Chapter 418

Old Man Walter squatted on the threshold, puffing on his pipe. The embers in the bowl flickered intermittently as he stared vacantly toward the village entrance.

"That damn brat didn't even come home for the holidays," he muttered, taking a harsh drag that sent him into a coughing fit.

His wife had followed their eldest son to the city months ago, supposedly to help with the family business. Not a single letter since.

"Business is good? Bullshit!" Walter spat. "Hope they lose every penny and come crawling back."

Raindrops clattered against the roof tiles like mocking laughter at his futile hopes.

......

Luna White stood at the tent entrance, rainwater streaming down the canvas. Her white coat hadn't dried in three days, clinging damply to her skin.

"Dr. White, the patient in Bed Three is spiking a fever again," a nurse called urgently, her trousers splattered with mud.

Luna rubbed her temples. This cursed weather was worsening the infection rates among the wounded.

"Start with alcohol sponging. I'll check on him."

She trudged through the mire toward the medical tent, each step sinking like quicksand. Distant artillery fire rumbled intermittently—the enemy clearly had no intention of giving them respite.

Andrew Smith stood on higher ground, binoculars in hand, rainwater dripping from his helmet. His camouflage uniform was soaked through, plastered against his frame.

"See anything?" Luna approached.

"Waiting for their next move." Andrew lowered the binoculars, his brow furrowed. "Another failed supply run?"

Luna nodded. "We lost another man. Nobody dares make the trip now."

"Damn it!" Andrew slammed his fist against a tree trunk. "At this rate, we'll collapse before the enemy finishes us."

Luna gazed at the fog-shrouded mountain path. Six critical cases, ten walking wounded, and over half the unit suffering from trench rot. Medical supplies had run out days ago.

"If the rain doesn't stop by tomorrow—" Her voice caught.

"We push through regardless," Andrew said decisively. "No more waiting."

Luna remained silent, fingers brushing the silver needles in her pocket. With her supernatural abilities drained, acupuncture was her last resort.

"I'll treat the men," she turned toward camp. "Trench rot won't wait."

The soldiers' tent echoed with groans. Luna took a steadying breath and lifted the flap.

A wave of heat hit her—reeking of sweat and antiseptic. Dozens of men sat or lay in various states of distress.

"Doc's here!" someone shouted.

Instant silence fell. The soldiers scrambled to cover themselves with blankets.

Expressionless, Luna unrolled her needle kit. "Drop the act. Pants off."