Chapter : 983
Lloyd did not waste a single, precious moment savoring his victory. The instant the bear’s life was extinguished, the cold, pragmatic mind of the soldier reasserted absolute control. The adrenaline that had fueled his impossible dance was already giving way to the icy calculus of triage and survival. His reserves were almost completely depleted. The [Void Steps] had been a staggering drain, and the final, all-or-nothing strike had consumed the very dregs of his power. He was running on fumes. And his partner was wounded.
There was another soundless hiss of displaced air. The Void Dancer, the phantom who had just slain a god, vanished from the side of his fallen foe.
He reappeared, with a jarring, instantaneous finality, at Rosa’s side. He knelt before her, his movements economical and precise, the exhaustion that was screaming in his own bones ruthlessly suppressed.
Rosa, who had watched the entire, impossible battle from her pained vantage point, could only stare. The man who knelt before her was the same man who had stumbled out of the carriage, the same man who had so clumsily confessed his own fear and apologized for his own foolishness in a corridor of his own home. And yet, he was not. The man before her now was a creature of impossible, terrifying power, a being who could bend space to his will and kill gods with a single, perfect strike. The contradiction was so profound, so absolute, that her own sharp, logical mind could not process it.
He did not speak. He did not ask if she was alright. He simply acted.
His eyes, which had been burning with the cold, hard light of a warrior, seemed to soften, to lose their focus for a fractional second. The power of his [All-Seeing Eye], invisible to her, flared to life. He was not looking at her; he was looking through her. He performed a full, high-resolution diagnostic scan of her wounded leg.
The world of flesh and blood dissolved for him, replaced by a luminous, multi-layered schematic of her biological reality. He saw the deep, ragged tear in the muscle tissue, the severed tendons, the hairline fracture on the femur where the claw had impacted. He saw the internal bleeding, the swelling, the first, faint signs of infection beginning to bloom in the damaged tissue. The diagnosis was instantaneous, precise, and grim. It was a severe, crippling wound, one that would leave a lesser person dead from shock and blood loss within hours.
He deactivated the power, the world snapping back into its familiar, solid form. His face was a mask of calm, clinical precision. The warrior was gone. The doctor, the field medic, had taken his place.
With a surgeon’s efficiency, he set to work. He took a sharp, clean knife from a pouch at his belt and, with a single, fluid motion, slit the ruined, blood-soaked leather of her leg armor, cutting it away to fully expose the wound. He then took his waterskin and, without a word of warning, poured the clean, cold water directly into the gash, flushing out the dirt and grime.
Rosa hissed in a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, her body arching in a silent scream of agony, but she did not cry out. She bit her lip, her knuckles white where she gripped the rock beneath her, her pride a fortress against the roaring fire of her pain.
He worked in a focused, methodical silence. He cleaned the wound with an almost obsessive thoroughness, his movements efficient and sure. He then took a small, leather pouch from his pack, the same pouch that held the potent, life-saving herbs from the Dahaka Jungle. He crushed a mixture of leaves into a dark, fragrant poultice and, with fingers that were surprisingly gentle, applied it directly to the raw, torn flesh.
The poultice was cool, soothing, and it seemed to deaden the sharpest edges of the pain almost instantly. He then took clean strips of linen and began to bind the wound, his wrapping technique a masterpiece of professional, medical precision. The bandage was tight, providing support and pressure, but not so tight as to cut off circulation.
He worked with the detached, impersonal focus of a master craftsman repairing a delicate, broken machine. He did not offer words of comfort. He did not make small talk. He simply… worked. His absolute, unwavering competence was, in its own way, more comforting than any empty platitude.
Rosa watched him, her mind a silent, vulnerable observer. She watched his hands, which had just been a weapon of impossible, god-killing power, now moving with a surgeon’s gentle, healing grace. She watched his face, which had been a mask of cold, predatory focus, now a portrait of calm, clinical concern.
Chapter : 984
The man she had dismissed for years as a weak, foolish, and insignificant political variable had just saved her life. He had revealed himself to be a monster of terrifying, reality-warping power. And now, he was kneeling before her in the dirt, tending to her wounds with a quiet, unassuming competence that was, in its own way, the most profound display of strength she had ever witnessed.
In the quiet, desolate aftermath of the battle, as the cold wind of the mountain whispered over the body of the fallen beast, a new, unspoken acknowledgment passed between them. It was not friendship. It was not love. It was something far more fundamental, far more raw. It was a grudging, absolute respect. A respect forged in the face of certain death, baptized in the blood of a fallen god. And on the silent, cursed slopes of Mount Monu, it was the only kind of bond that truly mattered.
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The silent, efficient work of the medic was complete. The wound on Rosa's leg, once a ragged, bleeding testament to the bear’s overwhelming power, was now a clean, tightly bound testament to Lloyd's quiet competence. The potent herbal poultice was already at work, its cool, numbing sensation a welcome relief against the deep, throbbing ache that radiated from her very bones. The immediate, life-threatening crisis had been averted.
But they were still trapped. They were in the heart of a hostile, primordial wilderness, miles from the safety of their base camp. Rosa was crippled, her mobility reduced to a painful, agonizing crawl. And Lloyd, though he hid it behind a mask of calm, professional focus, was a ghost of his former power. The impossible, reality-bending dance he had performed had consumed nearly all of his Void energy. He was an archer who had fired his last, magnificent arrow. They were two wounded, exhausted survivors, and the sun was beginning to sink towards the jagged, black horizon, promising a long, cold, and predator-filled night.
Lloyd finished securing the bandage, his movements economical and precise. He then looked up, his gaze meeting hers, and for the first time since the battle had begun, the mask of the soldier, the doctor, the phantom, slipped. In his eyes, she saw not the cold, analytical focus of a commander, but a profound, bone-deep weariness, a weariness that seemed to echo her own.
"We cannot stay here," he said, his voice a low, gravelly sound, stripped of its earlier authoritative bite. "The smell of blood will draw every scavenger on this mountain. We need to find shelter. Now."
He stood up, his own movements stiff, a testament to the brutal strain his body had been under. He looked around the desolate, rocky clearing, his eyes scanning for any feature, any outcropping, any shallow depression that might offer them a modicum of protection from the elements and the things that hunted in the night.
Rosa tried to push herself up, intending to stand, to prove that she was not a helpless burden. A white-hot, searing pain shot up her leg, and a strangled cry of agony escaped her lips, her pride finally, completely overwhelmed by the brutal reality of her injury. She collapsed back against the rock, her face pale, a cold sweat beading on her brow.
She was not just wounded; she was incapacitated. The truth of it was a humiliation more profound than the pain itself. She, Rosa Siddik, the Ice Queen of the South, a woman whose power could level a city, was now a liability. A piece of fragile cargo that had to be protected.
Lloyd saw her struggle, saw the flash of agony and the deeper, more profound flash of shame in her eyes. He did not offer a hand. He did not offer empty words of comfort. He simply stated a fact.
"You cannot walk," he said, his tone devoid of pity, a simple, clinical assessment of their new tactical reality.
He then did something that, once again, shattered her expectations. He turned his back to her and knelt down, his posture a clear, unspoken invitation.
Rosa could only stare at the broad, strong line of his back. Her mind, even in its pain-hazed state, reeled from the sheer, unadorned pragmatism of the gesture. He was not asking. He was not offering. He was providing a solution. The most direct, efficient, and utterly humiliating solution to their problem.
For a long, agonizing moment, her pride, the ancient, unyielding fortress of her soul, warred with the cold, hard reality of their situation. To allow this, to be carried like a child, was a surrender of a kind she had never known. It was an admission of weakness, of dependence.