The sun had not yet reached its highest point in the sky when the news arrived: the forces of Lame di Smeraldo had launched a devastating offensive on the border. The army of Custodi della Luna was on the defensive, fighting tooth and nail to protect their lands. . The roar of weapons echoed in the distance, but the real horrors were in the treatment tents, where screams of pain and the metallic smell of blood mingled with the heavy air.

Kenji, the “Foreign Doctor,” was already in his tent when they brought in a seriously wounded soldier. The spear that had struck him had pierced deep into his abdomen, coming within millimeters of vital organs. Blood flowed in an unceasing torrent, staining Kenji’s hands and the tent floor red.

“Put him on the table!” Kenji ordered, his voice firmer than he felt inside.

Outside, the chaos continued. But inside the tent, Kenji was in control, or at least he tried to be. He could tell the task would be difficult just by looking at the wound. With rudimentary tools—a makeshift sharp scalpel, metal needles, and an emergency saw—he set to work.

The soldier screamed, the pain turning his face into a mask of suffering.

“Hold him down!” Kenji shouted to the two assistants assigned to help him. “We can’t let him move.”

Sweat beaded on Kenji's forehead as he dabbed at the wound with what little alcohol he had available. The flesh around the hole was shredded, and blood was gushing out in alarming pulses. He knew he was dealing with a damaged artery, and if he couldn't get it under control, the man would die on the spot.

— Take a deep breath, soldier. Just a little more... — she tried to reassure him, although her own voice sounded strained.

Kenji pressed makeshift gauze to the wound to stop the bleeding and began to stitch it together quickly, joining the tissues with surgical precision. But with each movement of the needle, the soldier writhed and groaned, his screams echoing like blades cutting through the silence.

“He’s going into shock!” shouted one of the aides, looking at the soldier who was already beginning to lose consciousness.

Kenji knew he was at his limit. If the man passed out before he was finished, it would be nearly impossible to bring him back. Kenji's hands moved at a frantic pace, his concentration total, but the weight of responsibility was crushing.

— There... just a little more... — he muttered to himself, ignoring the pain in his back and the tense muscles.

The soldier finally lost consciousness. Kenji felt a pang of fear, but he didn't stop. With precise movements, he finished suturing the damaged artery, stopping the bleeding. He then tended to the muscle tissue and closed the external wound, carefully cleaning the area before applying a tight bandage to prevent infection.

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When he was done, he collapsed exhausted into a makeshift chair beside the table, his face and hands covered in sweat and blood. The soldier was alive, but there was still a long road to recovery.

“Will he survive?” asked one of the helpers, his eyes wide with tension.

Kenji took a deep breath before answering:

— I did everything I could. Now, it's up to him to fight to live.

The soldier was taken to the sickroom, where he would receive further care. Kenji stood alone in the tent for a few minutes, staring at his shaking hands. He knew he had won a silent battle against death, but the price was high.

As he washed the blood from his hands and tools, Kenji reflected on his situation. This medieval world frightened him more every day, but it also challenged him in ways he could never have imagined. The feeling that he was becoming more skilled was real—as if each life he saved left a deep mark on his soul.

But the scars weren't just from the patients. He also bore his own, invisible ones, etched by the weight of being a medic on a battlefield where magic existed but survival still depended on steady hands and quick decisions.

Kenji rose slowly from his chair, his muscles stiff from hours of strained surgeries and treatments. He stepped out of his tent, breathing in the cold morning air that carried the metallic tang of blood and the acrid odor of burning herbs used by healers in their rituals. The environment around him was organized chaos. The camp was dotted with tents, each one serving a vital function in keeping Custodi della Luna ’s army afloat.

To his left, the healers’ tents were bustling with activity. The sound of mystical chants and the glow of magical lights emanated from them, briefly illuminating the healers’ sweaty, strained faces. Kenji watched closely. He still didn’t fully understand the magic of this world, but he couldn’t deny its effectiveness, however imperfect. Every chant and beam of light was like a dance between life and death, a desperate attempt to save the wounded who kept arriving in an endless stream.

His eyes fell back on the woman he had noticed in the dining hall the day before. She stood in the center of the tent, her hands glowing golden as she chanted quickly and precisely. Her expression was determined, but there was a weariness evident in her eyes. She seemed to carry the weight of every life she touched, just as he did.

For a moment, Kenji considered approaching, but decided against it. He still felt out of place in this world, an outsider whose skills came from a more rational, less mystical place. He wasn’t like them. Where the healers used wands and incantations, he used scalpels and sutures. It was a stark contrast.

Sighing, Kenji returned to his own tent. There was no time to observe for long. New wounded had already arrived, brought in on makeshift stretchers, with muffled screams and groans of pain.

— Doctor, we need you here! — called one of the assistants, holding a soldier whose leg was crushed, hanging unnaturally.

Kenji quickly wiped his hands, gathered his tools, and prepared for another silent battle against death.

As he focused on the next patient, images of the magical lights and the healers’ chants still flickered through his mind. He knew that despite the differences in their approaches, they all had the same goal: to save lives amid the horror of war. And somehow, that was comforting. Even in such a strange world, the essence of humanity—or whatever it was—still shone through the darkness.