The Runic Alchemist

Damian woke up in yet another unfamiliar place. After blinking several times, his vision cleared, and he realized he was in a tent. His hands were free, and there were no guards stationed nearby. They must've stopped caring about him, huh? Looking around, he noticed tens of people lying around him, either sleeping or quietly being tended to by healers.

Some groaned in pain, but there was little conversation.

An infirmary.

He looked down at his body, which was wrapped in white linen bandages, covering the injuries he had sustained in the fight last night. At least, he assumed it was last night—he felt rested enough, and it seemed like a new day. His shoulder was covered the most, but his hands and legs were bandaged as well.

Then the memories came flooding back, and he immediately focused on his mana sense, stretching it to the limit. He found the same energy signature he had felt before, but now it was stronger—no longer just a faint trace. She was alive. At least Sena had survived.

But there was no mana in her before. How had she suddenly acquired it? Unless... it made sense. She must have ascended after falling through the floors somehow. The elf was nearby too.

She had to be—for her sake, and his.

Damian sat up, trying to assess the soreness in his body. He felt good enough, so he rose from the bed and left the infirmary tent, leaving the injured behind. No one stopped him. A few healers glanced his way, but there was no fear or hostility in their eyes, only a quiet acknowledgment as they watched him leave.

Outside, it was brighter than the night he remembered, confirming it was indeed the next day. He was near the outer noble zone, and even from here, he could see charred and blackened buildings. The destruction was far worse than he had anticipated. And this was just the area where Moondancer had been; the section with Threadripper couldn't be any better.

They could have stopped this. Prevented half of the damage. If only... if only he had stopped her from breaking the invisible box. Ashenvale would have paid a tremendous price for their cowardly attack. Without a third-ranker, they would be in the same precarious position as Eldoris.

Their morale would be at its lowest, and if Threadripper had even a shred of intelligence, he would fear launching another attack. They only needed to defend for a month under the 75% dome, and then Bonecrusher would arrive, ending this invasion once and for all.

But she ruined everything. What in the world could have been more important to her than ending this senseless slaughter?

Around him, soldiers and knights were going about their duties. No one stopped him, though many stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. Their attitudes had shifted. It made sense—after such a devastating loss, they would feel slightly better knowing he was on their side. No matter what he had done before, showing his power earned him a modicum of respect.

They were a civilization that prioritized strength above all else after all. Show them your abilities, and you gained respect. It also painted a target on your back, making every step a battle. Still, power demanded recognition.

Damian couldn't stray far due to the bond that limited him. So, he stood by one of the campfires, warming his bandaged hands. The soldiers around the fire shifted slightly to make room for him, but no one spoke.

"How bad is it?" Damian asked, staring into the crackling flames that reminded him of the chaos from the night before. He wasn't expecting an answer, nor did he care if they spoke to him. He would find out soon enough.

"They're at the blockade," one of them finally said. "Camping there and chipping away at the wall bit by bit."

"With the power they showed last night, they should've torn down the wall by now. Why haven't they?" another added.

"They could," the first soldier replied. "But they're making it easier for their third-rankers. They must be resting, regaining their strength after yesterday."

"They won't attack without their biggest advantage—the strange waygate. Until then, they're taking their time," another chimed in.

"We can't win this," one of them muttered, more to himself than to the group.

"Nonsense!" another barked. "We were never here to win. We just need to hold the line. Or are you saying we should just forget all the lives they took last night and give up?"

"I'm not saying that... but Mike, Elar, Gin... they're gone. I couldn't even..." The middle-aged man's voice broke, and he bit his lip to keep from saying more. No one responded. The weight of his words hung in the air, a reflection of the feelings they all shared.

For which none of them were brave enough to admit out loud.

Damian sighed and continued warming his hands in the heavy silence. A few minutes later, he heard distinct footsteps approaching. People had been passing by the whole time, but these footsteps were purposeful, heading straight for their fire. Damian didn't bother looking up. He didn't care who it was.

In fact, he was finding it difficult to care about anything at all. What was he even doing here? He had fought a battle far beyond his level, survived, and yet he felt useless. Wronged. Everything seemed pointless.

"Master Maximus, you've been summoned by the commander. Please follow us," the newcomer announced loudly.

It was the first time anyone had spoken his name in this miserable camp. With a deep breath, Damian pulled his hands away from the fire and turned around. The newcomer was young, barely sixteen or seventeen, and only a first-ranker.

Where would this boy be when the enemy came again? Would he survive? Or was he, too, just a living, breathing piece of ash, destined to become one with these cold, miserable, dreaded lands?

Damian followed the boy to one of the nobles' large wooden buildings. She was inside. He knew it.

Well, it was time for some goddamn answers.