Ether surged like wildfire across the wounded, its shimmering tendrils snaking through the air, knitting flesh and bone with an almost sentient grace. At the heart of this maelstrom stood Xin—a slim figure shrouded in an ethereal blue glow, his arms outstretched, his breath shaky but resolute. His robes, once pristine white, now streaked with dirt and blood, whipped in the wind stirred by the relentless charge of soldiers and monsters alike. Yet Xin held his ground, unwavering, like a candle refusing to be snuffed out by the storm.
Fifteen… no, twenty… maybe more.
The thought ricocheted through his mind, a dizzying realization that bordered on madness. Healing a single person demanded precision—a delicate balance of focus, energy control, and an almost spiritual connection to the wounded. To heal twenty, simultaneously, was unheard of. Impossible.
Yet Xin was doing it.
From his trembling fingers, translucent threads of healing light extended like a spider's web, weaving through the air to stitch wounds closed before they could claim lives. Crushed bones reknit with a faint crackle of mana.
Severed tendons rewove themselves, threads of light pulling muscle and sinew back together. Breath returned to lungs that had teetered on the edge of stillness. Screams softened into gasps, then steadied into the rhythm of life.
It was nothing short of a miracle.
Belial, standing mere feet away, couldn't tear his eyes from the spectacle, even as his blade carved through the grotesque neck of a mirror monster. The creature's crystalline shards scattered, catching the dim light as they fell like a macabre snowfall. Blood and ichor coated Belial's armor, his breath heavy with exertion, but his gaze kept flickering to Xin.
"You're not normal," he muttered through clenched teeth, half in awe, half in disbelief.
Xin didn't respond. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his pale face slick with sweat that glistened under the glow of his own ether. His irises pulsed with each complete healing, a faint golden light that seemed to hum with power. Beneath his skin, veins glowed faintly, a hue that wasn't entirely natural—something otherworldly, something that made Belial's stomach twist with unease.
Belial tore his attention back to the fight, Another creature charged—a hulking insectoid nightmare with jaws of serrated crystal that gleamed like polished obsidian. He met it head-on, his halberd descending in a wide, brutal arc that split its flesh and bone like a shattered gem. The beast screeched, a sound that clawed at the ears, but it didn't fall. Not yet.
He didn't give it the chance.
With a roar, Belial kicked the creature backward, its legs scrabbling uselessly against the blood-soaked earth. His blade came down again, a downward slash that cleaved its torso in two. As it collapsed, its crystalline innards spilling across the ground, a strange emotion churned in Belial's chest.
Not rage. Not fear.
Guilt.
He shouldn't have to stand here, guarding Xin like some fragile relic. No one should be forced to do what Xin was doing—pushing his body and soul beyond normal limits to save lives that might be lost in the next heartbeat.
It wasn't right. It wasn't normal. It was...irregular.
Xin reminded Belial of the Oracle, His greatest ability. But Xin was no Unique talent. He was barely younger than most of the soldiers around them, a kid with trembling hands and a bitten lip that bled crimson from the effort of holding back his emotions.
Another thread of light extended from Xin's fingers. He exhaled shakily, stabilizing a soldier with internal bleeding. His hands trembled, the light flickering with unstable energy. Eighteen connected, he thought, his mind racing. Two more required full rewrites of their internal mana structure—a process so intricate it felt like threading a needle in a hurricane.
Then a situation he hoped would never happened occurred.
Xin had just sealed a jagged blade wound to a soldier's stomach when he turned to redirect his energy to the next in line. His movements were fluid, practiced, but the battlefield was merciless. A mirror beast lunged from the side, faster than anything that had come before. It moved like a viper, its limbs retracting and expanding with a sickening metallic clank.
Xin caught a flash of red.
The soldier's head was gone before his mind could process the loss.
Blood sprayed across Xin's robes, warm and sticky, soaking into the fabric. The body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, the soldier's sword still clutched in a hand that would never swing it again.
The threads of light snapped.
The glow around Xin flickered, trembled, like a flame caught in a sudden gust.
He stood frozen, his eyes wide, his breath caught in his throat. The world narrowed to that one moment—that one loss. His lip trembled, and for a heartbeat, everything else faded: the screams, the clash of steel, the roars of monsters. There was only the blood on his robes, the body at his feet, and the weight of failure.
He had failed.
One.
Only one.
But one was still one too many.
His teeth dug into his bottom lip, drawing fresh blood. He clenched his eyes shut, tears welling behind his lids, but he refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not here.
Belial saw it happen—saw Xin freeze, saw the fracture in his soul as clearly as if it were a physical wound. Without thinking, he stepped in, his halberd driving into the beast's side before it could strike again. With a guttural roar, he tore the weapon free, sending the monster's crystalline insides spilling across the battlefield in a glittering cascade.
"Don't stop!" Belial snapped, grabbing Xin's shoulder with a gauntleted hand. His grip was rough, but not cruel, meant to anchor rather than harm.
"I—" Xin's voice cracked, barely audible over the din of battle.
"You can cry when this is over!" Belial growled, shaking him once—not violently, but firmly, grounding him in the moment. "You saved twenty people. One died. You don't get to shut down. Not here. Not now."
Xin met his gaze, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. For a moment, he looked impossibly young, fragile, like a porcelain figure on the verge of shattering. But then he nodded, a small, resolute gesture that carried the weight of his determination.
The glow in his hands flared again, brighter, sharper, as if fueled by the pain he refused to let consume him.
Belial released him, turning back to the fight. His halberd flashed, dropping two more monsters before they could breach the circle of soldiers around them. The men and women fought with renewed vigor, their eyes darting to Xin, their beacon of hope in the chaos.
The final wave approached.
They emerged from the mist at the far end of the valley, their silhouettes growing larger with each step. Twisted, armored creatures made of obsidian glass, their edges sharper and their movements more deliberate than the beasts that had come before. These were no mindless drones. They moved with coordination, with purpose. Hunters.
The battlefield darkened with their arrival, the air growing thick with mana and tension. The soldiers faltered, their shouts of defiance tinged with fear.
Xin clenched his fists, drawing in a deep breath. His voice wavered, but it carried a quiet strength as he whispered a single phrase, casting a wide-area rejuvenation spell that washed over the dozen or so wounded around him:
"You're not dying here."
The soldiers stood straighter, their eyes brighter, their grips tightening on their weapons. Some shouted in triumph, their voices rising above the din. The spell wasn't a cure-all—it couldn't erase exhaustion or fear—but it gave them strength, a spark of hope to keep fighting.
Xin wasn't a supercomputer. He wasn't a god. He couldn't save everyone.
But he could still save someone.
Belial took position beside him again, his chest heaving with exertion. Blood dripped from a gash on his forearm, but he ignored it, his eyes fixed on the approaching hunters.
"Final wave's here," he said, not even glancing at Xin.
Xin nodded, sweat streaming down his face, the glow of his magic casting long shadows across the battlefield. He stepped forward, despite the blood on his robes, despite the loss carved into his memory like a scar.
"Let them come," he whispered, his voice barely audible but resolute.
The soldiers charged, their crystalline forms glinting in the fading light. Belial raised his halberd, a snarl on his lips. Xin extended his hands, threads of light already weaving through the air, seeking the wounded.
Xin had to be strong.
He had to persevere.