Francesca

The healers’ tent was a whirlwind of chaos. The screams of wounded soldiers mingled with the incessant sound of magical chanting, a desperate melody that echoed through the crowded tent. Light emanated from the spellcasters’ hands, casting gold and blue hues over exhausted faces and bloodied bodies. Francesca stood in the middle of it, feeling crushed by the weight of each life she tried to save.

She was one of twelve healers hired by Custodi della Luna ’s army . When she accepted the mission, she believed she was prepared. Years of study and training under her masters had honed her magical abilities. But none of that could have prepared her for the brutal reality she now faced.

The wounded kept arriving. Men and women were brought in on makeshift stretchers, many with injuries so severe they seemed to be hanging on by a thread of life. Broken bones, deep cuts, torn limbs—the war spared no one. Francesca felt her energy, her MANA , being drained with every spell she cast.

Hands shaking, she knelt beside a young soldier who was groaning in pain. His arm was broken in two places, and white bone peeked through the torn skin. Francesca took a deep breath, reciting the incantations she had meticulously memorized. Golden light flowed from her hands, enveloping the soldier’s arm.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

As the spell began to work, knitting the bone together and closing the wound, Francesca felt a pang of profound exhaustion. Her vision blurred momentarily, but she pressed on, ignoring her body’s protests. Every second counted, and she knew that any hesitation could mean the patient’s death.

The general had ordered them to conserve healing potions, a valuable resource that could ease some of the healers’ burden. However, the potions were insufficient for the overwhelming number of wounded entering the tent. Francesca knew her MANA was at its limit, but there was no alternative.

“Francesca! I need help here!” one of the healers shouted as he struggled to stabilize a soldier who was convulsing from blood loss.

She stood up, knees shaking, and ran to her comrade. She placed her hands on the soldier's chest, channeling what little energy she had left in her body. Once again, the golden light shone, but this time it seemed dimmer, like a candle about to go out.

Francesca felt a tear run down her face as the soldier steadied himself. She looked around, seeing her fellow soldiers equally exhausted, some with dark circles under their eyes, others nearly collapsing from exhaustion. The air inside the tent was heavy, thick not only with the smell of blood and sweat, but with the tension of lives hanging by a thread.

Despite everything, she couldn't stop. There were more injured, more lives to save. Francesca knew that some would not survive, even with all her efforts. But as long as she had the strength, as long as there was a spark of MANA in her body, she would give it her all.

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“I won’t let you die,” he muttered to the unconscious soldiers around him.

Though she was on the verge of exhaustion, Francesca stood up again, feeling the weight of duty in every fiber of her being. She could not give up. Not while there was still a chance, however small, of saving one more life.

Nunzio

The battlefield was a pulsing inferno of blood, iron, and screams. The front line, where Nunzio stood, was covered with bodies—some still moving, others already given over to death. The smell of burning flesh from the fire arrows and sweat permeated the air. It was the kind of environment where a man’s humanity could be lost, but Nunzio had no time to hesitate.

He vaguely remembered his life as a farmer, a young man who knew more about the leisurely pace of wheat harvest than the frenzy of war. The scythe he had once used to mow his crops had been his first instrument of defense when he had been recruited. Now, however, the warhammer in his hands was his true tool. Heavy and brutal, the weapon seemed to have been forged for one purpose only: to crush.

The soldiers of Lame di Smeraldo attacked with ferocity, but Nunzio was a fortress. With the immense strength inherited from his initial farmer class and his new warrior class, he swung his hammer as if it were an extension of his body. Each blow was an act of pure destruction.

An enemy soldier charged at him, sword drawn. Nunzio deflected the first blow, swinging his hammer with deadly precision. With a roar, he delivered a horizontal blow that crushed the enemy's chest, breaking his ribs and choking him before he could even scream. The sound of the impact echoed in his ears, but Nunzio did not hesitate. He raised the hammer again, finishing the job with a blow that deformed his opponent's helmet and skull.

— One more... — he muttered to himself, breathless.

Each battle seemed to shape him. Nunzio was no longer the boy who grew wheat in a peaceful land. He was now something darker, more dangerous—a warrior. He felt strength coursing through his body, not just physical but mental as well. He understood the battlefield in a way that would have been unimaginable before. His movements were more agile, his strikes more precise.

Another enemy rushed towards him. This time, Nunzio waited. He raised his hammer in a defensive stance, watching his opponent's movements. As the blade came towards him, he blocked the blow with the hammer's handle and used the enemy's strength against him, spinning and delivering a crushing blow to the side of his helmet. The enemy fell, his body twitching before lying still.

Nunzio paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. He looked around. Chaos reigned. His comrades struggled to hold the line, some falling, others advancing. He knew that war had no mercy. There was no room for weakness or doubt.

Memories of his old life came flooding back. The smell of freshly plowed earth, the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, the sunshine reflecting off fields of golden wheat. It was a life that seemed to belong to someone else, someone he barely recognized now.

— I'm not that man anymore... — he said softly, as he raised the hammer again. — Before, I harvested wheat. Now, I harvest lives.

A group of enemy soldiers advanced toward him, but Nunzio did not retreat. He smiled, a dark, almost predatory smile. He felt stronger with each battle, as if the violence fueled something inside him.

With a roar, he ran to meet them, hammer raised. The farmer had fallen behind. Now, on the battlefield, Nunzio was the reaper, and the men who faced his wrath were but crops ready to be felled.