Xin stood at the camp's edge, his luscious green hair hair falling messily over his eyes, The Dharma Wheel at his side glowed faintly, a quiet extension of his will. Belial lingered beside him, arms crossed, his sharp gaze scanning the camp like a predator sizing up unfamiliar terrain. Raven stood a step behind, silent and watchful, his obsidian armor glinting in the firelight. Toren and Lira, the scouts who'd guided them here, had melted into the crowd, their relief at reaching safety tempered by the camp's somber reality.
The conversation with Liang Shun, the silver-haired dragonborne who led this outpost, had begun innocently enough. His ethereal presence—noble features, silver horns curling from his temples, and an aura that pressed against the air like a gathering storm—had put them on edge. His question about Xin's Dharma wheel, identifying it as a Regalia, had shifted the mood...
"…Yes, it is," Xin said, his voice low but firm, fingers tightening around the Dharma Wheel. His stance shifted, shoulders squaring, eyes narrowing as if bracing for an unseen blow. The Regalia wasn't just a weapon—it was part of him, bound to his soul, and the weight of Shun's attention felt like a challenge.
Belial stepped forward, his movement sharp, almost aggressive. "What?" he snapped, his tone laced with a protective edge that bordered on menace. "You plan on taking it?"
The air thickened, the camp's hum fading as if the world held its breath. Soldiers nearby glanced up, hands pausing over their tasks. Refugees stirred, sensing the shift. Shun's blue eyes flicked between Xin and Belial, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat.
"No, no, no!" he said quickly, raising his hands, palms open in a gesture of peace. His silver hair caught the lantern light, shimmering like molten moonlight as he took a deliberate step back.
"I can't even do that if I wanted. A Regalia is something bound to the soul—it's sacred. I would never think of something like that."
His voice trembled—not with fear, but with a conviction that seemed to anchor him. The tension eased, like a blade slowly lowered. Xin's grip on the Dharma Wheel relaxed, though his eyes remained guarded. Belial didn't move, his posture still coiled, but he let the moment pass, his silence a grudging acknowledgment of Shun's sincerity.
Shun paused, his gaze softening as he studied Xin. He took a cautious step closer, his expression turning thoughtful, almost reverent. "I'm assuming your Regalia showed you how to use EMR… correct?"
Xin nodded, the memory of his Regalia's awakening—a blur of light and instinct during his first stage—flashing through his mind. "Yes, it did."
At that, Shun's demeanor shifted. He bent forward suddenly, his tall frame folding into a deep, almost supplicatory bow. His silver hair spilled over his shoulders, catching the glow of the camp's lanterns, and his horns gleamed like polished steel. The gesture was startling, humbling, and it drew every eye in the vicinity.
"Please," Shun said, his voice soft, trembling with a raw, earnest desperation that cut through the camp's noise. "I beg you… help me heal my soldiers."
Xin froze, caught off guard. His breath hitched as he glanced around, his heightened senses sharpening. The groans of the wounded reached him now—low, pained moans that seemed to rise from every corner. He heard the tremor in a woman's breath nearby, the faltering heartbeat of a man clinging to life. Suffering hung over the camp like a shroud, invisible but suffocating.
He turned, his eyes sweeping the rows of tents. Bandaged limbs jutted from tattered blankets, pale faces glistened with sweat, and scorched armor lay discarded beside soldiers who'd never wear it again. Some had lost arms, legs, their stumps wrapped in bloodied cloth. Others bore burns so deep they seemed to scar the soul itself, their skin cracked and weeping. The sight twisted something in Xin's chest, a mix of pity and resolve.
"I'll help," he said finally, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. "But… what happened to them?"
Shun straightened slowly, his ethereal features dimming as if a light within him had faltered. The corners of his mouth dipped, and his eyes took on a storm-cloud weight, heavy with unspoken burdens. He gestured for the group to follow, leading them through the camp's heart, past medic stations where volunteers worked with frantic efficiency, their hands stained red.
"These…" Shun began, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant, "are scouts. Refugees. People we sent into other regions to search for safe zones, resources, survivors. Some missions were successful… but many came back like this. Or didn't come back at all."
His words carried a weariness that seemed to age him, stripping away the regal poise. Xin followed closely, his gaze flickering to the wounded as they passed—a young woman clutching a burned arm, an older man staring blankly at the ceiling, his leg gone below the knee. The camp's fragile order felt like a thread stretched to breaking, held together by Shun's will alone.
"There are times I wonder if it's all worth it," Shun murmured, his voice barely audible as they wove between rows of beds. "I try to hold the line here, keep this place from falling apart. But every day, it's like sand slipping through my fingers."
Xin's throat tightened. "That must've been hard," he said, almost a whisper, "being the only one strong enough to hold it all together."
Shun didn't respond at first. The silence that hung between them was thick, not with tension, but with truths left unspoken. The firelight danced along the sharp curve of his horns—a stark reminder of his dragonborne blood—but his posture told a different story. His shoulders sagged beneath an invisible weight, as though even his formidable strength strained under the burden of leadership.
Xin shifted his stance slightly, remembering something Shun had mentioned earlier. "You said you had a Regalia," he prompted gently.
Shun nodded, then reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a scabbard. It was short, clearly meant for a blade of modest size, and the leather had the worn, weathered look of something that had seen both battle and time.
"This is part of it," Shun said quietly. "Like I said earlier… I couldn't bring the other half. But i can at least use EMR." His gaze flicked toward Xin. "Once this is over, I'll teach you a few things about how it works."
Before Xin could respond, a low groan drew his attention. A wounded soldier lay nearby—an older man with grizzled hair and bloodied bandages wrapped around his abdomen. His breaths came in shallow gasps, eyes half-lidded with pain.
Xin knelt beside him without hesitation. His cloak whispered across the cold stone as he reached out, resting a steady hand on the man's shoulder.
"It's all going to be alright," he said softly.
The man stirred, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch Xin's face. In that instant, he didn't see a weary traveler or the dust of the road. He saw light—hope. The soldier's features softened, and a faint, fragile smile touched his lips.
Xin closed his eyes, cupping the Dharma Wheel between his palms. A golden light shimmered around him, spinning slowly like a radiant halo. The air shifted—warmer now, calmer. The sharp edges of the makeshift camp seemed to blur, as though the world itself leaned in to listen.
The light spread outward, washing over the wounded man. His breathing steadied. The groans faded. The tension etched into his face melted into something like peace.
Belial watched from a short distance, arms crossed, his brow furrowed. He hadn't spoken during Shun's earlier confession, his wariness of the dragonborne still simmering beneath the surface. But Xin's quiet miracle stirred something in him—pride, perhaps, or the uncomfortable prick of awe. He stepped forward, voice low.
"You said refugees…" Belial began, eyes on Shun. "Refugees from what, exactly?"
Shun froze, back still turned to the group. For a long moment, he didn't answer. The camp's quiet murmur faded. Even the fire seemed to wait.
When he turned, his usual confident grin was gone. In its place was something darker, older—etched deep with sorrow and scars.
"Far down south," Shun said, his voice low and hollow, "lives a madwoman…"