After some time, the woman finally left the tent, leaving Lucas alone under the quiet hush of the approaching night. The hours slipped by unnoticed as the golden hue of evening deepened into a velvet sky. Stars scattered themselves across the darkness like scattered gemstones, while the crescent moon hung low and serene, casting its silver gaze over the world.
Inside the tent, the candle by his bedside flickered gently, its warm light dancing over his pale features. Shadows stretched along the canvas walls, breathing life into the otherwise still space.
Lucas's eyelids trembled faintly, then cracked open with effort, his vision swimming in the soft candlelight. His gaze drifted sluggishly across the tent, trying to piece together his surroundings.
'What… happened back then?' His thoughts stumbled, fragmented and slow.
As awareness gradually returned, flashes of the earlier agony flickered through his mind. Instinctively, he tensed, bracing for the familiar surge of pain—yet it never came. A dull ache persisted beneath his skin, but compared to before, it was almost bearable.
Testing his strength, he shifted his left arm. It was heavy, as if weighed down by sandbags. Gritting his teeth, he managed to lift it and drape it over his forehead, feeling the sticky warmth of his own sweat. His muscles protested weakly, but no sharp agony followed.
'Great,' he thought, his lips twitching into a dry smirk, 'I can't even lift my hand properly, let alone my body.'
Squinting through the dimness, Lucas took a better look at his surroundings.
He lay on a rough wooden bed covered by a thin, scratchy sheet that clung to his damp skin. All around him stood rows of similar beds, each separated by a modest gap. Three on his left, four more to his right. The sheer size of the tent made him falter; he'd never seen anything like it before.
Nearby, a clutter of wooden tables held strange medical supplies—glass vials glinting in the candlelight, cloth-bound sachets, worn-down books, and metal instruments whose purposes he could only guess at. Some crates and old suitcases were stacked haphazardly in the corners, their contents spilling slightly.
From the smell of herbs, metal, and something faintly sweet, he figured this had to be some sort of infirmary.
Lucas let out a slow breath, feeling the dry air rasp against his throat. A small, disbelieving grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted his hand to cover his eyes.
'Yeah, this is definitely a dream. No other way to explain it.'
Yet, even as he clung to that idea, deeper questions stirred inside him.
'I know I'm from Earth,' he thought firmly. That much was solid, like an anchor. But when he tried to remember more—his name, his home—he found only a blur.
Fragments surfaced here and there: a boy hunched over worn textbooks, a cracked phone screen glowing late into the night, the sterile walls of an orphanage. He remembered emotions more than faces. The heavy loneliness of a crowded room. The bitter pride after passing a difficult exam. The hollow victories.
But the details, the contexts—they slipped through his grasp like grains of sand.
He knew he was an orphan. He knew he had studied, struggled, lived quietly. But he couldn't remember the names of any friends. No familiar streets came to mind. Not even the full shape of his own dreams.
A muted ache spread across his chest, different from the physical injuries. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.
It was a strange, almost unsettling sensation—being adrift in his own mind, a stranger in skin that should have felt familiar.
But before Lucas could spiral deeper into his troubled thoughts, the flap of the tent rustled—and footsteps approached.
His heart jumped. Instinctively, he kept his forearm draped over his eyes, pretending to still be unconscious.
Three figures entered the tent, their steps measured but heavy. One man walked between the other two, his presence dominating the space.
The man at the center wore polished silver armor etched with intricate designs across the breastplate. A rugged longsword hung at his waist, the worn leather of its sheath brushing softly against his thigh. His helmet, visor tucked under one arm, revealed a weathered face—sharp black hair combed back with a few silver strands betraying his age. A short, neatly trimmed beard framed his strong jawline, lending him a rugged sort of handsomeness. His build was broad and sturdy, a testament to a life spent on battlefields.
Flanking him, another man wore similar armor, though slightly less refined. His lush black hair and clean-shaven face gave him a more youthful, approachable air, despite his otherwise plain appearance.
Beside him, a woman in matching armor stood with a lighter, more athletic build. Her dark brown hair, trimmed to her shoulders, framed her sun-kissed, rugged features. Her sharp blue eyes scanned the room with a soldier's calm precision, her expression hard to read.
The trio moved to Lucas's bedside. Though Lucas didn't dare move, he could feel the weight of their stares pressing down on him, stiffening the air.
After a tense moment, the woman cast a brief glance at her fellow lieutenant and cleared her throat quietly. Taking the hint, the man beside her spoke up.
"Captain," he began, his voice respectful but uneasy, "the kid's been part of my squad for a while. But—"
The Captain lifted his hand slightly, silencing him with a simple gesture. His voice was rough but controlled when he spoke. "Lieutenant, get to the point."
The man straightened and nodded. "Yes, sir. In the last tide, he volunteered to be placed on the frontlines. I thought he could handle himself. But nocturnal beasts—Nightcrawlers and Grints—broke through the flanks and collapsed our formation. Casualties skyrocketed."
He paused, casting a sidelong glance at Lucas's motionless form.
The woman picked up where he left off. "This one got hit the hardest. Our alchemists and doctors could barely stabilize him. Fractured ribs, broken leg, a nasty concussion... and from what we gathered, most of his squad didn't make it. Only one other survivor, besides him."
She scratched the side of her neck absently, her voice losing some of its stiffness. "One of my squad members dragged him out. Otherwise, he wouldn't have made it either."
The male lieutenant added, almost hesitantly, "You might not recall, Captain, but he's—"
"I know who he is," the Captain cut him off curtly.
He turned slightly, his gaze shifting to the woman at his side.
"The other Warbands were hit just as bad," he said, his voice quieter, heavier. "Healers are stretched thin across the entire front."
He turned back to Lucas, his sharp eyes studying the boy with a strange glint—thoughtful, but unreadable.
Then he spoke toward the tent flap. "Bring the doctor."
A mercenary standing guard outside immediately disappeared and returned with the same woman who had tended to Lucas earlier. She gave the Captain a respectful nod before stepping closer to the bed.
Before she could ask anything, the Captain spoke, his tone blunt. "Can he walk?"
The doctor blinked, caught off guard by the question. Even the two lieutenants looked surprised, exchanging brief glances.
The woman opened her mouth to protest, but the Captain cut her off, his tone firmer this time. "I don't need him in perfect shape. I need him moving—for a few days, at least."
The doctor's face darkened with worry. She hesitated, then glanced at Lucas's battered form once more. Finally, she answered with reluctant clarity.
"I can... manage it. I'll suppress the worst of the pain and get him moving. But it'll only last four, maybe five days. After that—" she shook her head, "—the medicines will stop working. He'll crash hard."
The Captain gave a slight nod, as if he had already calculated that risk.
Turning to the woman lieutenant, he said crisply, "Lieutenant Reinfrey, you'll escort this mercenary to the southern outpost. Retrieve the letter from me before dawn."
The woman—Reinfrey—stepped forward, thumping her fist lightly to her chest in salute.
"By your command, Captain. We depart at first light."
With everything decided, the group turned to leave—until the Captain abruptly stopped and looked back at Lucas. Instinctively, the others halted too.
Without a word, the Captain drew his longsword with a metallic hiss, stepping back toward Lucas's bed. The cold gleam of the blade hovered ominously above Lucas's abdomen.
The doctor's eyes widened. She opened her mouth to protest, but caught herself, knowing better than to question a superior so far above her rank.
Unsatisfied with just hovering, the Captain pressed the flat of the blade against a small patch of Lucas's exposed skin—one spot free of bandages. Then, with the faintest application of pressure, he tilted the edge down.
A sharp sting jolted through Lucas's body as the blade sliced a shallow cut across his skin.
"Ow! Wait—!" Lucas cried out, instinctively grabbing the blade with his left hand. Ignoring the surge of pain across his ribs, he forced himself into a half-sitting position, grimacing.
The Captain calmly withdrew his sword and slid it back into its scabbard, as if nothing had happened. A few thin lines of blood trickled from the small wound.
The man's eyes, cold and unyielding, bore down on him.
"Why were you pretending to sleep?" he asked, his tone heavy as iron.
Lucas felt a thousand curses rise up in his throat.
'What do you mean why?! You stabbed me, you lunatic!' he raged silently, his face twisting from the sharp pain radiating from his battered body.
But even through the shock, Lucas understood: this wasn't some world where complaints or excuses would get him anywhere. After overhearing their conversation earlier, he had a rough idea of his precarious position—and that honesty might be his only real option.
Still wincing, Lucas moved his hand slowly toward his neck, as if trying to ease his breathing.
Then, in a hesitant, strained voice, he asked, "Um... I know this might sound weird, but... could you tell me where I am?"
The question seemed to ripple through the tent.
Both lieutenants stiffened, exchanging uneasy glances. A mix of confusion and alarm crossed their faces—this wasn't the response they were expecting.
The doctor, however, narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. Moving to the other side of the bed, she sat down and began examining him carefully, her fingers probing lightly along his temples and jaw.
"Can you tell me your name?" she asked gently.
Lucas hesitated. His mind was a fog, but one thing lingered, stubborn and familiar.
"Lucas," he answered after a beat, though his voice carried a questioning lilt, as if even he wasn't fully sure.
The doctor's brow furrowed slightly.
"Do you know where you are?" she asked next.
Lucas shook his head slowly, the motion making him slightly dizzy.
One by one, she continued her questions—birthdate, place of birth, family members, even what year it was—but almost every time, Lucas could only offer a blank stare or a slow, helpless shake of his head.
With each answer, the lines of concern on the doctor's face deepened.
Finally, unable to hold back any longer, the Captain barked, "What's wrong?"
The doctor straightened, her expression grim.
"The impact to his head was worse than we thought," she said, voice heavy with worry. "It's caused severe memory loss. He's forgotten most things—his past, where he came from, even basic details."
She pressed her lips together tightly, as if weighing her words.
"There's a chance some memories might return over time," she added carefully. "But for now... he's a blank slate."