The camp was in a state of controlled chaos. The sound of groans, orders, and hurried footsteps echoed between the makeshift tents. Inside, ten magical healers lay on beds, victims of the same conflict they had helped to mitigate with their extraordinary powers. They were the best in the army, those responsible for saving hundreds of lives in past battles. But now, they were all out of combat, dependent on one man: Kenji.
He stood in the middle of the main tent, the center of a whirlwind of desperate activity. His hands moved quickly but precisely as he checked wounds and prepared bandages. Kenji was just a human in a world where magic and supernatural abilities shaped life. Yet at that moment, he was the only hope for ten people whose powers had been completely drained.
The healers, accustomed to being pillars of strength and support, were now faced with the vulnerability of exhausted and injured bodies. Francesca, the most experienced among them, lay on a nearby stretcher. Her black skin glistened with sweat as she struggled to control the pain. The wand that always accompanied her lay beside her, useless now that her magic had been drained.
“Kenji…” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “How can you do that without magic?”
He didn’t answer right away, focused on cleaning a deep wound on another healer’s arm. Only after applying a firm bandage did he turn to Francesca and answer with a small smile:
— It's not magic. It's just... practice.
His eyes quickly scanned each of the healers, assessing their condition. They were weak, but alive. Kenji knew that if he were on Earth, he would have advanced medical equipment at his disposal: monitors, X-ray machines, specialized medications. Here, he had only his knowledge, trained hands, and a limited amount of resources. Even so, he did the impossible.
As he worked, Kenji couldn’t help but think of the irony of the situation. These healers, with near-divine abilities, were now under his care. In another world, he would have been just an ordinary doctor, perhaps unnoticed in the crowd. But here, in a world where magic was revered, he was a pillar of hope.
General Fabrizio Baldo entered the tent, his expression filled with concern, but also determination. He regarded Kenji for a moment before addressing the healers.
“You’re in good hands. Our doctor is top-notch, and he’ll do his best to get you all back on your feet soon.” He then turned to Kenji. “We’re counting on you, doctor. Morale is fragile, but your presence here keeps everyone focused.”
Kenji nodded, but didn’t respond. He knew that words weren’t enough at the moment. The responsibility he carried was immense. The army was planning a major offensive to reclaim the occupied territories, and each of these healers was crucial to the success of the mission. But for now, they were nothing more than patients in his tent.
The work continued relentlessly. Kenji fought fatigue, hunger, and mental exhaustion, determined to save every life in front of him. He adjusted bandages, applied advanced first aid techniques that no one else there even knew, and made accurate diagnoses in a matter of seconds.
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
Francesca, watching him through waves of pain, murmured:
— You're an anomaly in this world, Kenji. No magic, but... it almost feels like you have it.
He smiled again, this time with a hint of melancholy.
— I'd trade all that for a heart monitor and some antibiotics. But for now, I'll use what I have.
The following days would be even more challenging. With the number of wounded increasing, the battlefield was far from restful. But Kenji knew one thing: no matter how many fell, he would continue to fight. Because in this world, even without magic, he was the one who made the difference.
Nunzio
Nunzio stood at the front line, his warhammer resting on his shoulder as his eyes scanned the horizon. Around him, the group of soldiers he led—battle-hardened men and women—prepared to advance. Their orders had been clear: to reclaim the territory lost to the enemy army. But for Nunzio, this was more than a mission; it was a matter of honor.
The lost territory had been a raw wound to the pride of the Custodi della Luna and his soldiers. Nunzio could not hide his anger. His group had performed impeccably in previous engagements, but the defeat of the army as a whole still weighed heavily. This was no time for lamentation or accusations, however. Now was the time for action.
He adjusted the grip of the hammer, feeling the familiar weight of the weapon. It wasn’t just an instrument of war; it was an extension of himself, a testament to the strength his class, Farmer , had granted him. The irony was clear: the strength he used to crush enemy armor came from the same hands that had once plowed the land.
— Advance! — shouted Nunzio, his firm voice cutting through the growing noise of the troops.
The group rushed forward like a raging wave, and Nunzio was at the forefront. The sound of metal clashing against metal echoed across the battlefield as he tore through the enemy lines with crushing blows. His hammer came down with brutal force, shattering armor and bones. Enemy soldiers fell like leaves in the wind, unable to withstand the combination of his physical strength and combat skills.
With each blow, Nunzio’s anger seemed to dissipate a little, turning into grim focus. He knew that despite his power, he was not alone. His group fought alongside him, each soldier playing their part. The skills of their classes—fighters, archers, swordsmen, and even a few combat mages—formed a lethal unit that advanced without hesitation.
The battlefield became a mess of steel, blood, and sweat. The sound of screams, clashing weapons, and shouted orders formed a cacophony that filled the heavy air. The metallic smell of blood mingled with the sweat and dust kicked up by running feet and falling bodies.
Nunzio could feel the weariness beginning to weigh on his limbs, but he did not stop. Each blow of his hammer was a declaration: this territory was theirs, and no one would take it from them again. When the last enemy soldier finally fell, exhaustion gave way to a sense of relief and triumph.
“Come on, raise the flag!” Nunzio shouted, his voice hoarse but still full of authority.
Two soldiers ran to the center of the retaken territory, where the enemy flag still flew. They quickly tore it down, replacing it with the Custodi della Luna 's standard . As the blue and silver flag began to flutter in the wind, a cry of victory erupted among the soldiers.
Nunzio looked at his comrades, noting their exhausted but determined faces. They had accomplished their mission, but the war was far from over. He knew that the blood spilled today would be just another chapter in a long history of conflict.
As the sun began to set on the horizon, turning the sky red, Nunzio gripped his hammer tightly and thought: The land we protect today is the same land we will cultivate tomorrow. But until then, I will keep fighting.
With the territory reclaimed and the Custodi della Luna 's flag once again flying high, Nunzio and his soldiers prepared for the next challenge. The war might take much from them, but it would never take away their determination to protect what was theirs.