Lucas moved through his squad, his sharp eyes scanning each of them carefully, not just for visible injuries but for signs of exhaustion, instability, or anything that could hinder them in the battles to co, and to his quiet relief, they were holding up well, battered but intact, their spirits steady despite everything they had just endured. Bartho gave him a firm nod, the others following suit, their respect for him only deepened after what they had witnessed on the battlefield, and for a brief mont, Lucas allowed himself to feel that reassurance, that his people were still standing.
"Good," he said calmly, his voice carrying quiet authority. "Stay ready. This isn’t over yet."
They nodded in unison, understanding without needing further explanation, but before Lucas could say anything more, he noticed Jennifer the healer of his standing a short distance away, her posture stiff, her expression unusually tense, and the mont their eyes t, sothing in his chest tightened slightly. He knew that look.
It wasn’t good news.
She gestured subtly for him to co aside, and Lucas didn’t hesitate, stepping away from the group and walking toward her, his expression sharpening as he closed the distance.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice lower now, more focused.
Jennifer didn’t answer imdiately, her eyes searching his face for a mont as though weighing how to say it, and that hesitation alone was enough to make his heart sink.
"It’s your father," she finally said.
Lucas stilled.
"What about him?" he asked, his tone steady, but there was a tension beneath it now, sothing tight, controlled.
Jennifer exhaled quietly before continuing.
"He was injured... badly," she said. "During the battle."
A brief pause.
Then she finished it.
"He’s losing his grip on life."
The words landed heavily.
For a mont, Lucas didn’t move, didn’t speak, his mind processing it, replaying everything that had happened since they arrived, every mont he had been occupied, every battle, every decision, every second he had spent fighting and surviving, and in all of that.
He hadn’t spoken to him.
Not once.
Not properly.
They had both been too busy.
Too focused.
Too consud by everything else.
And now...His father was lying sowhere, fading.
Lucas lowered his gaze slightly, a quiet heaviness settling in his chest, not overwhelming, not breaking him, but there, undeniable, a weight of regret, of missed ti, of things left unsaid.
"...Take to him," he said finally, his voice calm, but softer than before.
Jennifer nodded imdiately.
"Co," she said, turning without delay.
Lucas followed closely behind her, his steps steady, but purposeful, his mind no longer on the war, no longer on cultivation, no longer on strategy, but on one thing alone as she led him through the camp toward where his father had been laid.
Lucas followed Jennifer in silence, his steps steady but heavy, each stride carrying a growing weight in his chest as they moved deeper into the camp, away from the command center and into the quieter section where the injured were being tended to, the air there different, filled with the scent of herbs, blood, and the low murmurs of healers working tirelessly to keep as many alive as they could. The further they went, the more the sounds of war faded, replaced by sothing far more sobering, the fragile line between life and death laid bare in every corner.
Jennifer slowed as they approached a particular tent, her expression tightening slightly before she pushed the flap aside and stepped in, Lucas following imdiately behind her, and the mont his eyes fell on the figure lying there, he stopped.
His father.
He was in a terrible state.
Far worse than Lucas had prepared himself for.
His body lay almost motionless, his skin pale and drawn, his breathing shallow and uneven as though each breath was a struggle, bandages wrapped around multiple parts of him, so already stained through, evidence that the damage ran deep, far beyond what simple treatnt could easily nd. The energy around him was weak, flickering, unstable, like a fla on the verge of being extinguished, and even without needing to sense deeper, Lucas could tell imdiately that his condition was deteriorating, and quickly at that.
He stepped closer, slowly this ti, as though the reality before him demanded sothing quieter, sothing more careful, his eyes fixed on the man who had always stood as a pillar of strength in his life, now reduced to this fragile, fading state.
"...Father," he called softly.
The response was slow.
Painfully slow.
His father’s eyes shifted slightly, struggling to focus, and after a mont, they found Lucas, recognition flickering within them, faint, but there, and his lips parted as though to speak, but only a weak, broken breath ca out, his voice barely forming, barely holding together.
Lucas moved closer, lowering himself beside him, his expression tightening despite his effort to remain composed.
"You don’t have to speak," he said quietly. "I’m here."
His father tried again, his lips moving faintly, a sound escaping, but it was too weak, too fragnted to form anything clear, his strength slipping even as he tried, and Lucas could see it, the way his grip on life was fading with each passing mont.
The realization settled heavily.
Lucas’s gaze lowered slightly, his hand tightening subtly at his side as a wave of emotion passed through him, not explosive, not overwhelming, but deep, quiet, and painful in a way that cut far more sharply than anything he had faced on the battlefield.
He hadn’t spoken to him.
Not since they arrived.
There had always been sothing else to do.
Sothing more urgent.
Sothing that could not wait, and now ti was gone.
His thoughts shifted, unbidden, toward his mother.
He could picture her.
The way she would look and the way she would break.
The tears.
The grief.
The silence that would follow.
Lucas closed his eyes briefly, a quiet breath leaving him as that image settled in his mind, heavy and unavoidable.
"She’s going to cry..." he murmured under his breath, barely audible.
Not just cry.
She would shatter.
And there was nothing he could do about that.
For all his strength.
For all his power.
For everything he had gained.
He was still here.
Watching his father slip away.
Lucas’s gaze hardened as the thought settled in his mind, and just as quickly, it was pushed aside, because standing there and watching was not an option he was willing to accept. His father’s breathing was fading, his life slipping through his fingers, and yet Lucas was no longer the sa person who had arrived at this battlefield, no longer the powerless son who could only hope for the best. He had knowledge, he had control, and more importantly, he had the will to act.
He rose imdiately, turning to the nearest healer with urgency in his voice. "What herbs do you have here? All of them, now," he demanded, his tone firm but not panicked, the kind of authority that ca from soone who knew exactly what he intended to do.
The healer hesitated for only a mont before responding, quickly gathering what was available. "We don’t have much," he admitted, placing several bundles and small vials onto a nearby table. "Most of our supplies were used during the battle... what’s left are basic recovery herbs, so stabilizing mixtures, and a few low-grade potions."
Lucas stepped forward, his eyes scanning everything with sharp focus, his mind already working, breaking down the properties of each item, recalling combinations, reactions, possibilities, and limitations. There wasn’t much to work with, that much was clear, but he didn’t need perfection, he needed sothing that would stabilize his father, sothing that would keep him alive long enough for a proper recovery later.
"This will do," he said quietly, already reaching for the herbs.
Jennifer watched him closely, her expression a mix of concern and cautious hope. "My Lord... are you sure?" she asked softly. "His condition is..."
"I know," Lucas cut in, his voice calm but unwavering as he began working. "That’s why I have to do this."
He moved quickly, but not carelessly, crushing the herbs with controlled pressure, mixing them with asured precision, adding drops of the available potions one at a ti, carefully adjusting the balance so that the mixture would not overwhelm his father’s weakened body. This wasn’t about brute force healing, this was about stabilization, about easing the strain, slowing the deterioration, buying ti.
His fingers moved with practiced ease, his senses guiding him as much as his knowledge, his Qi subtly weaving into the process, enhancing the mixture just enough to elevate its effectiveness without destabilizing it. The faint glow of his energy flickered around his hands, barely noticeable, but present, refining what little they had into sothing far more potent than it should have been.
The scent of the mixture changed as he worked, becoming sharper, more concentrated, the raw ingredients transforming into sothing dicinal, sothing purposeful, and within minutes, he was done.
Lucas lifted the small container, studying it briefly, ensuring the balance was right.
"This should keep him alive," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "And ease the pain."
He moved back to his father’s side without hesitation, carefully lifting him slightly, supporting his head as he brought the mixture to his lips.
"Easy..." he murmured, his voice softer now, almost gentle. "Drink this."
It took effort.
His father barely had the strength, but Lucas guided him, patiently, steadily, making sure every drop went down, not rushing, not forcing, allowing his body to accept it at its own pace.
Once it was done, he lowered him back carefully, his eyes watching closely, searching for any reaction.
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