The man waited for him at the corner of a tent, half-hidden by a torn flap that kept slapping weakly in the wind.
"Here, Ruok. This way."
Ruok, formerly Richard, slowed a bit. The name still felt strange in his ears.
"…No need," he said. "I'm fine."
The man didn't even look back.
"No," he said flatly, already walking. "You need to be checked. Also—call me Alan."
Ruok sighed and followed.
Inside the medical tent, the air changed immediately. Thick. Warm. It smelled of blood, sweat, and something bitter—herbs, maybe, or burnt cloth. Rows of wooden beds stretched out, uneven and crowded. Some men groaned. Some just stared at the ceiling like they already left their bodies behind.
Ruok's steps slowed.
"…This is worse than I expected," he muttered.
Alan stopped at one of the beds. A man lay there, shirt cut open, a deep wound across his abdomen. A female healer sat beside him, her hands glowing faintly as the flesh slowly pulled itself together.
Alan didn't hesitate.
"Hey. Move. My friend needs treatment."
The healer didn't even look up.
"I can't. The wound is still open. Give me a minute."
Alan clicked his tongue and kicked the stool.
"I said my friend needs treatment. Are you deaf?"
The stool scraped loudly. The healer flinched. The wounded man's eyes snapped open, anger rising fast as he tried to push himself up.
Ruok moved quicker than he expected. He grabbed Alan's arm mid-swing.
"Stop it," he said. "I told you, I'm fine."
Alan jerked his arm, frustrated.
"You're fine?" he snapped. "Look at yourself. Your armor is dented, your shoulder's probably broken, and you're bleeding from the head."
Ruok glanced down.
The armor was indeed a mess—mud, dried blood, scratches everywhere. It looked like he barely survived.
He rolled his shoulder.
He tilted his head side to side.
He even pressed lightly on the spot where it should have hurt.
Just to prove to the man in front of him that he needs no treatment.
"…See?" he said, raising a brow. "Looks worse than it is. I'm good."
The healer paused for a moment, actually looking at him this time. There was a flicker of confusion in her eyes—but she said nothing. The wounded man slowly lay back down, still glaring.
Alan stared at Ruok for a long second.
"…You've changed."
Ruok shrugged lightly.
"Maybe."
A pause.
Then he added, "Let's go to the canteen. I'm starving."
Alan clicked his tongue again but stepped back. He shot the healer and the wounded man one last look.
"You're lucky," he muttered. "My friend is generous today."
Ruok smiled faintly.
"…That's one way to say it."
He gave the healer a small nod.
"Sorry about that."
She gave a tired smile.
"It's fine. I understand his concern."
Ruok followed Alan out.
—
The human canteen was… calmer.
Still a large open tent, but cleaner. Organized. Benches aligned properly, tables wiped—at least cleaner than the battlefield standard. People spoke in low voices instead of shouting. A contrast of what he witnessed in the Orc's canteen.
Alan pointed at a seat.
"Wait here."
Ruok sat down, stretching his legs carefully. His body felt lighter after Ozbull's treatment.
"…Never thought the old orc's hands could do miracles," he muttered.
Alan returned with two trays.
It contained bread and soup.
That was it.
Ruok stared at it for a second.
"…This is it?"
He took a sip.
Bland.
No meat. Barely vegetables. Just warm water pretending to have purpose.
He bit the bread.
It pushed back. Tough and tasteless at the same time.
"…I think this tasteless bread is fighting me," he said.
Alan shrugged and started eating.
"Food is scarce. People in the kitchen do the best of what they can."
Ruok frowned slightly.
"…Aren't we allowed to get food from other camps?"
"They allow it," Alan said. "But everyone is short."
Ruok's eyes narrowed a little.
Short?
He remembered the orc camp. The mountain of meat. Enough to feed dozens.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Short."
Alan leaned back slightly, watching him now.
"By the way," he said, "I heard Lord Mephyst talked to you."
Ruok nodded.
"Yeah. He tried to recruit me."
Alan's brow lifted.
"So?"
Ruok took another bite of the bread, chewed like it owed him money, then said casually,
"I declined."
The bench scraped loudly.
Alan stood up so fast the table shook.
"Have you lost your mind?" he snapped.
The tone was different now. Gone was the friendly concern. What remained was something sharper. Colder and distant.
Ruok looked up at him, calm.
"I just want a peaceful life after the war."
Alan stared at him like he had said something offensive.
"…You've really changed."
There was no humor in his voice this time.
He turned and walked away.
"I have something to do."
Ruok watched him leave, then glanced down at his food again.
"…Well," he muttered, "someone's jealous."
He took another bite.
Still bad.
Then—
A sound cut through everything.
Not a roar.
Not a horn.
A shriek.
High, sharp, and wrong. Almost the same as the sounds of aliens in the movies he watched, but more terrifying and powerful.
Ruok froze. The spoon in his hand trembled slightly as the sound vibrated through his bones.
"…What the hell is that?"
Around him, the canteen shifted. Conversations died mid-sentence. Someone dropped a bowl. Another man covered his ears.
Ruok stood up slowly and walked outside.
The battlefield stretched ahead.
And something was off.
The flying beasts—the twisted ones with too many limbs—were retreating.
Not running.
Pulling back in an organized manner, some retreated while others watched the back.
Above them, Jurbert and Aeltharion Thal'Vaeris hovered in the sky, wings steady.
Watching them retreat.
Ruok narrowed his eyes.
"…Are the trods retreating?"