Wade woke slowly, drifting between the haze of pain and the heavy quiet that seemed to fill his mind completely.

The silence felt wrong. A few seconds later, through the haze, his mind pieced together what was wrong.

The silence was too loud for a battlefield.

His chest ached with every breath he took, and the sting along his ribs reminded him he was still alive.

He tried to move, groaning softly as the motion sent fire through his body.

"Take it easy," a voice said gently.

He turned his head to see Mercy, her face filled with exhaustion.

She sat on a stool beside his cot, hands clasped tightly together.

Her once-white healer's robe was gray with dust and streaked with blood.

"What… happened?" Wade rasped. His throat felt dry as ash.

"The battle's over," she said softly. "You were lucky. A few soldiers found you near the barricades. They dragged you here before the last wave broke."

He blinked, trying to process the words. "The… horde?"

"Scattered," she said. "When the Tyrant fell, the monsters turned on each other or fled. What's left of the army pushed them back this morning."

Wade let out a shaky breath, only now realizing how much his body hurt. "And my wounds?"

Mercy hesitated. "Bound and cleaned. The bleeding's stopped, but… we're completely out of mana."

"The healers can't use their skills for a while. What you're feeling now is as good as it gets for a while."

He turned his head, scanning the tent.

Rows of cots stretched into the distance, most of them empty. Dried blood darkened the floor like rust.

Of those beds still occupied, most held motionless figures, some bandaged, most broken, and a lot missing limbs.

"Rowan," Wade said suddenly, voice tight. "Where's Rowan? Did he—"

"He's alive," Mercy cut in, giving him a small, tired smile. "Still weak, but he'll pull through."

"The healers managed to save him. But…" she looked away, voice lowering. "Everyone else from Squad Twelve didn't make it. Just the three of us."

Wade laid there, staring up at the canvas ceiling. His hands trembled slightly, gripping the blanket over his chest.

Sebastian. Brody. The others. Gone.

He swallowed hard, a bitter lump forming in his throat.

And then his thoughts turned to Ingrid.

Was she dead too?

He refused to believe she was dead. She was the most skilled one among them.

And so, time passed slowly.

Wade lay motionless, staring at the canvas above him, listening to the faint, unidentifiable noises coming from outside the tent.

The camp was quieter now. There was less shouting and no screams of agony.

The only thing that could be heard was the distant clatter of armor and the low murmur of survivors.

Occasionally, he heard the flap of a banner in the wind or the creak of wagon wheels rolling over uneven ground.

He wasn't sure how much time had gone by when the tent's flap rustled open again.

Mercy stepped inside. He hadn't even noticed when she'd left.

The dull exhaustion that had clouded her eyes a few hours ago had eased slightly.

"Some of my mana's back," she said softly, more to herself than to him. "Let's see what I can do."

She set down a small bowl of water and a bundle of herbs beside his bed.

Her hands worked quickly, unwrapping the bandages around his torso.

The air hit his exposed skin, cold against the half-healed wound. Dried blood clung stubbornly to the edges.

Mercy dipped a cloth into the water, cleaning the gash with care.

When she placed her palm over the wound, a faint golden glow filled the air.

Wade could feel the warmth seep into him, followed by a strange pulling sensation as torn flesh began knitting back together.

The broken ribs beneath the skin realigned with faint cracks and pops that made him grit his teeth.

The pain dulled, replaced by a heavy ache.

Within moments, the wound was gone. It was closed and clean, but not perfect.

A scar remained, three thick claw marks running diagonally across his chest.

"The wound was too deep," Mercy muttered, eyeing the scar. "And we healed it too late. It'll stay."

Her gaze drifted briefly to the smaller scratches on his legs, and the bound gash on his shoulder.

She gave a tired smile. "You'll live. That's more than most."

She patted his shoulder gently before moving on to the next cot, already murmuring comforting words to the patient under her breath.

Wade sat up slowly, testing his breath, and his movements. Everything ached, but he could move again.

With a sigh that was part relief and part sorrow, he swung his legs off the bed and stood.

Then, he pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out into the daylight.

The world beyond the camp was filled with devastation.

Wade stepped out into a silence broken only by the groan of wagon wheels and the crackle of dying fires.

The plains that had once been their battlefield were now a graveyard stretching to the horizon.

Piles of bodies, both human and monsters, littered the scorched earth. Smoke drifted lazily across the field, carrying with it the stench of blood, ash, and rot.

Soldiers moved among the corpses in grim silence, their faces blank and hollow.

Some carried stretchers. Others worked in pairs, lifting fallen comrades into wagons, stripping off weapons and armor to be reclaimed by the quartermasters.

Every movement was slow and mechanical. Like they were afraid to feel.

A passing Captain, his uniform stained with soot, caught sight of Wade.

"You're walking," he said simply, voice hoarse. "Good. Make yourself useful. Help with recovery."

Wade didn't argue. He needed to do something or else he might go crazy.

He made his way to an empty wagon where a few weary soldiers had just finished unloading the bodies they'd brought.

They didn't speak, only gave him a faint nod of acknowledgement as he took his place at the back, helping them push.

The wagon creaked forward, its wheels crunching over debris and broken weapons.

They stopped every few meters.

Wade bent to help lift a fallen adventurer.

Someone he didn't recognize, someone whose armor was half-melted and sword still in hand.

Together, they hauled the body into the cart, laying it gently beside the others.

The work was endless. For every corpse they lifted, ten more seemed to appear.

Humans. Monster. It didn't matter. Death was the only common ground left.

Wade's muscles burned.

His hands were raw from gripping armor slick with blood. He kept going anyway, because stopping meant thinking.

And thinking meant remembering.

When the wagon was nearly full, they pushed it towards the camp, where other soldiers waited to sort the dead.

As they passed another recovery team, Wade caught a glimpse of something familiar. A shock of long, blonde hair, pulled into a familiar ponytail.

Rowan.

He stood near a different wagon, his regrown left arm in a sling, directing soldiers quietly. His face was pale, but he was alive.

Relief flooded him. Seeing Rowan alive was much better than just hearing it.

"Rowan!"

He called out, walking towards Rowan.

Rowan turned, and for a moment, both men just stared disbelievingly at each other, each one exhausted, and alive.

Then Rowan stumbled forward, and they embraced fiercely.

The relief was overwhelming.

For a long moment, neither said a word, only breathing hard against each other's shoulders, feeling the weight of everything they'd survived.

When they finally pulled apart, Rowan's eyes shone.

"You're alive," he said, almost laughing, voice cracking with emotion. "Thank the gods. I thought—"

"I could say the same," Wade interrupted softly. Then, at Rowan's next question, his face fell.

"Have you… seen Sebastian? Or Ingrid?"

The silence that followed said everything.

Wade swallowed hard. "I haven't seen Ingrid yet," he said slowly. "But Sebastian… he didn't make it."

The words hit like a physical blow. Rowan's expression crumpled. He staggered back a step, eyes wide, and then the shock broke into a ragged sob.

He covered his face with his free hand, shoulders shaking.

Wade stepped forward, catching him, pulling him into another hug.

"I'm sorry," Wade murmured. "He saved my life. He fought till the end."

Rowan's tears soaked through his tunic. The sound was raw, his grief stripped of all restraint.

They stood there, each one processing their grief in different ways.

When Rowan finally quieted, they stood side by side, staring out over the endless field of bodies.

Wade broke the silence first. "What are they going to do with the monster corpses?"

Rowan exhaled shakily. "Most of them will be burned. Can't risk disease or scavengers. The rest will be dissected by alchemists or dumped into the trenches."

He paused, glancing at the soldiers sorting through the fallen.

"The guilds are collecting what's left from the dead adventurers. Once an adventurer dies, everything in their inventory disappears with their soul. So the guilds take what they can find. Armor, gear, anything salvageable."

Wade's jaw tightened. "They should send the items back to the families. That's the least they can do."

Rowan only shrugged, eyes hollow. "The guilds don't care about sentiment. Only numbers."

A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, Wade asked quietly, "What now?"

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