The east wing of the medical facility was a grim scene of suffering and despair. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of blood and medical herbs. The dimly lit room seemed to absorb the warmth and hope from anyone who entered. Groans of pain, the soft weeping of injured patients, and the distant, hollow echo of hurried footsteps filled the air.

Rows of wounded recruits lay on narrow cots, their bodies still battered but bandaged. Some were pale and unmoving, lost in the depths of permanent unconsciousness. Others writhed in fitful slumber; their faces contorted in fixed agony. All of them bore the scars of battle: missing limbs, lacerations, and burns. The bandages, soaked in crimson, told stories of survival against overwhelming odds whilst some dangled loosely telling stories of collapse.

The medical staff moved with purpose, their faces a mask of professionalism and determination. Nurses hurried between cots, administering care, changing dressings, and whispering words of comfort to those who were awake. The doctors, with furrowed brows and tired eyes, performed surgery in makeshift operating rooms, striving to mend broken bodies.

Apollyon navigated this grim landscape, his boots echoing softly on the cold, hard floor. He passed by the hospital beds in silence. His gaze remained fixed ahead, avoiding the pained expressions, but he couldn't shut out the sounds: the gasps, the sobs, the whispered prayers for relief. It was a symphony of suffering, and Apollyon was but one note in the orchestra of healers trying to bring solace to the wounded.

He tried to maintain his composure, to focus on different thoughts, but the cries of pain tugged at his heart. Each patient had a story, each injury a testament to the brutality of the world he now lived in.

Apollyon's footsteps continued to echo with a heavy, mournful rhythm as he pressed onward, his thoughts now consumed by the need to find Seraphina. He wanted to report to her about his tasks’ completion. But this was a lie that he told himself, truthfully, he just wanted to escape the crushing atmosphere that enveloped the medical ward in the east wing. However, his every step seemed to take him deeper into the abyss of suffering.

His own emotions were a whirlwind of conflicting feelings - relief at having helped, despair at the sight of so much pain, and a growing sense of exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. He longed for a respite, just a brief moment of solace where he could escape the overwhelming sadness that clung to him like a shroud.

Additionally, his thoughts were a tempest of turmoil, an existential crisis that had been slowly brewing within him. In the past, he had taken pride in his detachment, in his uncaring nature that he believed shielded him from the dangers of this new world. He had questioned why he should care about others when he struggled to take care of himself, convinced that selfishness was his armour against the harsh realities of life.

But now, as he walked through the medical ward, the screams of pain and the sight of suffering etched deep within his consciousness, he felt a creeping guilt that he couldn't easily dismiss. ‘Why do I care about these strangers? Why do I feel this need to help, to alleviate their pain and despair? It all seems pointless’, he felt like a contradiction was taking place to the survival instincts he had honed.

Apollyon was in the midst of a personal battle, torn between his pragmatic self, who reveled in selfishness as a form of self-preservation, and the person he was fighting which was a compassionate individual who couldn't ignore the suffering of others. It was an internal struggle, and he couldn't yet find the answers he sought. He was simply lost in confusion.

…

Shaking his thoughts away, he suddenly found himself in the western wing of the medical building, awoken by a dark atmosphere that took a turn for the worse. Apollyon couldn't help but feel a chilling sense of foreboding wash over him as he surveyed the grim scene before him. The presence of medical staff was more pronounced here, their faces etched with weariness and their movements strained, as if they were waging a futile battle against the odds.

The rows of hospital beds were a haunting sight, each occupied by a guard who had sustained severe injuries. Unlike the recruits, all of the patients here had limbs missing, and bloodied bandages bore witness to the desperate attempts to staunch the bleeding. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily in the air, casting a pall of darkness over the entire wing.

He wasn’t truly aware of the extent of the grave situation until now. He had expected the guards to be less injured than his fellow tiros but this scene clearly shattered his initial thoughts. ‘Just what in the world happened?’

What struck Apollyon the most were the expressions on the faces of these injured guards. It was an eerie and unsettling scene of silence, a stark contrast to the agonizing cries and screams that had echoed in the east wing. Here, the patients seemed to be in a state of quiet resignation, as if they were rejecting the very concept of pain itself.

He felt that the gravity of their injuries should have elicited agonizing cries and pleas for mercy, yet the ward was shrouded in an uncanny stillness. Their faces bore a peculiar serenity, almost as if they had transcended the bounds of pain and suffering for some unknown reason.

Among the injured, Apollyon's attention was drawn to one guard in particular. This guard lay on his bed with a missing arm, his countenance remarkably calm, and his gaze fixed upon a specific direction, in fact all of them were staring at that direction. It was a strange sight to behold, for Apollyon couldn't comprehend why someone in such excruciating pain would appear so serene.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Apollyon followed the collective gaze of the injured guards. It led him to a bed shrouded in white sheets at the far corner of the ward. The dim lighting in the room cast eerie shadows that danced upon the covered form, providing only vague hints of what lay beyond the fabric veil.

The atmosphere in the western wing of the medical building was heavy with tension, and Apollyon's presence had not gone unnoticed. Before he could investigate further, a stern, middle-aged doctor suddenly confronted him, his tone tinged with annoyance.

"Why are you here, boy? This is no place for idle curiosity," the doctor scolded, his exhaustion evident in the lines on his face. He seemed irritated by Apollyon's presence, as if the young recruit's presence was a hindrance in this chaotic environment.

Apollyon was taken aback by the doctor's abrupt reprimand, and his first instinct was to comply and leave the area. He was well aware of his youthful appearance that contrasted the scenario, and he didn't want to cause any trouble in this critical setting. However, before he could turn away, a familiar voice interrupted the tense exchange.

From the side of the covered sheets, Seraphina's head appeared. Her expression was a mix of curiosity and concern as she addressed the situation. "What's going on here?" she inquired, her voice tinged with exhaustion but sporting a calm and authoritative tone. Seraphina had a commanding presence, and her reputation as a skilled healer held weight even in the chaos of the medical ward.

The doctor's annoyance seemed to abate somewhat in Seraphina's presence. He straightened up and explained, "I found this recruit snooping around, Seraphina. This is no place for recruits you see."

Seraphina regarded Apollyon for a moment, her eyes assessing his presence. Then, she addressed the doctor with a reassuring tone. "He's with me. I asked him to assist in the east wing earlier, he's my apprentice."

The doctor's initial surprise and irritation gradually gave way to understanding as he absorbed Seraphina's explanation. He realized that Apollyon was indeed here to assist, and his previous outburst was likely a result of the overwhelming situation in the western wing of the medical building.

Feeling apologetic for his earlier reprimand, he gave a nod of acknowledgment to Seraphina and Apollyon. While still focused on his work, he no longer showed annoyance towards the young recruit, recognizing that everyone was doing their best in these dire circumstances.

"Very well," he said, his tone more composed. "Do what you need to do, but please don't disrupt our work. We've got our hands full here." With those words, he turned away to attend to another injured guard, leaving Apollyon and Seraphina to their task.

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Apollyon felt a sense of relief as the doctor moved away, he exchanged a glance with Seraphina giving her a nod silently acknowledging her help.

On the other hand, Seraphina hesitated for a moment pausing as if contemplating on a difficult decision before inviting Apollyon to join her on the other side of the veil. She knew that the sight before her could traumatize him, especially someone as young and inexperienced as Apollyon.

But she also knew the importance of these moments. She knew that Apollyon would someday be faced with the harsh realities of their world, and it was better for him to confront them now, under her guidance, than to be unprepared when the time came.

Therefore, with a heavy heart, she gestured for Apollyon to step forward, her expression a mix of sadness and determination. She knew that what lay before them was a brutal reminder of the cost of their choices, but it was a lesson that she felt he needed to learn.

“Come here” she said solemnly.

As Apollyon stepped closer, a sense of uncertainty and dread welled up within him. He knew that something grave lay hidden behind the sheets, something that Seraphina felt he needed to witness. Her solemn demeanor only deepened his sense of foreboding. It was clear that whatever lay behind those sheets was a harsh reality that they couldn't ignore.

The dimly lit room cast eerie shadows that seemed to dance around the sheets, creating a sense of otherworldly tension. Apollyon couldn't help but feel a shiver run down his spine as he approached the bedside. The hushed sounds of medical equipment and the strained breathing of the injured officer filled the air, adding to the heavy atmosphere of the room.

The piercing gazes of the guards who surrounded the area only added to the weight of the moment. Their silent, watchful eyes seemed to bore into him, as if measuring his readiness to face the harsh truths of the unknown. It was as though the entire room held its breath, waiting for Apollyon's reaction to what lay hidden from view; he stepped onward crossing the veil in front of him, what he saw remained a grotesque memory that he couldn’t discard.

..

‘What… the fu-’ he tried to say.

..

Before his eyes lay a guard, his condition beyond grim. His lower half was missing severed from the waist down, it was brutally torn apart, exposing a mess of gore and shredded flesh that seemed to defy the limits of human suffering. His entrails hung out of his abdomen, and his intestines were exposed. His stomach was bloated and purplish, blood had pooled around the gruesome stump of his body, staining the sheets in a dark, viscous pool.

The smell of death hung heavy in the air. The guard's appearance was grotesque. His skin was pale and clammy, his muscles were atrophied from shock, his remaining limbs were covered in gangrenous sores and his exposed muscles and bone fragments were visible, stark white against the backdrop of crimson carnage. His mouth was pale, his lips cracked whilst streams of blood escaped the sides of his lips as he periodically coughed up pieces of flesh.

Several of his fingers had been severed, further adding to the grotesque tableau. The remaining fingers on his hands were twisted and bent at unnatural angles, some of them barely hanging on by threads of sinew and skin. The man's breathing was a labored, rasping sound, a haunting reminder of the fragile thread that kept him tethered to life.

His wounds were raw and exposed, and his blood had crusted over his skin and the equally shredded uniform which clung to his mangled torso in a macabre embrace. One of his shoulder straps was missing whilst the other strap dangled loosely still illustrating a ‘III’ symbol. Clearly this man was of a higher rank compared to the others.

Apollyon couldn’t help but stare at his eyes that were half-lidded, unfocused, as if he were gazing into the abyss of his own impending demise. The guard’s face was contorted in pain, yet there was an undeniable sense of resignation, as if he had already made peace with the fact that his battle was nearing its end.

Apollyon took a deep breath and tried to suppress the bile rising in his throat swallowing hard as he took in the officer's condition. He had seen many wounded soldiers, but this one was the worst. He couldn't believe that the man was still alive.

Seraphina's voice was heavy with regret as she explained the grim reality of the situation to Apollyon. "I've done everything I could," she began, her gaze fixed on the agonized guard before them.

"But his injuries... They're beyond my ability to heal. I've tried to alleviate his pain, to mend what I can, but it's a cruel mercy. I can't save him." She knew that her actions only prolonged his suffering; she felt it was inhumane to keep trying but deep down, her inner pride refused to give in.

Her words hung in the air like a shroud of despair. She had a profound understanding of the limits of her own magical abilities, and it weighed on her conscience to witness such suffering without the means to offer a genuine solution.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the dimly lit medical ward seemed to tremble as a deafening explosion of sound filled the air. It was as if thunder itself had been summoned to announce the arrival of Alistair, the head decurion. In that moment, the entire ward felt electrified, on the verge of chaos. It was as if a bolt of lightning had streaked through the atmosphere, leaving an electric charge in its wake.

Alistair stormed into the room with a presence that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. He moved like a force of nature, his metallic boots striking the cold floor with a resounding thud. His silhouette was imposing, and his every step seemed to echo through the souls of those present. The atmosphere itself seemed to still as he reached the covered bed of the injured guard, a veil of silence falling upon the room in his wake.

With a reverence that spoke volumes, he carefully moved the sheet that shrouded the injured guard, revealing the gruesome sight beneath. The guard's mangled lower half, along with his mutilated fingers, lay exposed to Alistair's scrutiny. His eyes, like cold steel, bore into the wounded guard’s body. His silence spoke volumes, echoing the impending storm that threatened to erupt.

The silence in the room grew more profound as Alistair observed the wounded man, his expression an intricate dance of sorrow, anger, and helplessness. It was a moment that left an indelible mark on the witnesses especially on Apollyon who saw this scene with a first-class ticket.

Alistair’s face, usually stern and composed, was a battlefield of conflicting emotions. Veins bulged on his temples, betraying the immense inner turmoil he was experiencing. The lines on his forehead were etched deep with tension, as if he were restraining a raging tempest within himself.

His strong, yet surprisingly gentle hand held the injured man's arm. He seemed to transmit a unique energy into the wounded guard, a sensation that pulsed through the room like a subtle but palpable vibration. It was as if he was casting a spell of his own, a skill that none of the onlookers had ever seen before.

The injured man, who had appeared on the brink of death just moments ago, responded to this energy infusion in a startling manner. He coughed suddenly, his chest heaving as if gasping for breath. Colour slowly returned to his pallid complexion if only for a brief moment, and he blinked his eyes open, disoriented and struggling to focus.

Alistair's voice, calm yet authoritative, broke through the haze of pain and confusion. He leaned in closer to the injured man and addressed him, "Legionnaire…" he said.

“Tell me what happened.”

The legionnaire’s eyelids fluttered as he slowly regained consciousness, his senses returning to him in disarray. His vision was blurred, and his body felt heavy and numb. He knew, with a profound certainty, that he was on the brink of death, his lower half missing, his body battered and bloodied. Yet, there was an unyielding determination burning within him as he gathered the strength to focus on the imposing figure standing before him.

With laboured breaths and an unwavering gaze, he looked up at Alistair. The man's voice, though weak and shaky, carried an unspoken resolve as he began to recount the harrowing events that had transpired.

"We were ambushed," he rasped, each word a painful effort. "Masked... ruthless. They came out of nowhere. We fought back... but their strength... overwhelming."

His chest heaved with each laboured breath, and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Despite the agony that coursed through his body, he continued to speak, determination overriding his pain.

"I knew... we couldn't win. Sacrificed myself... bought them time... to retreat."

The injured man's voice grew weaker with each word, his body trembling with the effort of recounting the horrifying ordeal. He stared at Alistair with an intensity that belied his fragile state.

"We... couldn't hold them back," he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I tried... I tried my best." His breaths were shallow and ragged, and he clung to consciousness by a thread.

"Their masks... like death's shadow," he gasped, his eyes wide with the memory of the attackers. "They... showed no mercy." His voice was tinged with despair as he remembered the brutality he had witnessed.

And then, in a sudden, violent fit of coughing, blood erupted from his lips, staining his lips and chin crimson.

“I-I..fai..led…h-head..decurio-” the legionnaire struggled with blood shot eyes, his hand gripping Alistair’s as he stared in defeat.

His body convulsed with the effort, his eyes pleading as if he could somehow convey the depth of his regret and anguish in that final, desperate moment.

But his strength waned, and his trembling hands fell limply to his sides. The light in his eyes dimmed, and with one last, agonized gasp, he surrendered to the cold embrace of death with an open stare, leaving behind a haunting silence in the room.

Alistair's reaction was like a storm contained within the stillness of his form. His eyes, cold and unyielding, bore into the man's fading consciousness, holding within them a depth of anger and frustration that threatened to burst forth like a tempest.

The air itself seemed to quiver in response to Alistair's barely restrained fury. His veins, once dormant, came alive, writhing like serpents beneath his skin, their dark contours stark against his pale complexion. They pulsed and twisted, like vipers ready to strike, as if they mirrored the turmoil in his soul. A brief killing intent emanated from him causing the others to shrill back in fear.

Apollyon himself felt a shiver race down his spine, the palpitations in his chest quickening in response to this raw display of power. Alistair's presence was overwhelming, his aura a potent force that filled the room, leaving no soul untouched by its intensity.

Yet, with a tremendous effort of will, Alistair slowly lowered the legionnaire's hand, his grip gentle despite the storm within him. He closed the man's eyelids with care, a final act of respect for the fallen.

Then, without a word, Alistair turned and strode away from the ward, his footsteps echoing with purpose and determination. The metallic clank of his greaves against the floor resonated in the heavy silence, a stark reminder of the weight of responsibility that rested upon his shoulders.