CHAPTER 3

Silas had learned much from the conversation between the two men. Although he'd heard rumors that Kenos, the mage's staff, had been stolen just a few days after he left Infanta, he was surprised to learn it had been returned. What made it even stranger was that the Zolero family—a well-known merchant family—had returned the staff after it was pawned at one of their shops.

While it wasn’t entirely shocking that they had returned it—since Kenos was considered a national treasure that belonged at the temple—it struck Silas as ridiculous that a family with no apparent interest in the temple had suddenly acted with such goodwill, even making donations. Of course, he hadn’t confirmed any of this yet, but if it was true, he was certain the Zolero family had an ulterior motive.

I’m almost there, Silas thought to himself. I’ll figure it out when I reach the temple.

After two more days of travel and getting lost, Silas finally arrived in Infanta—his home province. Even from the outskirts, he spotted the tallest white building in the distance: the temple’s watchtower. Its bell, large and imposing, rang once for important announcements, twice when the emperor visited, and three times whenever refugees or large groups of the injured arrived. When the province was in danger, the bell rang nonstop. Its sound carried all the way to the outskirts, and even while he was still quite far, he swore he heard it ring three times.

Despite a few wrong turns along the way, Silas felt his mood lift the moment he saw the tower. Relief washed over him, and without hesitation, he hopped into a carriage to speed up the rest of his journey, ensuring he wouldn’t get lost again. Even though he lived in the province his entire life, he wasn’t one to wander from the temple grounds, so it was easy for him to lose his way—even in such familiar town.

"Silas! Thank goodness you're back!" A young man's voice called out as Silas entered the refugee area near the temple's main entrance. He had chosen this path rather than the main entrance, where large tents were set up. Priests and temple slaves bustled around, carrying everything from towels to boxes.

The young man who had called to him was no different. He carried several folded towels and a shoulder bag that jingled with the sound of clinking bottles. Silas didn’t need to look inside to know its contents—medicines for the injured. The pungent mix of herbs lingered in the bag, releasing a scent into the air that oddly comforted him.

Hugh spoke too loudly for Silas’s liking, announcing his arrival for all to hear. Thankfully, everyone else was too busy to notice him. Only him, who seemed determined to torment Silas’s otherwise peaceful days, always managed to find him wherever he went, up until now. In fact, Silas had gotten fed up with him during his first month as a volunteer, back when Silas was already working as a temple slave. Hugh would find him everywhere and annoy him with questions. When Silas asked how he found him, Hugh claimed to have a good nose and said Silas had a particular scent, which made the latter look at him like a creepy weirdo. But he’d dropped that line of thinking when Hugh proved he actually had an uncanny sense of smell. Silas didn’t know if he was part dog, but it certainly proved helpful when they were shopping for herbs.

“You look… awful,” Hugh added, his voice barely a whisper as he noticed the glare Silas was giving him.

‘Awful’ is an understatement, Silas thought, surveying his appearance. His shirt looked like it had fought against the elements; his messy hair—longer after months without a trim—clung to his face. His complexion had darkened from the heat, and there were noticeable dark bags under his silver-gray eyes. He looked as though he’d aged several years.

“Were there many casualties?” Silas ignored Hugh’s comment and asked as they walked toward the largest white tent in the area, where the patients were being treated.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Hugh sighed wearily, his eyes tired. “We have patients from both provinces, and most are in critical condition. I think this is the busiest I’ve ever been since I arrived in Infanta. I’m exhausted. It feels endless. They just keep coming.”

Silas’s face contorted in a frown as he recalled the disaster from the previous year. If Hugh had experienced the aftermath of that catastrophe, he wouldn’t be complaining now.

Hugh’s lips curled into a small, relieved smile. “Still, it’s good to see you back. We’re so outnumbered that I appreciate your presence. I kinda missed you.”

Silas stopped himself from rolling his eyes or making any sharp comments. But Hugh, being a few years older, could always read the subtle changes in his expression.

“Yeah, now I’m regretting what I said,” Hugh continued, his face paling. “I feel like I’m about to throw up…” He coughed, trying to dismiss his discomfort, then pointed an accusing finger at Silas.

“This is your fault.”

“It’s you who said something disgusting,” Silas pointed out, his tone dry and uninterested.

Before Hugh could react further, a stern voice called from behind them.

“What was disgusting?” The voice was sharp, making both boys stiffen and slowly turn around.

Recognizing the person before them, their bodies automatically straightened, and they shook their heads in unison.

“Nothing, Vice Priest,” Hugh said quickly, his tone deferential, while Silas simply shook his head.

They quickly remembered to bow their heads respectfully to the middle-aged woman, one of the two Vice Priests, Beta. She wore a pristine white robe, a golden belt at her waist, and a pendant bearing the temple’s emblem. A simple yet elegant hat concealed her hair. Standing a head taller than both of them, her unusually muscular frame for a priest made her even more imposing.

Before dedicating her life to healing the sick and injured, she had been a mercenary for a renowned group that disbanded years ago. People feared her not only because of her position as the temple’s second-in-command but also because of her reputation for physically disciplining temple slaves—just like Silas and Hugh.

The woman fixed her stern gaze on Hugh. “You’re now a temple slave. Do you want to be reverted back to a volunteer?”

“No, Vice Priest,” Hugh replied quickly, almost choking on his words. He shook his head, clearly terrified. It wasn’t that he had been abused, but the memory of his grueling training as a temple slave haunted him. His body still remembered the hardships, and it made him fearful of the woman who had overseen his training from start to finish. It couldn’t be helped, though, as the Vice Priest was responsible for all the temple’s slaves and volunteers.

“And you,” she turned her sharp eyes to Silas. “We need all hands we can get. As much as I want you to rest, you need to hurry to the tent. Your report can wait.”

Silas’s expression turned serious. It was that bad. The situation was so unfavorable that such an important report was being delayed.

“Be quick. We’re short on temple slaves,” she added, her eyes briefly scanning the tent with a critical gaze. The shortage was indeed pressing, and she feared there wouldn’t be enough volunteers or temple slaves to assist the priests.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Without wasting another second, the two boys bowed their heads once more and made their way toward the tent.

“Over here!”

Before Silas could even assess the situation, a voice called out. Without hesitation, he rushed toward the sound seeing that the person was directly looking at him. He found a bloodied middle-aged man lying beside a volunteer. Blood poured from the patient’s knee, staining the bed beneath him, and Silas could see the bone protruding from the mess.

“My bone! I can see my bone!” the patient gasped, his eyes wide in shock. He tried to speak further, but his shock left him speechless, unable to form a coherent word.

“What did you give him, Lyle?” Silas asked, glancing at the volunteer that called on him.

“I already administered a numbing potion,” Lyle explained, looking nervous as he helped Silas don a temple slave’s robe. Unlike the priests’ pristine white garments, temple slaves wore deep black robes with long, cuffed sleeves, a golden belt, and the temple’s logo emblazoned on the chest.

Silas would have preferred to wash up first, but the situation left no room for delay. Fortunately, the robes worn by both priests and temple slaves were blessed by the Head Priest, ensuring they remained clean and disinfected. This blessing eliminated the need for frequent changes between patients and protected both the healer and those being treated. It was designed to safeguard everyone involved, patients and healers alike.

"Temple slave, please help me! I don’t want to lose my leg! I’m a farmer! I need my legs to work—please!" The patient's voice trembled with desperation, his eyes pleading as though Silas were his last hope. He couldn’t be blamed, though. In that moment, Silas was indeed his only hope.

Lyle glanced at Silas nervously. While he had heard rumors about Silas’s healing abilities, this was his first time witnessing them firsthand. The chaos and pressure around them were pushing him to his limits, leaving him conflicted about whether he should have called on a Chief Priest instead. He wasn’t sure if Silas could truly heal the man.

For someone inexperienced, the atmosphere in the tent would have been suffocating, the pressure thick enough to make the air feel almost solid. The cries of suffering patients echoed in every corner, each one a jagged reminder of the chaos they had endured. It was the kind of sound that could shatter a person's resolve—the gut-wrenching sobs, the frantic calls for help, the desperate pleas for mercy.

“My son, please heal my son!” a mother cried, her voice raw with panic.

“Ahh! My arms were crushed! Please help!” another patient screamed, agony lacing every word.

“Priest! The patient stopped breathing!” came a frantic shout from the back of the tent.

“No! I can't see anything! Priest! Give my sight back!” a man wailed in horror.

“I need more bandages here!” came an urgent command.

“There’s so much blood! I can’t feel my legs!” a knight groaned, his voice trembling.

The cries collided in the air, overlapping and drowning out all other sounds. The panic and urgency in every voice seemed to spiral, making the tent feel smaller with each passing moment. For those who had never faced such chaos, it would have been impossible not to feel overwhelmed, paralyzed by the weight of the situation. Many volunteers, those with only the faintest training, stood frozen in place, too terrified to act, their hands trembling at their sides. The pressure to act swiftly, to make the right decision, was suffocating.

This heavy mood affected everyone—the patients, the volunteers, the temple slaves, and the priests. But for the latter two, the veteran healers who had witnessed this kind of suffering countless times, it was a different story. The noise, the urgency, the overwhelming pleas—it all melted away, replaced by sharp focus and unshakable resolve. This was their battlefield. They had long learned that there was no time to hesitate, no room for fear. Every second mattered. The stakes were as high as they could get. It wasn’t about saving everyone—that was an impossible dream—but it was about doing everything in their power to save as many as they could.

In the middle of such chaos, Silas presented a disturbingly calm demeanor. He locked eyes with the farmer, his gaze cold and determined—a sharp contrast to the anguish around him.

"You won't lose your leg," Silas said, his voice calm and firm. His tone lacked empathy, yet there was a certainty in his words that immediately calmed the farmer’s frantic mind. Despite the coldness in Silas's demeanor, the farmer couldn’t help but trust him—there was no doubt in his heart that the young man meant every word.

Silas closed his eyes, shutting out all the noise, and took a slow breath. When he exhaled, he opened his eyes and his grey irises now transformed into glowing, deep blue orbs. With deliberate precision, he hovered his right hand over the farmer’s bloodied knee, his palm trembling ever so slightly from the strain. For a moment, the air grew still, thick with tension. Then, slowly, his Aura—dark blue and translucent—began to seep from his palm, swirling like mist, enveloping the knee in a faint, ethereal glow.

In a miraculous display of healing, the bone realigned with a soft, almost imperceptible click, settling back into its natural position as though guided by an unseen hand. The torn muscles followed, gradually fusing together as if invisible threads gently wove them back into place, restoring their strength. The skin, once shredded and bloodied, healed with a fluid grace, the gaping wound closing as though it had never been. It was as though time itself had rewound, erasing every trace of injury, bringing the knee back to how it once had been.

The farmer blinked, staring in disbelief at the still-bloody yet perfectly healed knee. He moved it tentatively, feeling no pain or stiffness—just a fully functional joint.

Silas turned to Lyle, his expression unreadable, before addressing the next task at hand. “Clean the blood and move him to recovery. He’s lost too much blood.”

Lyle, still wide-eyed, stared at Silas, as though expecting something to unravel at any moment.

Is this real? What kind of miracle is this? Lyle thought, his heart pounding in his chest. He had witnessed priests and temple slaves heal injuries before, but never with such precision, never with such completeness. What Silas had just done was beyond anything he had ever imagined or seen. It was more than a simple healing—it was something extraordinary, something almost otherworldly.

The sight of the injury mending so effortlessly, as if time itself had been reversed, sent a chill down his spine. His skin prickled, and goosebumps rose along his arms, his mind struggling to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the moment. This was no ordinary healing; this was something far more powerful, and it left Lyle shaken to his core.

Why isn't he a Chief Priest yet?

"Get me an Aura stone," Silas said calmly, pulling Lyle from his reverie.

Lyle blinked, still stunned. "What?"

"Aura stone," Silas repeated, his tone sharp but steady. "I'm all out of Aura."

Lyle gaped, struggling to understand. "But… I thought you could just..."

Before Lyle could find his words, Silas cut him off, his voice tinged with a hint of annoyance. He wasn’t the type to be patient, explaining his every move—but he did so anyway. “I can’t. Not without a stone.”

Lyle stared at him, a mix of awe and confusion on his face. He knew that Aura stones were typically used by priests and temple slaves, especially in these times, but so quickly? To see Silas—after performing such a feat—rely on one... it was unexpected.

Then it hit him. So that was the reason why.

"I'll get some," Lyle said, snapping out of his thoughts and finally recalling their situation, urgency taking over as he rushed toward the supply area.

As Lyle hurried away, Silas turned toward the next patient, his focus already shifting back to his work. The cries, the frantic pace—he had done this before. There was no time for reflection. Only action.

He had just returned. And now, a war awaited him.

R E H I L I Y A