Jorrent grabbed the injured soldier's collar and hauled him up.
"Take this," Jorrent said. "Then fight again. If you stop here, you die."
He shoved a recovery pill into the soldier's hand.
The man's fingers were shaking, but he still swallowed it on the spot.
Their issued elixirs were already gone.
Not just his, most of them.
In the Human Empire, most frontline soldiers received a fixed wage and a monthly allotment.
Pills, elixirs, formation, bullets. Enough for normal patrols and short operations.
But "enough" meant nothing inside a place like this.
The soul insect didn't care their budget.
Every day chewed through supplies.
If they ran out, they didn't get another crate dropped from above.
They fought with what they had left, and if they couldn't, they died.
That was why so many soldiers dug into their own pockets.
If they survived and returned with enough merit, they could file for reimbursement.
Sometimes they got it. Sometimes they got delayed for years.
