezing out of myself for hours, and… from the understanding of what tomorrow would bring.
I heard someone crying in a nearby tent.
How Finn breathed heavily, as if he still heard the screams.
How Astra whispered quiet words of comfort to one of the girls.
And at that moment, the tent flap lifted.
Silver Norris stood in the opening, lit by the fire.
His shadow fell over us like a reminder of tomorrow.
He slowly looked over each of us — a tired gaze, but without pity.
The gaze of someone who knew what a real front line looked like…
And knew that we did not.
“Little heroes,” he said hoarsely.
The tone held no mockery, but no warmth either.
“I thought you’d collapse today, start puking, run away, or at least try to beg off.”
He took a step closer.
“But you’re still here.
On your feet.
Not killing yourselves — and not screaming.
That’s… rare.”
We were silent.
Listening.
He continued:
“Today was just a warm-up. Remember that.
Tomorrow, we go into the epicenter of the war.”
Something inside me twitched.
“We’ll work as a rapid medical group.
That means:
you go where the fighting is still going on,
where the wounded are fresh,
where demons can appear at any moment.”
Even the crackling of branches by the fire fell silent.
Silver slowly ran a finger along the hilt of his sword.
“I’m not going to lie to you.
This will be worse than everything you’ve seen here.
And for each of you, tomorrow might be the last day.”
For a minute, silence stood.
As if the air itself had grown heavier.
Then he added:
“But — you’ve already shown that you don’t run.
So tomorrow… I want to see the same thing.
Fear is normal.
Panic is not.
Anyone who starts running across the battlefield — I’ll break their neck myself, so the demons don’t trample them.”
Finn swallowed.
Tara shuddered.
Astra pressed her hands to her chest.
Elinia lifted her gaze — dry, exhausted, but firm.
Silver stopped right in front of me.
We met each other’s eyes.
“Helvard,” he said quietly, “I know you’re capable of more than you show.
And tomorrow…
don’t you dare play the hero.”
I gave a short nod.
He turned to the others:
“Get some sleep.
Three hours is better than none.
At dawn — we move.”
He left the tent, taking with him the smell of metal, gunpowder, and the coming morning.
We sat in silence for a long time.
No one said “everything will be fine” anymore.
Because for the first time, everyone understood:
The war would not end tomorrow.
And we were already inside it.