Author: Himezaki Shiu	Original Source: Syosetu
Translator: Jiro	English Source: Re:Library

Project GB is an official initiative by Re:Library.

I, Yamabe Seira, had an injured person brought to me. I was stationed in a tent at the rear of the battlefield, where I had stayed since the war began because I could heal injuries with magic. Although others possessed Healing Magic as well, my abilities as a Saint were the most potent, so those with severe injuries were often brought to me.

I was not on the battlefield, and I considered myself one of the more fortunate among my classmates—at least, I was not in any personal danger. And it wasn’t as if I was entirely alone. I’d get thanked for healing people, and my classmates would occasionally show up.

Nonetheless, it was tough for me here.

I wasn’t allowed to sleep until the treatment was complete¹, and more injured people kept arriving—even before the sun rose each morning. Moreover, those brought to me were gravely injured, and I had to witness bloodshed daily—torn flesh, protruding bones, dislocated eyeballs, severed ears and noses, and even lost limbs. In addition, an indescribable odor of blood mingled with sweat filled the air. After the first day, I honestly did not feel like eating anything.

“Thanks to you, Saint, I can fight again tomorrow!”
“I thought it was done for, but it seems like my arm still works!”

I was frequently thanked for treating those who were brought to me,
and I felt glad about that. I truly did. However, when treatment was delayed or the injuries were too severe from the start, many looked at me with resentment.

Perhaps they didn’t say anything because I was one of the heroes.

Even so, I was still in a better place than my classmates. Even though I constantly heard the groans of the suffering in the tent, was nearly attacked by a crazed person, and witnessed someone die before my eyes when my magic failed, I still believed I was faring better.

◇◇◇

One day, I had the chance to speak with someone who I’d healed. He was an older man, one of the volunteers recruited from the local people. I no longer remembered exactly how our conversation unfolded, but at some point, we began discussing why he had become a soldier.

“When that event took place, my wife and daughter were in that village.”

He spoke in a voice thick with anger, spitting the words out. His eyes, unfocused and unreadable, seemed filled with resentment. I couldn’t find any words to respond.

Because it was us that had killed his family.

I still remembered it all. The people who died because of the magic I cast. The way my classmates took lives. The screams, the moans, the shrieks, the curses. The stench of blood, of burning flesh.

I felt like I was losing my mind. My voice was stuck in my throat, refusing to come out. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. Perhaps that was why I had never truly acknowledged that the people we killed had families and friends.

But it was all laid out in front of me that day.

After the old man left the tent, I vomited everything in my stomach while making sure no one noticed. I couldn’t bear the guilt. His anger should have been directed at us, yet I hated myself for being unable to acknowledge it.

No—more than that, I despised myself for being paralyzed by fear at the mere thought of his rage turning toward me, knowing that even if I could, I would never be able to respond. I felt sick with shame at my relief—relief that I had been ordered not to speak, that no matter how much I wanted to, I could never speak the truth about what happened, about the Demons and the village.

I was losing my mind. I would rather have gone to the battlefield than stayed here. That was what I thought.

I did feel like I was about to go crazy.

If I went to the battlefield, I would only have to kill people. Whereas here, I would be crushed by guilt. My hands were stained with blood. What was the point of saving lives with hands like these?

From that day on, I devoted myself to healing. As long as I focused on treating injuries, I didn’t have to think about anything else.

I became numb to the sight of severed limbs, lifeless eyes, and swords embedded deep into torn flesh. Day in and day out, I continued to heal people.

◆◆◆◆◆

(Topersion’s POV)

“I’ve brought him.”
“Good work. You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you!”

I’d ordered for one of the Heroes currently being sent to war to be brought to my office. Due to being a hero, he possessed above-average combat abilities, but the man I summoned today, Tokichi, was still on the weaker side. That made him the perfect choice. The reason was simple— I had a use for Tokichi’s skills.

“Um… Princess, what do you need of me?”
“Weapons don’t need to be formal. Just answer my questions. Understood?”
“Y-Yes.”

Tokichi had been the one to question Makoto after their first audience with the king. His questions back then had honestly been quite ordinary, nothing noteworthy. He had carried himself with dignity before the king, but judging by his demeanor now, it was clear he had not truly understood the gravity of the situation back then.

I had no desire to speak to the Heroes as equals, so if he couldn’t speak properly with me, the least he could do was nod.

“For now, what happens in this room must remain a secret from everyone except the Fraus royal family. Now, look at this.”

I held up the key needed to access the spirit room in front of Tokichi. Tokichi’s expression shifted—fear flickered in his eyes as he recognized it. Seeing that he understood, I continued.

“Do you know how to use this?”
“Yes. It’s a key that opens a hidden door.”
“And where is this hidden door?”
“I don’t know. There might be a place nearby where it can be used, or…”
“I see. Let’s experiment². Follow me.”

With that, I left the office, Tokichi trailing behind, my mind already drifting to what would come after we won the war.

⇐ Previous

Next ⇒

⌈ Index ⌋

Footnotes:

Robinxen: Wow they’re really working them like machines.
Robinxen: I wonder… are they testing if they can use the spirit trap on other things? Or maybe try to figure out how to transfer a stolen spirit into it?