In the infirmary, all the soldiers rescued last week were brought in for treatment. Some of them regained consciousness on the second day, others on the fourth. But one young swordsman remained still and silent, locked in unconsciousness as the days dragged on.
By the seventh day, however, a faint sign of life appeared. His fingers twitched ever so slightly, and muffled sounds began to reach his ears—footsteps shuffling across the floor, distant voices murmuring, the creak of beds, and the steady whisper of air drifting in through the open window. All he could feel was the numbing heaviness of his body and the dull, throbbing ache of his wounds.
The physician making his morning rounds paused at the young man's bedside. He leaned closer, noticing the slight flicker of movement. His eyes widened with surprise.
"The boy's finally waking…" the physician muttered before speaking louder, "Young man, can you hear me?"
The swordsman's eyelids fluttered. Slowly, with great effort, he forced them open. The bright light stung his eyes, and his lips parted weakly as a hoarse whisper escaped.
"Where… am I?"
The physician broke into a relieved smile. "It's good to see you awake again. You're in the infirmary. We've been treating you for an entire week—you were badly injured, but you survived."
Qen blinked, trying to make sense of the words. Shock rippled through him. A week? His mind raced back to the battlefield, to that dreadful moment when the terrifying knight's blade nearly ended his life. He could not understand how he was still breathing. Yet, despite the confusion, gratitude filled his chest. He turned his head slightly and murmured, "Thank you… for saving me."
As he lay in bed recovering, his thoughts grew clearer. The more he recalled that fateful encounter, the more one decision hardened in his mind. He no longer wished to fight. No longer wished to risk his life for a kingdom that had brought him nothing but pain. Once he was healed, he would resign and live quietly in some distant place, far away from war.
---
Days slipped by, and his strength gradually returned. At last, he stood from the bed, shaky but determined, and stepped outside the tent. The fresh air filled his lungs, sharp and clean, and for a fleeting moment, he felt alive again. He considered returning to the capital, not as a soldier but as a man ready to lay down his sword forever.
Yet as he walked through the camp, his eyes fell upon groups of soldiers laughing together, their voices brimming with camaraderie. His chest tightened. He remembered how those same comrades had abandoned him on the battlefield, fleeing from the overwhelming aura of that monstrous knight. The laughter, once a familiar comfort, now sounded like cruel mockery.
That afternoon, the physician confirmed that Qen's body had recovered enough to return to active service. But instead of relief, Qen only felt resolve. He packed his belongings in silence. His gaze lingered on his battered battlefield attire, still stained with faint traces of blood. His chest throbbed at the memory of the knight's strike, but he pushed the thought aside. Gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword, he marched toward his squad's tent.
There, he penned his resignation letter. His handwriting was steady, each stroke carrying the weight of his choice. When he delivered the letter to the captain, the man only scoffed, laughing harshly.
"You're running away, are you?" the captain sneered. "Pathetic." Without care, he stamped the paper, then hurled a pouch of gold against the wall. "Take your damn salary and get lost."
Qen picked up the pouch, jaw clenched, but said nothing. As he left the tent, he was met with jeers from his fellow soldiers.
"Weak creature."
"Scared crybaby."
"Doesn't deserve to wear a blade."
He ignored them all. His heart had already left this place. Returning to his quarters, he gathered the last of his belongings, strapped his sword to his side, and walked toward the camp's gate.
There, near the entrance, he spotted a wagon preparing to depart for the capital. Without hesitation, he jogged over and called to the driver. Climbing aboard, he sat beside the old man holding the reins.
"How much will it cost to ride to the capital?" Qen asked.
The driver chuckled, his weathered face kind. "No need to pay. You fought for this country—that's payment enough."
For the first time in days, Qen smiled. "Thank you," he said sincerely.
---
The journey was quiet at first, but Qen soon sensed danger. His instincts flared, and moments later, three bandits emerged from the roadside, blocking the wagon's path.
The driver paled, gripping the reins helplessly. "Damn it… we're finished," he whispered.
Qen stepped down from the wagon, his hand resting on his sword. The bandits laughed upon seeing him.
"Oi, brat, get lost if you want to live."
"Or what? You'll scare us with that toy sword of yours?"
Their mocking only steeled his resolve. He stood firm. One of the bandits lunged at him recklessly. In a flash, Qen sidestepped, unsheathing his blade with precision. The steel sang through the air, and a cry of pain followed as the bandit staggered back, clutching his wound.
The other two snarled and attacked together. Qen's body moved with practiced grace, dodging their furious strikes. He drew a deep breath, adjusted his stance, and unleashed the slashing technique he had trained tirelessly for over a year. His blade carved through the air, striking one of the assailants cleanly, while the other barely dodged.
But Qen pressed on, reading his opponent's movements. A misstep, a fleeting opening—and his sword found its mark, slicing across the last bandit's leg. The man fell with a howl, crippled and unable to stand.
Breathing hard but steady, Qen looked over the three fallen enemies. He had defeated them all.
The driver, who had hidden himself during the fight, emerged with wide eyes. "You… you did it."
"Do you have any rope?" Qen asked calmly.
The old man nodded quickly and handed him a coil. Qen bound the bandits securely, loading them onto the wagon. Then, as if nothing had happened, the two resumed their journey.
Along the way, the driver struck up conversation. "Have you heard of the new law? The king declared that the eastern lands are free for use. No taxes, no claims. But no one dares settle there—it's too wild. Beasts, monsters, forests so thick they swallow men whole."
Qen listened quietly. A free land, untouched and untamed. Dangerous, yes, but… free. The idea stirred something in him. Perhaps, in that harsh land, he could build a life away from the chaos of kingdoms and wars.
Three days later, they arrived at the capital. Qen climbed down from the wagon, dragging the bound bandits behind him. He handed them over to the guards, who raised their brows in recognition.
"These three are wanted men," one guard said. "There's a bounty for them. Go to the outpost and claim your reward."
The driver clasped Qen's hand with gratitude. "Thank you, lad. You saved my life."
Qen nodded with a faint smile, though his heart already wandered elsewhere—toward a new life that awaited him, somewhere far beyond the walls of the capital.