Ludger watched him. Under the bravado and the infinite, dangerous arrogance was something a child could touch: the absolute, naked fear of legacy. Arslan wasn’t afraid of his own end. He was terrified of leaving Ludger and Viola with nothing but hard lessons and sharper knives.

“Promise me one thing,” Arslan said then, the sound a half-command, half-prayer. “If I fall—if I do—don’t spend the rest of your life sharpening a blade to avenge me. Build something your mother and sister can live in. Make a peace worth staying for.”

Ludger felt the words settle like iron coins in his gut. He couldn’t promise he’d be gentle—he didn’t think he could ever be—but he nodded. “I promise,” he said. The word felt small, but it landed.

Arslan let out a breath that might have been a laugh or a sob. He squeezed Ludger’s shoulder once, a brief, heavy pressure, then let his hand drop. The fire popped and the camp around them slept on, unaware. Outside the circle of light, the world waited—sharp, hungry, and terrible as ever.

The next morning, the camp carried a different weight.

The stink of blood and sweat still clung to the air, but the groaning had thinned, the pall of despair loosened. Men who’d been half-dead the night before were standing again, limping but upright, their armor back on their shoulders instead of stacked beside their beds.

Ludger walked between the rows, eyes sharp despite his own exhaustion. Everywhere he looked, soldiers were whispering the same thing—the boy heals. His work hadn’t just given Aronia room to breathe, it had let her recover her own rhythm. The druid was no longer drowning under waves of mangled flesh and broken bones. With Ludger catching the worst of it—sealing gashes, forcing bone to knit—she could focus on refining her craft, speeding her own progress instead of fighting to stay afloat.

It was like unclogging a bottleneck. Dozens who would’ve been left behind were patched enough to return to formation. Even the veterans, scarred and cynical, gave him curt nods when they passed. That acknowledgment carried more weight than applause.

Ludger frowned slightly, keeping his hands tucked into his sleeves. He knew healers were rare, but he hadn’t thought it was that bad. Seeing it firsthand… It was almost pathetic. Armies could afford endless spears, endless bodies to throw at a line—but a few healers made the difference between holding a wall and watching it collapse.

So this is what it really means to be “expensive.” Not gold, not coin—scarcity. Fragile, irreplaceable.

He kept his face neutral as Viola strutted past, smirking at the soldiers who were whispering about him, clearly annoyed her little brother had stolen some of the spotlight. Ludger let her stew. Attention wasn’t his goal—results were. And now he had proof. A single healer made a camp breathe easier. A single healer at the frontlines could tilt a battle.

He adjusted the strap on his armguard, already calculating how far he could push himself before his mana cracked. Still, it would take a while since he improved his Spiritual Core for a good reason.

By midmorning, Ludger caught Aronia by the healer’s pavilion, tying her brown-greenish hair back with trembling fingers. The woman looked better than last night—still pale, but no longer on the edge of collapse. Her eyes, however, studied him like he’d turned into something strange and dangerous overnight.

“You know,” she said, voice hoarse, “I heard what you told your father.”

Ludger tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Which part?”

“That you wanted to fight and heal from the frontlines.” Her tone wasn’t angry—more tired disbelief. “It’s insane. We’re trained to stay behind the lines for a reason. You put a healer too close to the steel, you don’t get a second chance.”

Ludger shrugged, hands tucked behind his back. “It’s faster. Men don’t drop out of the line, don’t limp back here and leave a gap. Heal them before they fall, keep the push going. And maybe, just maybe, I can slip a spell into one of the shamans while they’re distracted.” His voice was calm, clinical, the way he’d talk about balancing ledgers or counting coins.

Aronia shook her head slowly, but the frown on her lips wasn’t as deep as it should have been. “Most men who talk like that are suicidal. But you…” She sighed. “You’re out of the curve, boy. You don’t think like the rest.”

She hesitated, then admitted: “Cor told me about you. The [Spiritual Core]. How you’ve been improving it already.”

Ludger blinked, then smirked faintly. So the old sage had let that slip.

“With that,” Aronia continued, lowering her voice, “you can recover mana in ways I can’t dream of. I’ve been training for years just to squeeze a few more drops into every day. You? You can claw it back in minutes which takes me hours. With those healing skills of yours…” She trailed off, as though she hated saying the words out loud. “…You could do more on the frontlines than I ever could. You only know the basics, but you have the potential to surpass me soon enough.”

Ludger didn’t smile. He just met her gaze, steady. “Then you understand why I can’t sit back here.”

Aronia pressed her lips tight, then finally gave the smallest nod. “You’re reckless. But… you might be right. Just don’t expect me to tell your mother.”

Ludger gave a short, dry laugh. “If she finds out, I’ll let Father take the blame.”

Aronia almost smiled at that, then turned back to her work, muttering under her breath like she was cursing Cor for training him too well.

Ludger lingered by the pavilion, pretending to tighten the straps on his armguards while his eyes stayed fixed on Aronia. She bent over a soldier with a cracked rib and blood foaming at his lips. Her hand glowed faint green as she pressed it against the man’s chest, mana flowing like steady rain. The soldier hissed, then slumped in relief as bone snapped back into place and the bleeding slowed. A familiar chime hit Ludger’s mind.

Healing Touch +15 experience.

He almost laughed out loud. It has been a while.

Aronia wiped sweat from her brow, moving to the next patient. Ludger touched his own fingers to his palm, concentrating. The faint shimmer of green light flickered into being—thin, shaky, but real.

He tucked his hands back into his sleeves, hiding the grin that threatened to spread across his face. If watching her once gave him the base skill, what would watching Cor’s rune-laced wards do? Or Maurien’s spellcraft? What if he watched Arslan carve through a man with that reckless sword-style of his?

The thought made his pulse quicken.

This war isn’t just blood and mud—it’s training. If I keep my eyes open, I’ll skyrocket.

That might even explain the strange emptiness he’d felt in his core after slitting a man’s throat back in the city. Killing humans hadn’t given him the warm surge of experience like beasts or labyrinth monsters did. Maybe the System didn’t care about the corpses—it cared about growth. It rewarded him for learning, for mastering, for pushing limits. Maybe he wasn’t reborn to kill, but only to learn…

And what better crucible than a battlefield where everyone around him was stronger, sharper, and desperate enough to show their full hand? Ludger flexed his fingers again, the faint shimmer of Healing Touch dancing at the edge of his skin. His lips curled into a small, sharp smile.

Let the others think I’m just a kid tagging along. If I survive this war, I’ll come out ten times stronger.

Ludger spent the better part of the morning glued to Aronia’s side. He didn’t speak much, just watched her every motion—the way she steadied her breathing before channeling, how she shifted her hand placements depending on the wound, how she rationed mana like a miser doling out coins. When she stitched a tendon back together with Healing Touch, Ludger mirrored her in silence, each attempt smoother than the last. The soldiers started muttering about “the boy and the druid,” half in awe, half in unease.

From the shadow of his command tent, Lord Torvares watched. His eyes were narrow, arms folded behind his back, posture sharp as a blade. He didn’t interrupt—he simply studied, his expression unreadable as Ludger’s hands glowed faint green over a broken arm.

By noon, Torvares stepped out of the tent. He found Arslan lounging on a barrel, chewing at a strip of dried meat. The commander didn’t waste time.

“Your boy,” Torvares said, voice gravel. “He told you last night about bringing healers to the frontlines.”

Arslan tilted his head, chewing slowing, then grinned. “Word travels fast in a camp of a few thousand. What of it?”

Torvares’s eyes were steel. “The idea’s not without merit. A single wound is not just one man down. It’s a fracture that spreads.”

Arslan arched an eyebrow but stayed silent. Torvares stepped closer, gesturing toward the training yard where men sparred. His voice was cold, measured.

“Picture it. One soldier takes a deep wound to the leg. He can’t stand. The two nearest men falter to shield him. In that heartbeat, the line bends. An enemy spear slides through the gap—suddenly three men are on the ground. Another step, and the panic spreads down the formation. That one wound just broke an entire flank.”

He tapped a finger against his gauntlet, the sound sharp. “Battlefields are not won by killing alone. They’re won by keeping your own men standing. By denying the enemy that cascade.”

Arslan gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “So you actually like the boy’s madness.”

Torvares’s mouth twitched—half sneer, half reluctant approval. “Madness is only madness until it works. A healer close enough to stitch the wound before it spreads? That is not madness. That is leverage.”

Arslan barked a laugh, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “And here I thought you’d drag him by the collar back to his mother.”

“Not yet,” Torvares said flatly. His gaze drifted back to Ludger, still hunched beside Aronia, the faint green glow bright against his small hands. “Let the boy prove himself. If he survives the first push, then perhaps his stubbornness is worth the risk. I don’t want him to die, so you should stay close to him as much as possible. Better you than him falling first.”

Arslan leaned back on the barrel, chewing slowly, eyes half-lidded as Torvares’s words sank in. The old man’s voice always carried that edge of nastiness, like every truth he spoke had to be sharpened into a blade first. But this time… Arslan couldn’t deny it.

A single wound did cascade. He’d seen it a hundred times—men falling like dominoes because one spear punched too deep, one scream tore the rhythm out of a line. He could laugh at Torvares’s pride all day, but not at that.

Still, the thought of Ludger on the frontlines knotted something in his gut. He wasn’t the kind of man who prayed—he fought, drank, bragged—but for once he wished he could barter with fate.

He spat the last bit of jerky into the dirt and stood. “Fine. I’ll accept it. The old bastard’s right—your words make sense,” he muttered under his breath. “But let me tell you this…”

He looked toward where Ludger knelt, small hands glowing faint with green as he pressed against a soldier’s chest. So serious, so calm, like he was born in the middle of blood and mud.

“I’d rather die swinging than watch my boy go down in front of me. If he’s set on this madness, then I’ll fight beside him, shield him. Not behind him. Not letting him run alone.”

Arslan ran a hand down the haft of his sword. Normally, he fought wild and reckless, carving his way deep into enemy ranks like a man with no care for his skin. It was his style—let chaos bloom, and laugh in the middle of it. But now? Now he’d have to bend.

“It’s not what I usually do on the field,” he admitted to himself, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “But one axe doesn’t change a war. If his damn skills can tip the scale, then I’ll put my faith in him. My job is to make sure he gets the chance to use them.”

His grin hardened, teeth flashing. “And gods help the fool who tries to touch him.”

The war drums hadn’t sounded yet, but the camp was already buzzing. Messengers ran between tents, armor clinked in the morning light, and banners fluttered over the command pavilion where Lord Torvares had summoned his council.

Inside, the long table was crowded with maps, markers carved in the shapes of infantry and cavalry, and half-empty cups of wine from the night before. Captains of Torvares’s army stood rigid, faces weathered and scarred from decades of marching north and south. Their eyes sharpened when Arslan swaggered in, sword across his shoulder, grinning like this was all a tavern brawl.

Viola was already seated at the edge of the table, chin high, trying to look taller than her eleven years allowed. She wore her practice gear, too eager to hide. Then Ludger walked in.

He frowned immediately, brows knitting. He hadn’t been told why he was here, only that Lord Torvares had demanded it. He hated the eyes on him before he even sat down. The captains all turned to look—seasoned killers, armored men who’d bled on battlefields twice his age—and every last one of them frowned. A child at the war council was a bad joke.

One of them muttered under his breath, “What is this? Torvares bringing his grandchildren to play at war?”

Ludger heard it, but didn’t rise to the bait. He just slipped his hands into his sleeves, jaw tight, eyes sharp. He didn’t know why he was here, but he’d be damned if he let them see weakness.

The tent went quiet, the kind of silence that pressed down like a storm. Arslan leaned on the table, grinning like he knew something the captains didn’t. Viola smirked in satisfaction. Ludger just kept frowning, because if there was one thing he hated more than being underestimated, it was being shoved into the spotlight without a choice.

Why drag me into this? he thought, eyes narrowing at Viola’s grandfather. I’m not your pawn. But if you want me to speak… then I’ll make it worth the trouble.

Lord Torvares reached across the table, his gauntleted fingers closing around a handful of carved wooden markers—infantry, cavalry, and the small tokens used for specialists. He began setting them on the map of the battlefield, each clack punctuated by the silence of the tent.

“We march at dawn. The enemy holds the ruined town, with their shamans dug in behind broken walls and palisades. A direct clash will bleed us. So—” he pushed a wedge of infantry markers forward, aligning them in a sharp triangle “—we drive like an arrowhead. We break their line before their spells can break ours.”

He placed another marker dead center in the formation, tapping it once. “Here,” Torvares said, his eyes narrowing. “The boy.”

Murmurs rippled across the council. Several captains stiffened, frowning openly now. “What madness is this?” one growled. “You’d throw a child into the middle of the charge?”

Torvares ignored him. He slid cavalry markers along the flanks of the wedge, circling to cut off retreat, then jabbed the central marker again. “Healers sit behind lines, and men fall before their hands can reach them. But a healer who keeps soldiers standing in the very teeth of the clash… that denies the cascade. One heavily wounded man no longer pulls down two, three, ten others. Every soldier remains a spear. Every spear remains pointed forward.”

His voice was iron. “The boy has already proven he can keep Aronia working and speed her craft. He carries [Spiritual Core]—Cor himself vouched for it. He will not break like the rest. He stays here, in the heart of the push, keeping our wedge sharp until we drive through their shamans and into the town proper.”

Arslan’s smirk faltered. For once, he looked grim. He knew what that meant: Ludger in the thick of it, where the press of bodies and steel would be worse. But he didn’t argue. He only rested his hand on his sword , eyes cold, silent vow written across his face. If my boy is at the point of the spear, then I’ll be the shield that keeps him there.

The captains exchanged uneasy looks. One spat on the floor, muttering about cursed nobles and their experiments. Another traced the wedge shape with his finger, silent calculation in his eyes.

Torvares folded his hands behind his back, staring them all down. “This is the formation. If you object, you’d best give me something sharper than tradition. Otherwise, we march with this plan.”

Ludger, still frowning at Viola’s grandfather, felt the weight of a hundred eyes on him again. He hadn’t chosen this, but the idea was his, twisted into Torvares’s iron. And now he would have to stand in the middle of that arrowhead with no room for mistakes.

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