CHAPTER 4

Is it a blessing, or a curse? Silas couldn’t be sure anymore. His ability to wield Aura and heal others was supposed to be a gift, but lately, it felt more like a heavy burden—a toll he simply couldn’t afford.

No… it’s a blessing. Right? Silas questioned bitterly, his knuckles white as they gripped the lamp post for support. The cold metal felt like an anchor, and his body trembled violently, as if it might fracture and crumble into nothingness. The night air, thick and still, pressed down on him, turning every breath into an insurmountable task. His heart raced in his chest, the frantic beat matching the rapid pulse of his fractured thoughts.

He had just left the medical tent, his mind clouded by the frantic hours he’d spent tending to the injured. It had seemed endless—patient after patient, each one more desperate than the last. His hands, slick with sweat, had moved with precision, his mind focusing solely on the task at hand. But now, with the work behind him, the weight of his fatigue came crashing down all at once. The world around him tilted dangerously, and he had to fight the urge to collapse onto the cold ground.

I can’t… His thoughts were hazy and unfocused. He couldn’t even remember how he had managed to stumble out of the tent. His legs buckled, and he had to clutch the lamp post even tighter to avoid falling. His body was weak, unresponsive, as though it had decided it no longer wanted to obey him.

I’ve overdone it… again. The thought cut through the fog of his mind, sharp and accusing. Self-reproach gnawed at him, clawing deep. Not only was his Aura limited, but he had used every last drop of it again and again—resorting to the use of Aura stones for each patient. The constant strain of channeling external Aura rather than his own had left him in a worse state than usual.

Aura stones, harvested from the untamed corners of the forest, were natural reservoirs of Aura—pure, untainted, and costly. Their effectiveness depended on their purity: the whiter and more pristine the stone, the more Aura it could store. They served as a backup for priests when they ran out of Aura. However, a small stone, no larger than a fingernail, cost at least one gold. The palace sent large shipments of these stones to the temple each year, and some generous nobles donated their own. While primarily used for healing, those who wielded Aura also employed them to imbue objects or coat artifacts.

When word reached the palace that two towns were seeking refuge and aid, they sent a large shipment of Aura stones to Infanta. This allowed the priests—including a few temple slaves like Silas—to heal more effectively and care for more patients than when they relied solely on their own reserves. But the cost of using them was steep. The Aura within the stones wasn’t theirs and tapping into it repeatedly drained the user in ways that left them exhausted far beyond the limits as compared to when they use their own Aura.

Unlike personal Aura, which could be controlled and used by the user at will through focus—especially for those with specific affinities—the Aura from the stones was pure. It required mental discipline to manage, with the user’s body merely acting as a vessel to channel the power. Controlling the stone’s Aura was far more taxing than using one’s own.

"As a temple slave and healer, you should know better than anyone when to stop," a familiar voice broke through Silas’s thoughts.

His eyes flicked up, finding Hugh standing before him. His arms were crossed, a disapproving look on his face. He, too, looked exhausted—but certainly in better shape than Silas.

"Aura stones might not be a problem," Hugh continued, shaking his head. "But remember, it takes a toll on your body to use them."

Silas didn’t respond. His focus remained on the lamp post, fingers clutching it as if it were his only lifeline. His legs wobbled beneath him, and with every passing second, he felt himself slipping further into the abyss of exhaustion.

"Tsk." Hugh clicked his tongue in frustration. "If your Aura wasn’t meant for healing, I would’ve stopped you after your fourth patient."

Few people were born with the ability to wield Aura, and of those, even fewer had an affinity for specific types. Some used their Aura in battle, others to manipulate the environment or imbue objects. Silas’s Aura was attuned to healing—like most other priests and slaves in the temple. That’s why he could mend a mangled knee with ease—but using his Aura for anything else, like manipulating a pointer, was nearly impossible. And if it were, the effort would drain him far beyond his limits.

Silas had always liked his specialty. But with his limited Aura capacity, he could only heal a single severely injured patient before running out of energy. The Aura stones were his only choice, but using them was costly—each stone drained him physically and mentally. But at times like this, when casualties were high, the stones were his only option.

"You pushed yourself too hard," Hugh muttered, his voice softer now. There was genuine concern beneath his usual stern tone as he looked at Silas’s pale, exhausted face. He could see something deeper in Silas’s eyes—a gleam of unspoken thoughts, something hidden in the quiet silence between them.

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The memories of the injured flooded Silas’s mind—the gnarled wounds, the desperate cries for help, the pleading faces. Silas couldn’t shake the images. They lingered in his thoughts, haunting him like a ghost, refusing to be exorcised. It was the monsters, those creatures—Monstrums—that had brought the devastation.

The very mention of them sent a cold shiver through him, as if the thought alone could summon their presence. His stomach turned, a tight knot of dread twisting within him. It was not merely the physical toll of his healing that weighed heavy upon him—it was the emotional burden, a relentless and suffocating force. The faces of those who had suffered, broken, battered, and bruised by the beasts, haunted him still.

His eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out the images.

The injuries in the medical tent had been severe—far worse than he had anticipated and had seen. Most of them life-threatening, leaving no time for rest, no room for error. His hands had moved mechanically, but each pulse of Aura that surged through him felt like a chain wrapped around his heart. Each wound was a reminder of the cruelty inflicted by the monstrums. Each face of the injured reminded him of the horrors these creatures had caused. He couldn’t shake the image of their twisted, mangled bodies, and he couldn’t help but wonder what those people had endured—the terror, the pain, the helplessness.

No matter how much he healed, it would never be enough. He couldn’t save them all, no matter how desperately he wished to. A bitter thought curled inside him, even as he tried to push it away: If only my Aura were stronger, if only I had more… Yet, even in the depths of his sorrow, he knew he wasn’t to blame.

Still, the regret lingered, a quiet, persistent whisper, telling him he could have done more.

Hugh raised an eyebrow, still waiting for a response. When he didn’t hear anything, he sighed. “I’m not saying you should ignore your patients,” he said. “But you need to prioritize yourself. How can you help anyone if you’re in this state?”

Silas understood Hugh’s point, but frustration still simmered beneath his calm exterior. He knew Hugh was right, but that didn’t make it any easier. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t turn his back on those who needed him.

When the dizziness and the waves of thoughts finally began to recede enough for him to focus, Silas noticed the breeze—a cool, soothing gust of air that felt almost out of place after the chaos. It was laughable how peaceful the air felt, in contrast to the violence of the world around him.

The people in the tent had lost everything—homes, families, their very lives—leaving behind only emptiness that no amount of peace in the air or silence of the night could fill. Silas knew that hollow ache all too well. It had been a part of him for as long as he could remember. The weight of loss, of grief, was something he carried every day—something he saw in the eyes of the patients he tended. It was a look he knew all too well. A distant, pained expression that said everything. The look of someone who had lost the will to hope. He knew it, because he wore that same look in his darkest moments.

He thought of the child he had treated earlier.

"My last patient was a kid," Silas murmured, his voice barely audible. "Broken bones, but didn’t cry. Didn’t whine. Just stared—like he wasn’t really there."

Hugh didn’t ask for more. He’d heard the rumors, the whispers among the priests, about Silas’s past. He simply tilted his head toward the sky, lost in thought. The night was late, and the camp had fallen quiet, but the silence that came after tragedy was always heavy.

Without turning to Silas, Hugh spoke softly, "Both parents?"

Silas stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the entrance of the white tent. The flap had stopped moving, and the once-bustling tent was now eerily still.

"Yeah," Silas said quietly, his voice distant. "A patient said the kid saw how his parents were… killed." He faltered, the words too much to bear. They weren’t just killed. They were eaten, right in front of him.

His voice cracked. “The mother… she was still alive when it happened. She screamed at the child to run, even as the monstrum tore at her. If she hadn’t screamed, no one would’ve noticed the kid.” Silas’s words trailed off as his mind replayed a scene he hadn’t witnessed but could deeply understand. The heavy silence settled between them, pressing down on both of them.

Deep within, Silas wished that hadn’t been the case—that it hadn’t been the way as well for his mother. The palace had written it off as a fire that consumed the town, but Silas didn’t believe that. No fire could spread and wipe out an entire town. He remembered the silhouette he had seen that night—the shadowy figure that lingered at the edges of his memory.

"It would’ve probably been better if the parents had just been swallowed up right away," he whispered, barely audible. But Hugh heard the agony in his words.

The sheer cruelty of Silas’s description hit Hugh like a punch to the gut. The silence between them spoke volumes.

"You’re probably right," Hugh said softly, his voice full of sympathy. "But there’s no way."

Silas clenched his jaw, the thought of that monstrum—its savage cruelty, its monstrous appetite—twisting in his mind. He lowered his head, his stomach twisting again.

"I just wish the kid could move on quickly," Hugh murmured, his voice full of sympathy for both the child and Silas.

Silas wiped his mouth on his sleeve, his expression hardening. The weariness had left him, replaced by an unshakable determination in his eyes.

"He will."

Not everyone was as strong as you, Hugh thought. He had always seen Silas as resilient, unyielding. Brave, strong-willed, and always ready to help. But Hugh knew better. Not everyone could bear such a burden. Not even himself.

"I hope so," Hugh murmured still, closing his eyes as the weight of the moment lingered in the air.

In that brief silence, they shared a fleeting sense of peace—before the inevitable return to the battlefield. Tomorrow would bring another war, and victory was the only choice.

R E H I L I Y A