Marsh stood on the sidelines.
That was where he always was, every morning—just outside the medical tent set up on the edge of the base, watching as the soldiers gathered for another day of war.
They all fought valiantly, every single one of them.
Day after day, the battlefield devoured them in ruthless violence.
And yet every day they were still there, ready to do it all again.
The artillery mages toiled through the light, their spells illuminating the night sky as they defended the camp throughout the night.
Even the healers did their part.
Toiling throughout the day and night as they stole men from almost certain death, patching up their broken bodies to send them back to the chaos.
That was true bravery. His parents had been like that, brave. They didn't merely watch from the sidelines. No, both of them were in the thick of it, swallowed by the same chaos and violence that Arthur now waded through.
Arthur.
A small fond smile tugged at his lips.
If there was anyone who defied reason, it was Arthur. Marsh had heard all the stories that spread about like wildfire. Whispers, warnings amongst the soldiers.
Stay away, they had advised. All of them seemed to have no shortage of bad stories about Arthur.
But Marsh, well, he never put much stock in rumours.
And now?
He was twice as grateful he didn't.
Because Arthur was brave, truly brave. Not just in the way soldiers were, but in a way that felt fictional.
He didn't seem human. He fought like a soldier, and he saved like a healer. Not like any normal healer, he was in the frontlines healing, saving lives at a time where it seemed a man could only take them.
Marsh had yet to see any evidence of any self regard. Nothing but a duty that he performed without complaint.
Every morning, he saw Arthur return—limping, exhausted, often trailed by soldiers who owed him their lives.
Then, as the sun climbed higher, Arthur fought alongside them, just as relentless in battle as he was in healing.
And when night fell again, he was back at it, scouring the battlefield for the wounded, dragging them to safety.
Over and over.
As if he could defy death itself. It was impossible for one person to do it all…but he did.
And Marsh?
He watched. From a safe distance, always.
That wasn't right. He was sure that there wasn't a great difference in their ages, and yet, he was out there, throwing himself into the storm.
'But what am I doing?'
The question gnawed at him, day after day. Every time he saw Arthur stagger past him, bleeding but alive. Cramming his pain behind a smile every-time he saw Marsh.
Every time another soldier was hauled back into camp, breathing only because someone had refused to leave them behind.
And what did Marsh do? Stand. Watch. Remain safe.
'Coward.'
The word lodged itself in his throat, suffocating him.
'Coward.'
His parents hadn't been cowards, they were dead now.
'Coward.'
Then he started thinking, maybe they had it right all along. Maybe it was better to be dead and brave than being alive and a coward.
So after suffering under the weight of his own disgust, one morning…he acted. Refusing to suffer any longer under the weight of that one word.
'Coward.'
He didn't plan it. There was no thinking it through.
He just grabbed a sack, stuffed it with bandages, stitching supplies, and water, and ran. Chasing after the soldiers into the milling throng of bubbling chaos, heart pounding against his ribs, legs trembling.
But he didn't allow that to stop him.
Today, he wouldn't be a bystander. Today, he wouldn't be a coward.
Today, he was going to be a hero. Like those soldiers. Like Arthur.
Like his parents.
................
Unit 7 fought in seamless tandem, their formation a flowing wave of steel and strategy, never straying too far from Arthur.
Noah was taken aback by their efficiency—the difference between sparring and real combat was night and day.
Admittedly, Noah had doubted the skill of his comrades. They seemed too normal to be anything more than ordinary soldiers.
But he was wrong.
They moved with lethal precision, wielding magic with a subtlety that bordered on artistry. It wasn't the raw devastation of mana he'd seen from MageKnights.
No, it was controlled, efficient, almost surgical in its execution.
'I need to learn that,' Noah thought as he danced between enemies, his sword a blur of controlled aggression. That level of mana control was far above standard.
And through it all, they watched Arthur.
That was the unspoken rule.
Arthur wouldn't accept their help, not unless he had no choice.
So, Unit 7 had silently agreed—they would stay close, stepping in only when absolutely necessary.
It was a solid plan.
Nerve—wracking and unnecessarily annoying, yet solid.
Felt seemed adamant that was the only way Arthur would accept their help. The grey—eyed second in command seemed eager to pay Arthur back for saving Officer Mara.
Noah knew the plan was working.
Arthur had barely noticed the change in strategy for Unit 7.
For all his sharp instincts, the guy was hopelessly oblivious at times.
'Probably because he was raised as a noble.' The thought flickered through Noah's mind, but strangely, it didn't contain its usual venom. Maybe it was because he didn't see Arthur as a noble…not anymore.
A scream pierced through his thoughts.
"MAAARSHH!!!" Arthur's voice cut through the clash of steel, raw with desperation.
Noah turned sharply, his chest tightening.
Arthur was running—no, stumbling—his movements frantic, half-collapsing with every step.
Noah followed his gaze, and his stomach dropped.
A small figure stood amidst the chaos. Dark-haired, clutching a cloth sack—Marsh.
No.
'What the hell was he doing here?'
Noah's eyes snapped past Marsh.
And then he saw it.
A MageKnight. Power rippled around the armored figure like a gathering storm.
Noah turned, eyes locking onto Felt.
The grey-eyed soldier moved with deadly efficiency, flicking his blade and sending his opponent crumpling to the dirt.
"FELT!" Noah roared, urgency crackling in his voice.
Felt's head snapped toward him. Noah pointed—Arthur, Marsh, the MageKnight.
Felt's gaze hardened. A single nod.
Then they moved. The rest of Unit 7 followed, their formation changing as they surged toward Arthur.
Arthur's steps faltered. His body pitched forward.
Noah's blood ran cold as he saw Arthur hit the ground. Still.
There was no thought.
No time for thought.
Breaking through the unit's controlled advance, sword flashing he twisted past a soldier's lunge, flicking his blade downwards to carve a clean path through.
Another came for him—he ducked low, sweeping his leg under the attacker's stance, then drove his sword through the falling man's chest.
Faster. He had to go faster.
Another enemy lunged. Noah sidestepped, his blade whispering through the air before biting deep into flesh. He didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
The ground trembled.
Noah's instincts screamed.
He reached Arthur's fallen form just as the air vibrated with a high-pitched hum—
'Shit!'
Noah moved without thinking. He threw himself over Arthur, shielding him with his body.
There was a moment's pause.
Then the world exploded.
............….
Felt ran forward, barely biting back a growl as Noah broke rank.
'Idiot!'
A loud hum emerged, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Felt froze.
The mana was chaotic. Erratic. He could feel it surging, climbing to dangerous levels.
"Halt!" He commanded. "Don't step any further…"
Unit 7 stilled, staying behind him.
'What the hell is going on?'
BANG
The air seemed to erupt, his vision blinded by a violet explosion, as if consuming the world itself.
Felt was hurled back from the force of the eruption. Hitting the ground hard, he tried to recover, climbing back to his feet.
A powerful ringing sounded in his ears, his vision blurring.
And the mana?
It was….going insane.
'What… what was that?'
A cold shiver ran through him.
That level of power—his instincts screamed at him. The air had been saturated with mana, far beyond anything he'd ever felt.
It hadn't been a normal explosion. That was a level of power that shouldn't exist on this battlefield. The Empire knew the exact number of people who could use mana to that extent, and none of them should be fighting in this war.
By all logic, he should be dead.
Groaning, he forced himself up, head throbbing.
His eyes widened.
Every soldier—rebel and empire alike—was sprawled across the battlefield.
Still. Unmoving.
'No.'
Panic surged through him as he staggered forward, scanning the bodies. Then, a voice called out.
"They're over here!"
Felt turned sharply, spotting Mat standing over two figures. One was taller, brown-haired, the other smaller, white-haired.
Arthur and Noah.
Felt rushed to them, dropping to his knees. He pressed his fingers beneath their noses, waiting, praying.
Then, relief crashed over him. "They're alive."
Mat let out a shaky exhale. "How though? Everyone else is dead. Did they just… get lucky?"
"I don't know," Felt muttered, scanning the field. The corpses lay motionless, eerily untouched.
No wounds, no blood.
It was as if they had simply dropped dead, like puppets with their strings cut.
"But we need to get them out of here."
They retrieved permission from Officer Mara to take them back. Her gaze lingered on Arthur, brows furrowed with concern.
"You're certain they were the only two survivors?" she asked.
Felt nodded. "Everyone else was dead. And the amount of power, ma'am… I've never felt anything like it. Not even from the commander. I don't know what happened."
She sighed. "I don't know. We'll have to wait for them to wake up. Maybe Noah saw something. Do you think it was some kind of rebel weapon?"
"It's hard to say. Whatever caused that explosion, it didn't discriminate. It killed both their men and ours."
She pressed her lips into a thin line. "Let me know the moment they wake."
Felt saluted.
He and Mat carried the unconscious boys away—Noah to the barracks, Arthur to the infirmary. There were no healers here within the city, all of them were stationed outside.
But for now, rest would have to be enough.
Arthur's condition wasn't immediately life-threatening, but as Felt adjusted him onto the cot, he took a closer look.
He was too thin. Skin pale, eyes sunken.
"Why's he so skinny?" Mat asked, frowning.
"Haven't you ever heard of mana addiction?"
Mat scratched his head. "I've heard of it, but I don't know much."
Felt let out a slow breath. "Mana Surge. It's the most common mana art to inherit for anyone good enough to wield mana. It fuses mana to the body, enhancing it—makes you stronger, faster, more alert. Suppresses exhaustion, hunger, pain. Great for battle.
But it doesn't get rid of those things.
It just… delays them.
The longer you use it, the worse the backlash. If you keep it up for too long, your body eats away at itself. You won't even realize you're starving until you die from it if you have enough mana to keep the skill activated.
It's a dangerous skill. Very dangerous."
"Shit," Mat murmured. "I didn't even notice."
"That's the whole point of mana surge. It keeps you battle-ready. Only battle-ready. And this idiot…" Felt gestured at Arthur, jaw tight. "He's been using it over twenty hours a day for a while now. The only time he lets go is when he sleeps. That kind of addiction… I've seen it kill greater men than him."
Mat was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, he said, "It's sad, isn't it?"
Felt glanced at him. "What is?"
Mat nodded toward Arthur. "Usually, the only time he looks at peace is when he's asleep. But right now… he's crying."
Felt stiffened. His gaze dropped to Arthur's face, and sure enough, there were faint streaks of tears trailing down his cheeks, dampening the pillow.
Heart twisting, he looked away.
"Come on," he muttered, shoving down the unfamiliar weight in his chest. "Let's check on the other idiot."
Mat lingered a second longer, then nodded. "Yeah… sure."