Luanda, the after battle at Engel

  The 15th Vulcarian day, year 2025

  When the wisent horn of Hober blasted several times, signaling the end of the battle, a sigh of relief swept through Luanda’s house. She unlocked the door and, along with the other women, hurried outside to find their loved ones, leaving Malya in charge of the children. The night was hot, and sweat soaked Luanda’s skin as she raced through the village toward the battlefield, carrying only a simple lantern.

  There was no discipline or order when Luanda reached the scene of the fighting. Women embraced their husbands, mothers searched for their children, while James tried to organize what he could. She saw the bandits’ bodies being piled up and had a hard time believing that the village had actually fought... and won.

  The smell of blood surrounded her, and the chaos around her seemed distant as her eyes scanned the battlefield in search of a single person. Then, she saw him. Her heart tightened when she found Tommy, bloodied, lying among other wounded. Tears came before she even realized it, sliding down her face.

  “Tommy, can you hear me?” Her voice cracked as she dropped to her knees beside her husband, trembling hands brushing his pale face. He didn’t respond. His body was cold, lips drained of color. He didn’t seem to feel pain, but his injured arm twitched with involuntary spasms. She hated the thought of him dying like that – alone in the dirt. Could he even feel her near? “Tommy... Tommy... Tommy!” she cried, each call more desperate than the last, her voice echoing in the night.

  The six most severely injured were lying side by side, receiving treatment based on the urgency of their wounds – though, in truth, every case was urgent. Hugo, a [Priest] and one of the combatants, had already administered first aid, purifying the wounds, applying bandages to stop the bleeding, and giving the medicine provided by Enchantress Wakina.

  “Calm down, Luanda, he’s lucky. He’ll survive. Once Wakina treats the wound and he gets some rest, he’ll be fine,” Hugo said firmly but gently. The young man had a soft gaze and high eyebrows – his buttoned-up shirt, along with his shaved head, gave him the appearance of someone methodical.

  She swallowed hard, trying to control her desperation. She looked around. Some women were in the same position as her, holding their wounded husbands. Others were crying over the permanent loss of their men, while most, more resolute, worked beside the survivors, trying to keep things under control.

  “It was him!” said Jonas, the [Fisher], speaking to his wife beside Tommy and pointing with a weak hand. Despite being injured, his voice was strong, filled with emotion. His back was covered in bandages, but of the six injured, he seemed the most lucid.

  “It was like witnessing a hero of legends. When he arrived, he already had tears in his eyes, mourning our dead. But when he drew his blade...” Jonas paused, as if searching for words worthy of what he had felt. “I swear I felt something divine. A minute later, all the bandits were running away.”

  The tale made her lift her eyes. Torches and lanterns flickered in the distance, casting a faint but warm glow over the surroundings as she searched for the hero. She blushed when he came into view. There, in the dim light, knelt the most handsome man she had ever seen. His posture was upright, sword firmly gripped in one hand, as he took deep breaths, in a peaceful meditation. He couldn’t hide that he had been crying, his eyes bloodshot, as though carrying the weight of something unbearable.

  His features were familiar to the region, though his reddish-brown skin was of a darker shade and there was something distinctly captivating about him. Tall and noble in bearing, he was draped in dark clothes so deep a black they seemed to merge with the shadows themselves. The garments – now soaked in blood – clung to his form like honey dripping over stone. The contrast between her surroundings and the way he carried himself sent a chill down Luanda’s spine.

  ‘Who is that man?’ she wondered.

  “Bitter herbs of sweet scent,

  seal the wound and let pain relent,”

  Wakina chanted, invoking her magic, pulling Luanda from her thoughts. Wakina was an elderly woman, but her upright posture gave her an appearance of vigor and health.

  The enchantress knelt beside Tommy and removed the bandages from his arm. The wound was brutal. The blade that struck him hadn’t just cut through his flesh; it had taken a chunk off his arm.

  Wakina sighed. “I’ve done the best I can, but this kind of injury is beyond what I can treat. Now, all we can do is wait. His arm will never be the same... but, with luck, he might still be able to use it. If the necrosis spreads, though, we’ll have to amputate.”

  Her words landed on Luanda like a stone to the stomach. She looked at Tommy, his face still pale, and felt the weight of the future crashing down on her.

  ‘How will he work without an arm?’ The question sounded cruel, but she couldn’t avoid it. She swallowed hard, feeling numb. She should just be relieved. He was alive! She loved Tommy. But love wouldn’t pay for their children’s first tools.

  Silently, she pushed the thought aside and focused on what she knew how to do. Using her weaver competencies, she helped clean and change the bandages of the many wounded, her magic moving the fabric with precision, ensuring she didn’t disturb the salves Hugo had already applied.

  Adrian, the after battle at Engel

  The 15th Vulcarian day, year 2025

  Eight defenders lay dead, and among the many wounded, six were receiving immediate treatment. Nineteen bandit corpses were piled in a corner – the few who had fallen wounded were executed without mercy. But the retreating force still posed a threat, and no one was willing to rest easy. To make matters worse, Adrian couldn’t find the brute’s body among the dead, which meant the dangerous man had escaped, slipping away with the retreating bandits.

  Adrian felt exhausted, his muscles ached, and he was gasping for breath. He had indeed pushed his attributes to the limit, just as Aurora’s description claimed. It felt like every attack, block, parry, or dodging demanded his full strength, dexterity, and endurance. On top of that, using his perception and intelligence so intensely drained his mind.

  Panting, Adrian watched as the villagers organized themselves to treat the wounded and tend to the fallen. The villagers who had died in combat were quickly laid out and covered with sheets, their weeping widows, mothers, and children receiving the support of those who had been luckier. An elderly woman led the first aid efforts, instructing others on the necessary care for each person. No one celebrated the victory, for it had been paid for in blood.

  Adrian wanted nothing more than to lie down right there and rest for a while, but a man marched toward him and knelt before him. He sheathed Aurora, which, even after the battle, bore not a single drop of blood.

  “My Lord! We have no words to express our gratitude for your assistance! If you allow us, we can treat your wound as our highest priority.”

  “No... no, it’s fine. I think I just need to clean... the wound. Maybe stitch it up. It doesn’t seem to be bleeding too much. I’m Adrian... how should I address you?”

  The young man suddenly realized he was speaking a foreign language that he couldn’t make sense of how he mastered it. That made him stumble over his words at first. However, he was completely fluent – the difficulty came more from the double surprise of being addressed so formally and unexpectedly speaking a language he hadn’t anticipated.

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  “Lieutenant James, I am a [Lancer] and responsible for maintaining order in the village. Forgive my ignorance, but I do not know which noble house you belong to. Should I address you as ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Your Lordship’?” the man asked, still with one knee on the ground.

  Adrian noticed that the way James said Lancer meant more than just a profession – it described the man’s class. Confused by the situation, he answered the question with one of his own.

  “Lieutenant James... why do you think I belong to a noble house?”

  “Forgive my presumption, my lord, but there are many reasons why I would deduce that someone of your caliber descends from noble lineage. If I had to choose one, it would be your sword. I served in the county patrol for years and have seen a rare weapon in battle before. I suspect I saw another one today.”

  Adrian considered the lieutenant’s response and felt cornered. The lieutenant had misjudged the rarity of his sword – underrating it by three tiers – but there was no way he was going to correct him. Even if Adrian’s skill could be attributed to years of training and hard work, the mere presence of Aurora commanded respect and admiration.

  Its straight, 4-centimeter-wide 80-centimenter-long blade featured a ridge off-center, forged from a magical metal that emitted a subtle, innate glow. The dual edges, perfectly honed, had a mirror-like finish that reflected light, casting an ethereal radiance around it.

  The guard, shaped like an inverted triangle, was crafted from a harmonious blend of gold and silver, its patterns resembling rays of light. This design not only evoked the presence of a true Deus ex Machina but also gave the guard a functional width, making it capable of both deflecting and blocking.

  The straight hilt allowed for a versatile grip, suited for both one- or two-handed use. Its wrapping was made of golden fabric so soft that even the finest silk seemed coarse in comparison. At the base, a raw golden stone added a striking contrast to the otherwise refined elegance, offering a subtle touch of ruggedness to its grandeur.

  Even when sheathed, Aurora did not go unnoticed. Its scabbard, made from a material resembling black scales with golden edges, was as magnificent as the blade it protected. The throat and tip were sculpted from the same rustic stone as the hilt’s base, creating a balance between the divine and the earthly, between perfection and raw power.

  Adrian hesitated. Honesty was a principle he refused to compromise, yet the weight of expectation pressed down on him. Finally, the young man extended his hand for a handshake.

  “Lieutenant James, please – I know nothing about nobility, and I won’t pretend otherwise. If you treat me like one of them, I’ll be a fish out of water.”

  The lieutenant stayed kneeling for a moment before rising and hesitantly saying, “Sir Adrian, if that is your wish, we can discuss this further in private or at another time. For now, please allow me to accompany you so we can attend to your wound.”

  Exhausted not just from the fight but from the sheer flood of new experiences, Adrian was eager to be alone again and make sense of his transmigration. Quickening his pace behind the lieutenant, he took the seat prepared for him beside the woman tending to the wounded.

  After having his shoulder patched up with some kind of magic pomade he couldn’t even begin to make sense of, all he wanted was to lie down. The day hadn’t even begun, and yet he had already experienced some of the most intense, disorienting, and exhausting moments of his life.

  Before long, he was given a small room to rest, along with a bucket of warm water and a fruit basket. His bloodstained clothes and leather armor were taken away to be washed, leaving him in nothing but his undergarments as he wiped himself down with a clean, soft cloth.

  Luanda, Village of Engel

  The 15th Vulcarian day, year 2025

  At a distance, Luanda watched Wakina tending to the young hero’s wound. His name lingered in the air, whispered by many lips - Adrian. The enchantress was visibly exhausted, her mana likely at its limit after treating the most grievously wounded. She certainly wouldn’t be able to heal every cut or minor injury the other men had sustained.

  However, they had prepared a comfortable chair for the young man, and both Wakina and Hugo were tending to his wound – a cut on his shoulder, just below the leather vest’s pauldron, where the fabric had torn, and blood trickled down his arm. It was in the same spot where Tommy had been injured, though Adrian’s wound was less severe. Despite the bleeding, he showed no signs of pain or discomfort, and Luanda couldn’t help but admire that, briefly imagining he could be her husband. ‘Well... it could be my husband’s wound,’ she corrected herself mentally.

  Tommy was asleep, thanks to Wakina’s medicines, and Luanda was deep in thought about how best to help when Engel – a [Specialized Cerealist], as well as the founder and reeve of the village – called her over to a spot near Adrian’s treatment, far enough that he wouldn’t overhear.

  “Luanda, can you repair Lord Adrian’s clothes? And can your thread-cleaning technique remove all this blood?” he asked.

  “It will take me a while. The fabric’s thick and delicate – there must be thousands of threads to mend – but in a few hours, I can clean and repair everything. As for the leather armor, I’ll need to clean it manually,” Luanda replied.

  “Then please do it. I can’t ask them for help.” Engel glanced discreetly toward the [Washerwoman] and the [Tannerworker], who were grieving beside the bodies of their husbands – a [Harvester] and the [Carpenter] who had fallen in battle. Most of the people in Engel were farmers, and artisans were few. The loss of their only carpenter, followed by the mourning period of his wife – the village’s sole tanner – would surely disrupt the village’s routine

  Luanda nodded, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, even as she quietly reminded herself of the twisted ‘luck’ of Tommy’s situation. She made her way to Engel’s house, where she would wait for Adrian’s belongings.

  James led Adrian to the Cerealist residence. The young man had requested a secluded place to rest, and the village reeve had the best guest room. As they walked through the streets, Adrian, curious, observed everything around him, eager to learn more about this place.

  Engel’s house appeared to be just over a hundred square meters, yet it was the largest he had encountered so far. Upon entering, he immediately noticed a woman waiting by the entrance. She was beautiful, likely in her early twenties, with almond skin and a simple dress made of finely crafted fabric, adorned with a natural pattern that blended seamlessly into its design.

  Luanda’s eyes met Adrian’s. The deep blue of his gaze surprised her; she had never seen eyes like that. Then, she felt his gaze move downward, tracing her body – chest, waist, legs – as if taking her in completely. A warmth spread through her unexpectedly. She became acutely aware of herself, of her appearance, and felt inadequate. Yet, at the same time, she wanted to be adequate in his eyes.

  Soon after, James returned with Adrian’s clothes and armor. Luanda took the fabric carefully. The touch, the texture, the color – it was finer than anything she had ever worked with. Noble, almost regal. She felt a surge of motivation; this task could help her gain valuable experience.

  Something stirred inside her. She wanted to call it gratitude for Adrian saving the village, but there was more to it. Something personal. Something she couldn’t admit – not even to herself.

  ‘Work,’ she reminded herself. ‘There’s a lot to do. Clothes to mend, and a husband to care for.’ She averted her gaze, looking toward Tommy, pale and frail, under Wakina’s care as she moved the injured to her home’s infirmary.

  Luanda felt dirty for even acknowledging another man’s gaze. ‘But it’s not my fault. He was the one who looked at me like that. I didn’t do anything wrong.’ She tried to ignore the heat rising in her skin.