"Master! Master! Hey, you idiot, wake up!"
A strange girl's voice pierced through Nim's mind like a chime in a storm.
"Ugh… for real? Let me sleep…" he grumbled, not even opening his eyes at first. But pain had its own plans.
As his vision cleared, he saw his body twisted at an odd angle—and the agony struck like lightning. He groaned, and with no choice left, activated the Ice Body, channeling essence to mend his cracked bones.
"What… happened here?" he muttered.
The soft weight of a familiar creature lay curled in his lap—Ira, in fox form, blinking sleepily.
(One of the Lords came. He was far, so it took him a while. That's what I heard from the Bound who came from Towers C and E.)
Before him, nearly thirty Bound warriors were working in grim silence—hauling corpses of beasts and men alike, tending the wounded. No one had come to tend to him.
"Looks like you're fine, boy. Pull yourself together and stand up."
The voice was sharp and commanding.
Nim turned to his right—and there he stood. Lord Kleifth, with his fierce red hair and a harsh, soldier's face. His expression was a storm cloud: stern, unreadable… with just a flicker of pity buried deep.
Gritting his teeth, Nim pushed a trembling hand to the ground and forced himself up. His whole body screamed with pain. Ira rose beside him, seemingly uninjured, almost radiant.
"Sir… thank you for saving us. If not for your arrival, the entire tower would have perished," Nim said honestly, bowing his head.
But instead of satisfaction, Kleifth's face darkened further.
"You think I saved you?" he said coldly. "Look around. How many are dead? Only five of you remain—and they're barely alive. Don't thank me. Thank your luck. Thank your freakish talents. This was a massacre, not a victory."
He paused.
"This… this should have never happened. Bound warriors shouldn't be dying like dogs at our gates. That cursed beast… It's our fault. If we hadn't been too focused on the Trembling Forest, it wouldn't have gotten so close. You wouldn't have had to stop it alone."
Nim stared at him, stunned.
(What is with this guy? Doesn't he like praise? Or is he one of those tragic, poetic heroes who has to make everything into a lesson?)
(Master, I think he's just a grumpy softie…) Ira teased softly in his mind.
Nim shook his head. "Never mind him. Ira, how're your injuries?"
(Almost fully healed! My regeneration's amazing, remember?)
"…Seriously, what even are you? How do you recover in minutes like that?"
Ouch! Nim staggered as pain flared from his bruised leg. He cursed under his breath.
Later, he was brought to one of the healing halls in the city—a wide chamber filled with rows of beds and groaning patients, Bound and civilians alike. Human and Bound healers moved between them, chanting, working, healing what they could.
(Your life seems like a disaster, Master. But hey—you'll be rewarded with a ton of Essence Stones for your 'heroic contribution'!)
At the mention of money, Nim finally smiled.