The smell of blood, sweat, and rotting herbs spilled out from the clinic entrance. Soldiers wounded in last night's surprise attack overflowed even into the stone corridors. Men with blood seeping through their bandages, men muttering deliriously, and men who no longer moved. Under the dim torchlight, groans overlapped, and the choking stench assaulted the nose. Leon noticed a faint voice coming from the back room. "[gentle]It'll be over soon... please hang on." Her pale purple hair was disheveled, her small elven ears damp with sweat. Her clear, silvery eyes were hollow, yet she still held both hands over a wounded man's arm, wringing out every last drop of healing magic. The faint light spilling from her fingertips trembled faintly. The moment he saw that sight, Leon felt something cold crawl down his spine. "[concerned]Lumia, are you okay?" He called out to her. Lumia slowly raised her head. Her unfocused eyes searched for Leon. "[serious]Leon... I still..." And then she collapsed forward. A heavy thud. "Lumia!" Leon rushed over and lifted her by the shoulders. He pressed a hand to her forehead. Burning hot. Beneath her sweat-matted bangs, her complexion was paper-white. Her breathing was shallow, her shoulders rising and falling weakly. "Move." Old Doctor Carlo pushed his way in, lifted Lumia's eyelids, and checked her pupils. He took her pulse, held his palm over her chest. Deep wrinkles carved themselves into his brow. Beneath his graying mustache, his lips trembled faintly. "[serious]Mana depletion and overwork. She must have been using healing magic nonstop." "Medicine?" Carlo shook his head. "We're out of White Frost Herb for reducing fever. The siege has cut off all supplies." "Where can I get it?" "Nowhere. At this rate, she has three days at most." Three days. The words echoed in his head. "[angry]Dammit!" Leon spun on his heel and burst out of the clinic. Pounding across the cobblestones of the central market, Leon desperately made the rounds of the stalls. Before the siege, over two hundred shops had lined the streets—now barely sixty remained. Every face was exhausted, every gaze sharp with tension. "Spare some White Frost Herb!" A middle-aged woman at a street stall didn't even pause as she lined up mud-caked turnips. "[cold]We don't have any to spare either. Barely enough for the soldiers as it is." He headed for the Grand Cathedral. The Grand Cathedral of the Stelna faith—the spiritual pillar of the citizens under siege, and rumored to have an emergency food stockpile in its basement. There had to be medicinal herbs there too. But the priest coldly declared from behind the iron fence: "[serious]Emergency rations are prioritized for wounded soldiers. We have nothing to distribute to ordinary citizens." "We don't have time to deal with a second son like you." At the guard post, the captain spat the words out without even turning around. "Go ask Lord Allen. This isn't a second son's place to interfere." It was when he passed through a back alley. From beyond the wall, he heard the conversation of two women. "[sarcastic]Did you see? The margrave's second son was wandering around just now." "[laughing]Oh, that boy. Didn't he do absolutely nothing in yesterday's battle too?" "The soldiers were saying he's the disgrace of House Ferden. Completely different from his older brother." His feet stopped. He leaned his back against the wall. The cold of the stone seeped through his clothes. No words of rebuttal came. He couldn't even deny it himself. Clenching his fists, back against the wall, he couldn't move from that spot for a long time. Dusk was approaching. Empty-handed, Leon sat down on the cobblestones in front of the clinic. He buried his face in his knees. (Three days.) Carlo's voice looped in his head. (Three days at most.) He had run all over. Spent hours. The result was zero. No medicine anywhere. The residents were cold. The soldiers paid him no mind. His brother's name stabbed into his chest like a blade. "[angry]...Damn." The back of his eyes grew hot. A sharp ache stung deep in his nose. Even as he tried to hold it back, tears welled up. In the shadow of the alley where no one could see him, the things he had been holding in spilled over just a little. The shame of crying only made him clench his teeth harder. (I couldn't do anything.) Night fell. He sat hugging his knees, leaning against the corridor wall of the clinic. Candlelight flickered in the hallway, a faint scent of wax drifting in the air. That was when it happened. His consciousness slipped. —The smell of mud. —Enemy campfires glowing in the distance. —The impact the moment a bullet hit his neck. Hot. Pain. The taste of blood spreading through his mouth. His vision staining red. Even so—he never took his eyes off the sights. The target's skull, perfectly aligned at the center of the crosshairs. His finger, on the trigger. "Focus only on the target. Everything else is noise." His own voice echoed in his head. "Don't give up." He opened his eyes. His hand unconsciously rummaged through his pocket and touched cold metal. He pulled it out. The mithril arrowhead he had picked up from the battlefield in Chapter Four—the cold, bluish-gray metal glinted dully in the candlelight. (A material that conducts magical power.) His heart thumped hard. (Explosives aren't the only thing that can move a bullet. If I could channel mana pressure in a single direction—) Pieces of a blueprint connected in his head. The wall he had hit on that night in Chapter Three, stumped by the lack of gunpowder—here, for the first time, it cracked. Channel mana into mithril. Release the pressure all at once. If that happened inside a barrel— Leon stood up. He peered inside through the clinic doorway. He could see Lumia breathing shallowly on the futon. Her sweat-dampened bangs clung to her pale forehead. (Wait for me.) He meant to say it aloud, but no voice came. Still, his mouth moved. He spun on his heel and ran down the corridor. He dashed through the nighttime cobblestones, heading for Blacksmith Street. The great mithril-processing workshop—the name of the master smith of Hammertal, Besen Dolk, repeated in his head. The option of asking Allen for help never even crossed his mind. He wasn't running for someone else to save her. He was running so he could do it himself. The hand gripping the mithril arrowhead no longer trembled. Beyond the castle walls, a vast enemy army lay in wait. Only the conviction that completing the gun was the sole path to saving Lumia kept his legs moving. The night air was cold. In the distance, a single alarm bell rang.