The sun had just begun to rise, its golden light slowly spilling over the edge of the horizon. Though dawn had only started to stretch across the sky, the camp was already alive.
Mercenaries moved briskly through the early light—some gearing up for the day's assignments, others dragging their feet after returning from long, grueling patrols. Few wore obvious wounds, but the stiff movements and weary expressions said enough; most of them were carrying injuries beneath the surface.
Outside a guarded tent, Lieutenant Reinfrey stood with her arms behind her back. The two sentries at the entrance straightened as she approached, saluting her with practiced formality. She returned the gesture with a curt nod before stepping inside.
Within, Captain Luther sat behind a worn wooden desk, the surface neatly stacked with reports and dispatches. He was reviewing them with a steady hand, a fountain pen gliding smoothly as he signed off each sheet with quiet efficiency. Every so often, he would shift a document to the side, then return to reading in silence.
Reinfrey entered without a word, bowing lightly and waiting at attention until he finished.
When he did, Luther placed the final paper aside, closed the folder, and reached into a drawer. From it, he drew a blank sheet and an envelope, laying them carefully on the desk.
Without looking up, he asked, "Are your preparations complete?"
Reinfrey replied promptly, "Yes, sir. My squad is ready to depart. We await your command."
A brief silence followed, broken only by the subtle scratching of pen on paper as Luther composed the letter. Once finished, he folded the sheet, slipped it into the envelope, and sealed it with deliberate care.
As she watched the process, a quiet thought crossed her mind.
A man who can make monsters flinch just by standing still... can be so methodical, so precise.
Luther held the envelope out to her. She stepped forward, accepted it with both hands, then stepped back into position.
"You depart immediately," he said. "The rest is in your hands."
Reinfrey bowed once more and turned to leave—but paused at the threshold.
Something had lingered in her mind since the previous night. She knew better than to question her Captain's decisions... yet the uncertainty gnawed at her.
She turned back slowly. "Sir, if I may—"
Luther raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.
She hesitated, then asked, "That boy… who is he, really? He doesn't seem to be noble-born or have any particular standing. So why is the Guild Master giving him this much priority?"
No sooner had the words left her mouth that an unseen weight pressed down on her shoulders like iron chains. Her knees buckled. She collapsed to the ground, breath catching in her throat as cold sweat pooled at her temples.
She looked up, her heart pounding.
Captain Luther's eyes had shifted color—no longer the usual earthy brown, but a sharp, hypnotic shade of aquatic blue. They were beautiful in a way, crystalline and unnerving. But what truly paralyzed her was the pressure rolling off him like a tidal wave—dense, suffocating, and utterly inescapable.
Reinfrey immediately bowed her head, voice strained, "My apologies, sir!"
Just as suddenly, the weight lifted. The atmosphere returned to normal, and Luther's eyes faded back to their usual hue.
He waved a hand dismissively. "There's no need to apologize."
Rising from behind the desk, he approached her and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. His tone turned quiet but heavy.
"There are things in this world you're better off not knowing. Remember that."
Then, glancing at the envelope in her hand, he added, "Escort him to the southern outpost. Deliver that letter to the Guild Master. After that... forget him. Don't involve yourself any further."
He gave her shoulder a final, subtle pat and walked past her, leaving the tent without another word.
Reinfrey remained where she knelt, staring at the flap of the tent swaying gently in his wake. She had expected the boy to be someone insignificant—a cast-off noble's illegitimate son, perhaps, hidden away for convenience.
But this... whatever this was, it was something far beyond her understanding. Something that even her hardened Captain didn't want to touch.
She sighed, rising slowly and rubbing the back of her neck.
"Why do I always get the assignments no one wants…"
***
After waking up in the middle of the night, Lucas had found it nearly impossible to rest again. Only the dull, unrelenting pain across his body had finally dragged him back into unconsciousness. Morning came too soon, and with it, the doctor returned to his side.
The first thing she did was remove his bandages. Then, with a damp washcloth in hand, she began cleaning the dried blood and grime from his skin.
Lucas had wondered, fleetingly, whether he could just take a proper shower—if that's what the word meant. It was strange... the term felt familiar, but vague, like a blurry photograph in his mind. He wasn't even sure where the thought had come from.
But honestly, he had bigger things to worry about.
His attention shifted to what truly mattered—the damage.
Now that the worst of the blood and swelling had faded, he could see just how battered he really was. Countless bruises, cuts, and fresh scars littered his skin like a roadmap of violence. The only areas spared seemed to be his face and a few small patches across his limbs.
And while the external injuries were bad enough, what concerned him more was the ache that ran deep beneath the surface—into the bone, the muscle, even his chest. He couldn't see those injuries, but he felt them.
It was a strange thing, watching his own body like it belonged to someone else.
He winced as the cloth passed over a particularly raw spot. Several sharp grunts escaped him, and once or twice, he couldn't help but let out a sharp breath or a restrained scream.
"I'm definitely not having a bath again anytime soon," he muttered inwardly, the memory of pain settling into his thoughts like a branding iron.
Once the cleaning was done, the doctor moved to her workstation. She dropped several herbs and powdered substances into a mortar, added a splash of potion from a nearby vial, and began grinding it all together with methodical precision. Lucas watched in silence.
As she worked, the mixture shifted colors—deep crimson, vivid green, icy blue—blending together like liquid gemstones. The sight was oddly mesmerizing, as if the medicine held some hidden energy he couldn't name.
The paste gave off no scent and, surprisingly, no sting. When she began applying it to his wounds, he tensed at first—but then relaxed when no pain followed. Only a cooling sensation spread across his skin.
He let out a slow sigh. Small mercies.
Next, she tied his right forearm to a narrow, polished rod of metal, securing it with practiced hands.
"So it really is fractured," Lucas thought, confirming the suspicion he'd had since yesterday. The dull throb in the limb made more sense now.
After wrapping his torso with fresh bandages—tight but not suffocating—she moved to the side desk. There, she diluted what remained of the paste, added more ingredients, and poured the final mixture into small corked bottles, placing them one by one into a wooden box.
Through it all, neither of them spoke.
Lucas wasn't avoiding conversation. He just… didn't know what to say. His head was a fog, his chest hollow. Every time he tried to reach for something—a memory, a thought—it slipped away like water through his fingers.
No memories. No past. Just fragments and feelings, he thought.
It weighed on him more than the injuries.
Still, last night had given him time to think. Even if his body was broken, even if his memories were gone, his mind was still here. His personality, his thoughts, his instincts—they hadn't vanished. And that meant he wasn't starting completely from zero.
"The memory loss… yeah, that's the worst of it," he thought, watching the doctor quietly sort the medicine. "But I'm not totally empty. There's still something left of me. Whoever I was… some of it's still in here."
And that, for now, was enough.
Last night, it hadn't taken Lucas long to steady himself. The initial flood of emotions—confusion, panic, unease—had all filtered down with time. What remained was a single, solid thought.
Survival.
From everything he'd overheard, one thing was clear: he wasn't just some ordinary civilian caught in the wrong place. Not anymore.
And as for the Captain… Lucas sincerely hoped their paths wouldn't cross again anytime soon.
Piecing together the conversation from the night before, he could form a rough picture of what was happening. The man in silver armor—stoic, commanding, and dangerous—was clearly no regular soldier. Lucas couldn't say why, but he instinctively recognized that man's authority. Military leader. High-ranking. Possibly something even greater.
It was strange. Alien, even. He didn't know how he knew—there was no memory to back it—but the conclusion felt natural, like muscle memory of the mind. Each time he followed a thought to its end, it aligned too cleanly to be mere guesswork.
He couldn't explain it, yet… his instincts just fit this world.
The idea that he might have once held a position of influence, maybe even some military role himself, didn't feel like a fantasy—it felt logical. Expected. Almost familiar.
And that quiet certainty gave him something valuable: direction.
His memory was gone, but his mind wasn't empty. He still had thought processes, critical reasoning, judgment—some deeply ingrained instincts that hadn't vanished with the rest of his past. Even planning ahead felt second nature to him.
As if he was wired for it.
He lifted his left hand, wincing at the effort, and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. A dull throb stirred behind his eyes.
"Ugh… I need to stop overthinking," he muttered under his breath.
Whoever these people were, whatever group he was entangled with now—it was clear he wasn't in a position to resist. Not yet. The best course was simple: stay quiet, stay alert, and follow orders until he could gather more information… or regain what he'd lost.
The wheel was already in motion. For now, he'd go along with it.
He was supposed to travel soon—escorted, no doubt—to some kind of outpost where a healer awaited him. He didn't know if such miracles were real… but considering everything else he'd witnessed since waking up in this world, he wasn't about to question it.
And truth be told, he welcomed the possibility.
Even a flicker of hope was better than staring at the void.
At that moment, Lieutenant Reinfrey stepped into the tent, followed by a dozen men and women. She wore full-body armor, gleaming under the morning light that filtered through the canvas. In contrast, her squad was clad in lightweight gear designed for swift movement—efficient, agile, and ready for whatever came next.
Lucas tried to sit up, feeling it was only polite, but the effort sent a sharp jolt of pain through his body. He let out a quiet grunt, prompting the doctor to step in and help him.
Reinfrey stopped a few paces from his bed, her eyes locking onto his. The look wasn't harsh, but there was a tension in it—an unspoken weight that neither of them knew how to address. He didn't feel afraid, but something about her gaze made silence seem like the only response.
Finally, she broke it.
"How is he supposed to move? You said you could make it happen, didn't you?" she asked, turning her attention sharply to the doctor.
Visibly tense under Reinfrey's scrutiny, the doctor moved swiftly to a travel pack and pulled out an ornate wooden box. The craftsmanship alone made it seem valuable—elegant carvings lined its surface like something from a royal treasury.
Inside were five glass vials, each etched with delicate patterns. Lucas didn't need to be told—they were expensive. Rare.
"This is an elixir made from the root of the Spring Tulip," the doctor explained. "When consumed, it suppresses pain and accelerates healing, enough to restore function for an entire day. I've prepared five doses."
She handed one of the vials to Reinfrey, who turned it over in her hand, examining it closely before passing it to Lucas.
He accepted the vial gingerly, almost afraid it might shatter in his grasp. The bottle was cool to the touch, and the crimson liquid inside sat completely still, its surface like glass, unnaturally calm. There was something oddly peaceful about it.
As he looked back up, his eyes met Reinfrey's again—still unreadable, still guarded. Then he turned to the doctor, hoping for a sense of reassurance.
Instead, her expression caught him off guard.
He had expected a smile, relief perhaps. But her face was tight with guilt and sorrow, as if she were sending him to his execution, not his recovery.
Lucas narrowed his eyes slightly, his instincts stirring. 'It isn't what it looks like, huh?'
"Is there something you haven't told me?" he asked, his voice steady but uncertain, the way someone with no memory might ask a question they're afraid to hear the answer to.
Reinfrey's head snapped toward the doctor, her eyes sharp and unyielding. The temperature in the tent seemed to drop.
Under pressure, the doctor finally spoke, her voice tight. "This elixir… it was originally developed for individuals on Captain Luther's level. You understand what that means."
Lucas noticed Reinfrey's subtle nod—she understood all too well.
The doctor continued, her tone heavier now. "Only recently did researchers discover it could be used on ordinary people. But the effect is… limited. For someone like him, it works only as a high-grade healing potion. There's also a cost."
She paused, then met Lucas's gaze with a mixture of sympathy and regret.
"The pain you feel now will return. But it won't just come back—it'll multiply with each dose you take. Once you stop using the elixir, everything it suppressed will hit you all at once."