"I-I can't... I just can't... I'm sorry, but I want to live too."
The figure, riddled with wounds, covered in dirt, vomit, and blood, whispered these words through tears while kneeling before the dying person.
The overwhelming noise of tearing flesh, clanging steel, screams, groans, and pleas reached their ears.
They didn't want to hear it; this noise was repulsive... so repulsive that they longed to shred their eardrums to pieces, just to plunge the whole world into silence, anything to escape that loathsome din.
'Enough... enough... enough!'
Unable to bear it, the silhouette screamed inwardly.
They wanted to press their palms to their ears, but suddenly realized that their hands couldn't move an inch.
They remained resting on their knees.
A fraction of a moment later, the silhouette managed to compose themselves.
Once again, they had lost control over their thoughts.
Their head throbbed, as their brain frantically tried to shield itself from the very concept of reality.
Lowering their gaze, the figure was confronted with the horrifying sight of the dying youth.
His chest was pierced, the ribcage bones shattered, turning the lungs into a bloody pulp.
Looking at the dying youth, the verdict was clear—he would die, certainly die, unless a mid- or high-rank healer intervened... or the figure kneeling before him.
The youth's mouth parted slightly, viscous blood mixed with saliva pouring out; with a trembling voice, he uttered:
"P-please help me..."
The figure's chest tightened at these words.
How many times had he repeated the same phrase, and how many times had they responded in kind.
"I can't, if... if I heal you, I'll die afterward myself," the figure said, looking into the youth's eyes, which were beginning to fill with tears.
"It hurts... it hurts so much... Ester, I don't want to die... Ester, where are you..."
The youth's face increasingly overflowed with various emotions: fear, anger, despair, sorrow—all of it, like paints splattering onto a blank canvas, depicting a scene that could only be called "The Fading of Life."
His gaze grew hazy, strength ebbed from his body, tears streamed down his cheeks.
Any moment now, just a little longer—and life would abandon his body.
Watching this, the silhouette could do nothing.
They could only grip the youth's hand tightly.
"Ester?" the youth murmured weakly, sensing his hand being squeezed.
"Is that you, Ester? I'm glad, so glad you're okay. Forgive me... forgive me, Ester. I won't be able to go on with you..."
Hearing the youth's final words, the figure's chest constricted.
It felt familiar; they saw themselves in this youth.
They wanted to save him, but...
'Damned Structure, damned ability, damned world. What's the use of a healer who can't even save one person from a fatal wound,'
Rage flooded the figure's chest, making them bite their cheek.
A salty taste spread across their tongue.
The figure was pulled from their thoughts once more by the youth's trembling voice.
"Ester... d-don't cry, please, when I'm gone. I'd want you to..."
The youth never finished the sentence.
"Dead," the figure pronounced, releasing his hand and rising from their knees.
Once again... once again, they had failed to save someone.
They could stand there longer, pondering the world's cruelty, but they had to move on—the battle wasn't over yet.
Gathering their strength, the human silhouette dashed forward.
Their goal remained the same: to save and aid the wounded.
Running across the battlefield, they scanned for anyone they could help.
'Dead... dead... dead... dead... dead... dead... dead...'
Halting and surveying what remained of those they could once call comrades.
Walking among the corpses, they suddenly noticed faint movement.
A survivor, another youth; the abdominal wound wasn't fatal, but blood loss could kill him.
After a brief hesitation, they extended their hand and touched the wound.
In the next instant, excruciating pain pierced their body.
With a cry, the figure clutched the spot where the wound now appeared on them; tears flowed down their cheeks.
Where the youth's wound had been, smooth, unblemished skin now showed, while a ragged gash appeared on the figure's abdomen.
"Come on, come on, please... don't die," the figure pleaded, yet the youth didn't stir.
Quickly grasping the youth's wrist, they realized... no pulse.
He was dead.
Covering their face with their palms, ignoring the bleeding wound, they let out a piercing, inhuman scream.
Their mind teetered on the brink of madness.
"Why? Why! WHY!" they said, digging their nails into their face.
No matter what they did, they couldn't save a single person.
Rising to their feet and pressing the wound with one hand, the silhouette staggered onward.
Unaware of it themselves, they realized the sounds of combat had faded—nothing, not a single sound.
The battle had ended.
'Everyone... everyone dead?
Is there truly no one left alive?'
The silhouette thought; strength began to drain from their legs, and they collapsed forward.
Their body was at its limit.
Mustering all their remaining strength to rise to their knees, they jerked their head toward the sun.
"How... how did it come to this?" they uttered.
In the next moment, the world plunged into darkness.