Francesca

  The air in the sick tent was heavy, heavy with the low sound of chants and suggestions. Francesca opened her eyes slowly, her body aching and her throat throbbing with sharp discomfort. She touched her neck carefully and felt the stitches that marked the spot where she had nearly lost her lives. The memory of the attack came to her like a flash: the ambush, the blood, the scream of one of the healers as he was struck. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the loss of the two colleagues who had not survived.

  Leaning against the bed, she struggled to her feet. Every movement seemed a challenge, but she couldn’t stay still. Her eyes scanned the tent, passing over the pale faces of the nine surviving healers. All were injured, exhausted, and in conditions that were close to the breaking point. Francesca knew that every second of contact could make a difference.

  With a trembling hand, she picked up her wand. It felt heavier than ever, as if it carried the weight of the lives she had yet to save. Muttering an incantation, a soft light enveloped her body, concentrating on her neck. She felt the stitches unravel, and the cut closed completely, leaving only a thin, unobvious scar, barely visible against her dark brown skin.

  “That’s better,” she muttered to herself, gripping her wand tighter.

  Wasting no time, Francesca walked to the nearest bedside. The healers were either unconscious or struggling with pain. She transmitted her wand, channeling her magic into a collective healing spell. The golden light closed in, enveloping the bodies of her colleagues and speeding up the recovery process.

  “We can’t afford to rest,” she whispered, almost as a reminder to herself.

  As she worked, she could feel her emotions swirling inside her. The attack had been brutal, a demonstration of the benefits they truly were, even with all the magic and protections they had been given. Healers were not fighters, and the idea of ??facing armed assassins was as absurd as it was tragic. Yet they were all there, still breathing, and Francesca could not ignore the gravity of it.

  Time seemed to drag as she went from bed to bed, offering healing spells and checking for specific signs of each. It wasn't just a mechanical act; it was a conscious effort to keep what hope remained alive.

  When she was done, she sat for a moment in the corner of the tent, watching her teammates who were beginning to show signs of improvement. Francesca knew that the battle was only the beginning and that more challenges awaited. Her body was tired, but her mind was permanently focused.

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  She glanced toward the entrance to the tent, where Kenji’s silhouette moved back and forth, tending to the wounded who couldn’t be treated with magic. This man… It wasn’t just skill; there was something about him that inspired respect. Francesca wasn’t one to give praise easily, but she knew dedication when she saw it.

  Without saying a word, she took a deep breath, gathered herself, and began rearranging the potions and tools scattered around the tent. There was no time for reflection. The war was still going on, and she had a role to play.

  Kenji

  Chaos raged around Kenji's tent. The battle had left its trail of destruction, and as the healers recovered in the patient tent, the number of wounded grew exponentially. It was as if the war would never end, and Kenji knew that the burden of saving those lives would fall squarely on his shoulders.

  Without magic to help, he stood out for his precision and efficiency. His medical profession seemed simple compared to the supernatural abilities of the healers, but in practice, Kenji showed that his hands were capable of working miracles. With a scalpel in one hand and thread in the other, he sutured open wounds. His actions were quick and meticulous. When necessary, he cleaned deep cuts with alcohol and, in extreme cases, used the saw for amputations, a painful job, but essential to avoid fatal infections.

  As time passed, Kenji began to notice something peculiar about this world of class. The bodies of the patients varied according to their specializations. Warriors had denser, more resilient muscles, while mages had more fragile constitutions, but remarkable regeneration from minor injuries. There was something intrinsic to this world that physically shaped those who took its class, as if the essence of their abilities were imprinted directly into their bodies and minds.

  This realization puzzled Kenji. He himself had a Medic class, but to what extent did his skill come from his training on Earth, and what was the influence of the class he had been given in this world? This question lingered in his mind as he worked, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Every second he wasted could cost a life.

  With the tent full, Kenji implemented a triage system, prioritizing the most critical patients. Those with minor injuries were waited on, while the most critical ones received immediate attention. The pressure was immense. The pain and screams of the wounded soldiers echoed through the tent, mingling with the metallic smell of blood and the strong aroma of improvised antiseptics. Kenji moved like a machine, ignoring the fatigue that tried to take over his body.

  The atmosphere was stifling, but his determination was greater. With every life saved, there was a victory against a relentless war. When his own thoughts threatened to collapse under the weight of the situation, he muttered to himself:

  – Ganbaré! Hold on tight! — he said, like a mantra, recording the days of hard training and the promise to never abandon someone in need.

  And so he continued, fighting death with nothing but his knowledge, his skilled hands, and a will that would not be shaken. While the battlefield outside roared with swords, magic, and blood, inside Kenji's tent, the fight was different—the battle for life, fought with determination and resilience.