Kenji doing Sophie's Choice

The medical tent was in silent chaos, the kind of despair that manifested itself not in screams but in glazed stars, ragged breaths, and the constant sound of blood dripping onto the floor. The air was thick with pain and responsibility, and Kenji felt the unbearable weight of the decision hanging over him.

On the makeshift table in front of him lay two men on the brink of death. The young man, with his soft features and half-open eyes, looked as if he had barely lived long enough to know the world. He was pale, his blood flowing uncontrollably from a deep wound in his stomach. His every breath was a frail sound, as if his entire body were fighting the inevitable.

Beside him stood the older man, his face lined with wrinkles and an unkempt beard. His hands were clenched in unconscious reflex in pain, and the bleeding from his leg was spreading, dyeing the surrounding tissue a dark red. His breathing was heavy, but no less frantic.

Kenji clenched his bloody, sweaty hands. He knew there was no time to save the two of them. Even with his growing skill, he was only one man, limited by time and resources.

He tried to push the thoughts away, to focus on the task at hand, but the voices in his mind were deafening.

—They have families, Kenji. Both of them. You know that.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he considered what it might mean for those waiting for them. Perhaps the older man was a father, with children who depended on him for guidance and stability. Perhaps the younger man was the only son of a mother who had already lost so much. The decision cuts deeper than any scalpel.

Kenji looked at the young man again. He was on the brink of unconsciousness, his face contorted in a mixture of pain and fear. There was something about his youth, his vulnerability, that seemed to cry out for help in a way that Kenji could not ignore. He thought of the potential of a lifetime ahead, of what the boy could yet become.

The older man groaned next to him, his voice hoarse and cracked. Kenji felt a lump in his throat. He knew what he needed to do, but that didn't make the choice any easier.

— I'm sorry... — he murmured, almost inaudibly.

With almost mechanical precision, Kenji began working on the young man. He blocked out the sounds around him, focusing on stabilizing the bleeding. His hands moved quickly, stitching up tissue, stopping the blood that seemed to be flowing uncontrollably. Every second counted, and he gave himself completely to the moment, ignoring what was happening in the bed next to him.

As the young man began to breathe more steadily, Kenji finally allowed his eyes to turn to the other patient. The older man lay motionless, his skin pale and his eyes dull. He was gone.

Kenji felt the weight of his choice fall on his shoulders like an avalanche. He knew he had done what was necessary, but that did not lessen the pain of loss. The older man was also a life, a story that would now never have a complete end.

“You did what you could,” a familiar voice murmured from outside the tent.

Kenji didn't answer. He just sat there, sweat and blood staining his forehead and hands, staring into space. The medical tent was silent now, but in his mind, the voices still echoed.

War did not allow for easy choices, and he knew this would not be the last time he would face such a dilemma. Still, each decision left its mark. Kenji stood up, dusted his hands, and took a deep breath. The young man was still alive, and he had to believe that made all the difference.

Even with the heaviness in his heart, he knew there was no time for mourning. The next patient was waiting.

Massimiliano Silvestro

War was a theater of strategy and power, and Massimiliano Silvestro, general of the Esercito di Lame di Smeraldo , was center stage. As a strategist, his craft allowed him to visualize complex scenarios in his mind as if they were living chessboards. He could see the movements of each piece, anticipate attacks, and reorganize his troops with almost supernatural precision. But like any experienced strategist, he knew that no simulation was perfect. There was always one variable that refused to fit.

In the case of this war, that variable was the group of enemy healers.

Massimiliano sat in his command tent, surrounded by magical maps that projected animated illusions of the battlefield. Small models of soldiers moved along the border lines, simulating possible clashes. Though his strategist class enhanced his intelligence and granted him abilities such as Advanced Tactical Insight and Predestined Planning , there was one factor he could not circumvent: the Custodi della Luna, the Regno di Lunargento 's defensive elite, had powerful healers.

These healers possessed class abilities that could change the course of battle. Spells like Mass Healing and Blessing of the Crescent Moon could heal dozens of soldiers at once. Alchemical potions, crafted with precision by masters of the Regno di Lunargento , amplified the effects of healing spells and revitalized the wounded army. It was like fighting an enemy that rose again every time it fell.

Massimiliano stared at the glowing map before him, his golden eyes shining with the reflection of the magical projections. Every time he calculated a move, the presence of the healers forced him to recalculate.

—They are the heart of the enemy. Without them, the army crumbles—he murmured.

He stood up, adjusting his coat adorned with magical medallions that amplified his intellect. The light from the magic lamp flickered, reflecting the intensity of his expression. Massimiliano knew that to win, he needed to eliminate this variable. And to do so, he would use his secret card: a specialized group of soldiers with assassin and support classes.

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In his tent, Massimiliano gathered the best agents under his command. Each of them had unique abilities derived from their classes. There were spies with abilities such as Path of Shadows and Deadly Silence , assassins with talents for Fatal Blows and Absolute Camouflage , and arsonists capable of casting destructive fire spells such as Controlled Explosion and Rising Inferno .

— You are the key to turning the tide. Your mission is simple: infiltrate the healers' tents and eliminate them. Without them, the Custodi della Luna will not be able to rise again.

His agents' eyes gleamed with determination, but also with the weight of the mission. They knew the task was dangerous. The healers' tents were guarded by soldiers with defensive classes like Lightkeeper and Lunar Paladin . Furthermore, the healers themselves were not defenseless; many had offensive support skills like Light Barrier and Countercurse .

Massimiliano drew up the detailed plan, using his class ability Guaranteed Victory Path , which allowed him to simulate the consequences of his decisions in his mind. In his mental projection, he saw the chaos caused by the arsonists, the assassins' blades cutting down the most experienced healers, and the morale of the enemy army plummeting.

The operation began in the dead of night. Under the cover of invisibility and disguise spells, the spies slipped through enemy lines. The assassins followed close behind, moving like shadows, while the arsonists waited for the signal to start the mayhem.

Inside the healers' tents, Francesca and her team lay exhausted, using every last bit of their mana to heal the wounded soldiers. Alchemical potions were sparingly dispensed, while healing spells illuminated the interior of the tent with a soft, almost heavenly light.

Suddenly, chaos erupted. Magic lamps burst into flames, and hooded figures emerged from the shadows. The assassins' blades were swift and precise, striking critical targets before the healers could react. Francesca attempted to erect a Barrier of Light , but was stopped by a spy who disarmed her with a deft blow.

Outside, the arsonists cast their spells, setting the tents ablaze. The smell of smoke and burning flesh filled the air, and the screams of healers echoed across the battlefield.

From his command tent, Massimiliano watched from a distance, using a remote ability to track the progress of the viewing operation. He saw the healers' tents turn to ash and the immediate impact this had on the enemy army. The Custodi della Luna soldiers began to retreat, demoralized by the loss of their healers.

Despite the impending victory, a weight settled over Massimiliano. He knew that while it was the right move to secure victory, he had crossed a line.

“War is not kind, nor merciful,” he told himself, as his officers celebrated around him. “History will remember the victors, but it will never forget the blood spilled to reach the top.”

That night, the glow of flames from the burning tents lit up the sky, and Massimiliano knew that this would be just another difficult decision among many others to come. After all, he could not lose. Not when his kingdom depended on his victory.

Kenji

Kenji sat in the corner of his tent, his hands covered in blood and his face drawn, as the sound of groans and sighs of relief filled the air. He had endured one of the most difficult nights since arriving in this world, where each person was defined by a class and their respective powers. However, Kenji did not have access to the magical abilities that others considered essential. He was a Doctor , and his power lay solely in his vast medical knowledge and his ability to improvise under pressure.

The events of the night still echoed in his mind like an endless nightmare. The assassins and arsonists sent by the enemy had devastated the healers' camp. Of the twelve tents dedicated to medical treatments, only Kenji's had been spared. Perhaps the attackers had passed by without noticing, or perhaps they had underestimated a doctor without magical abilities. Either way, Kenji was now the one responsible for treating the survivors of the attack.

Of the twelve healers who had been injured, ten had been rescued and brought to him. Each had suffered serious injuries: burns, deep cuts, open fractures, and in some cases, fatal wounds. Kenji knew that his work was all that kept them alive.

With no magic or supernatural powers to help him, Kenji relied entirely on his training and experience from his previous world. He had brought to this world concepts that seemed simple to him but revolutionary to the locals: sterilization, sutures, compression of wounds to stop bleeding, and even the idea of keeping patients hydrated and stable.

Among the wounded was Francesca, a healer he had seen a few times in the mess hall. Francesca was known for her skill with potions and was a vital asset to the morale of the army. But now she lays on one of the makeshift stretchers, badly injured. Her legs were burned, blistered, and there was dead tissue that required immediate attention. In addition, a deep gash in her abdomen threatens punctured internal organs..

Kenji worked tirelessly, using every technique he knew. He cleaned Francesca's burns with boiled water that had cooled, carefully removing the dead tissue before applying an ointment he had prepared himself from local herbs. He then stitched up the abdominal wound with heavy-duty thread that he had sterilized using the heat of a flame.

While other healers relied on magical potions and spells, Kenji relied on methods that were, in the eyes of the inhabitants of this world, almost supernatural. He knew that without magic, he had to be quick and precise. Every second wasted could cost a life.

He used what little he had left of his supplies: makeshift bandages made from clean cloth, herbs he had collected to make basic antiseptics, and even metal utensils he had fashioned to act as surgical instruments. His movements were calculated, his mind working tirelessly to decide which patients had priority.

Francesca, who was unconscious while he worked, opened her eyes for a brief moment during the treatment.

— You look... different... — he murmured, his voice weak.

Kenji smiled sideways as he kept his focus on his work.

— I'm just a doctor. But I won't let you die.

When he finally finished treating the last patient, Kenji allowed himself a moment to breathe. He looked around the tent and saw the exhausted but living faces of the healers he had saved. They were still far from fully recovered, but at least they had a chance—something many others on that battlefield did not have.

The attack had left the army at a disadvantage. Without the healers, the troops' morale had plummeted, and the commander had decided to retreat, temporarily abandoning the territory they had defended. This gave Kenji a little more time to stabilize the wounded, but he knew that the real battle was yet to come.

As the night wore on, Kenji sat beside Francesca, who was now asleep, her breathing more even. He thought about the irony of his situation: in a world where everyone relied on magic and special powers, he had to rely solely on science and logic. And yet, he had managed to do what many considered impossible.

—Ganbare .

But deep down, he knew his role was crucial. He was an anomaly in a world of magical powers, but it was precisely this difference that made him the right person to save lives when all seemed lost.

Kenji closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back against the tent wall. He knew the path ahead would be even more challenging, but he was determined to continue. Because in this world of classes and powers, he had chosen to be the last line of defense—not with magic or weapons, but with his hands and his determination.