When I woke, I found myself lying on a bed — a hospital bed. Nurses and doctors moved fast around me, tending to patients with urgent hands and urgent eyes. No one cared about me.

I tried to sit up. Pain ripped through my side, forcing a moan out of me. A nurse glanced at me for barely a second before returning to her work.

Then a doctor's voice cut through the noise: "You there! Wake and leave! This bed is for more serious injuries."

Before I could answer, two men in green uniforms — orderlies, maybe — were at my sides. They lifted me off the bed without care, dumping me onto the floor as a gurney rolled in. A man soaked in blood was placed where I'd just been.

"What's happening? Why treat me like this? I'm still in pain!" I shouted, but no one replied.

The doctor barked, "Move! Move!" Then louder: "Someone get this man out — quick!"

Two security guards appeared and dragged me toward the door. Just before I was forced out, I caught sight of the sign above the room.

EMERGENCY.

The chaos outside the Emergency room was worse than inside. People shouted over each other, stretchers rattled past, and somewhere a child was screaming.

A man — not in uniform, just a plain suit — came up and grabbed my arm without a word. His grip was strong, impatient. He led me through the noise, dragging me down a short hallway to another door marked Examine Room.

He all but threw me inside. I stumbled against the wall, catching myself on the edge of the examination table. When I looked up, he was already gone.

Inside the Examine Room, there wasn't a single empty seat. Patients sat shoulder to shoulder, some slumped, some groaning. Doctors moved between them without rest, their voices sharp, their faces drawn tight.

I stood there, still trying to understand where I was supposed to go. Then someone shoved me hard from behind.

"Find yourself an empty seat and wait for the doctor!" they shouted. "Don't stand here blocking everyone!"

I couldn't find an empty seat, so I found a corner and stood there. I waited patiently, watching the doctors move from one body to the next without pause.

At last, one came to me — a woman, older, with the kind of face that spoke of years and exhaustion. She gave me a quick examination: checked my wound, looked into my eyes, pressed a hand to my chest to feel my heartbeat.

Then she turned to the nurse behind her and said, simply, "This one lives."

That was all. She was already moving to the next patient before I could say a word.

The nurse spoke to me, but it wasn't a suggestion. "Out now. The exit door — over there. Move."

Her words were sharp, rude, impolite. I must have looked like I was standing there like a fool doing nothing, because she didn't even wait for a response. I had no choice but to follow her gesture and head toward the exit door.

When I walked out, the hall was calmer than inside, though still tense. I saw the exit sign and intended to leave this crazy hospital behind.

But just before the door, a security guard stepped in my way. "I need to see your bill, sir," he said.

"Bill? What bill?" I asked, confused.

"We treated you," he replied, pointing toward a door marked Administration. "You need to pay for our services. Go back and settle your bill, sir."

I understood. They expected me to pay for their care — but I didn't have any money. Still, I decided to head toward the administration room and ask if I could delay payment.

The administration room was small and nearly empty. Only one woman — a nurse, or maybe some kind of agent in a nurse uniform — sat behind the desk. I'll just call her a nurse.

She looked at me and asked, bluntly, "Do you have money?"

The question shocked me, and I froze for a moment.

She continued, "You don't have money? That's okay, but..." She paused, searching for the right words.

I cut in quickly, "You're going to let me go, right? Just give me the paper so the security will let me out."

She shook her head. "No. Right now, the hospital is overwhelmed with patients. Nurses and doctors are at their limit. We need help. If you can't pay your bill, then you'll help us. When you're done, you can go."

I replied, unsure, "But I don't have any medical experience. How can I help you? Just let me go. I promise I'll repay ten times your bill."

The nurse shook her head again. "You don't need medical experience. Hold wounds, massage patients to get the blood flowing, transfer medical equipment to the right rooms, help patients move to the next room. You've seen the volunteers here — they're at their limit too."

I pointed to my own wound. "I'm wounded too. I barely survived. How can I help you?"

Her voice remained calm but firm, as if she heard this from countless patients before me. "Don't worry. I'm the doctor too. I'll examine you carefully and assign you suitable work."

I have no choice but to accept.

Before I started, the doctor gave me a quick examination. Her hands moved fast, checking my wound, my pulse, and my eyes.

"Don't worry so much," she said after a moment. "Your condition is better than many volunteers here."

The doctor handed me a tray filled with medicine and explained my task. I was to follow the doctor from patient to patient, carrying the tray. If the tray ran out of any medicine or if a specific supply was missing, I was to exchange it for a full tray containing exactly what the doctor needed. Another nurse would resupply the empty or missing medicines, but it was my job to make sure the tray always had what was required.

It was simple in explanation, but exhausting in practice. I moved quickly down the narrow corridors, my wound burning with every step, trying not to spill a single vial while patients cried, groaned, and reached for help. The chaos of the hospital followed me like a shadow.

I gripped the tray tightly and stepped into the room. Patients were everywhere, lying on stretchers, slumped against walls, some crying, some silent. Volunteers darted between them, moving faster than I could follow.

I tried to match their pace, handing out medicines as needed. When a vial ran out, I swapped the tray with a new one from the supply table, making sure every patient got exactly what the doctor had prescribed. Even these small tasks burned through my strength. My side throbbed with every step, but I forced myself to ignore it.

The room was loud with groans, coughs, and shouted instructions. The air smelled of antiseptic, sweat, and blood. Every time I turned a corner, I almost bumped into someone, a nurse carrying equipment, a volunteer rushing to another patient. One wrong move, and I could spill the medicine, or worse.

And yet, I kept moving. Because standing still here wasn't an option. The patients needed the medicine. The volunteers needed help. And, for the first time since collapsing in the Noble District, I realized that someone, even me, had to keep going.

In that room, I saw it a patient fighting, clawing at life like it was slipping through their fingers. A nurse shouted, a volunteer rushed in, and the doctor's voice cut through, calm but insistent. They pulled at the patient, pressed, injected, and worked as if the world depended on it. And maybe it did.

Something stirred in me. For the first time, I realized I wasn't just running, hiding, or surviving for myself. I was part of this, part of saving life, holding it together. Every vial I handed, every tray I carried, every patient I helped move felt like a small stand against the chaos.

Each time a patient's breathing became easier, I saw the tension on the doctor's face soften just a bit. He'd nod at me, his eyes expressing a silent thanks for my part in saving a life. In that moment, a strange feeling swelled within me. It made me feel absolute exhilaration, as if all the pain in my body had vanished. But that feeling didn't last; I had to keep moving, following the doctor with the heavy tray of medicine in my hands.

My wound throbbed, my side screamed, my hands shook. Yet I kept moving, my heart tightening in a way I hadn't felt before. For the first time since the Noble District, I felt I was doing the right thing.

I was heading to swap my nearly empty medical tray when it happened.

A patient, someone I had just helped, went still. His chest no longer rose, his hands fell limp.

I froze as I watched the patient go still.

It should have been nothing to me. I had seen bodies piled in the Noble District, friends and strangers alike cut down, drowned in chaos. I hadn't flinched. I hadn't feared. I hadn't shed a single tear. I had walked among the dead like a shadow, numb and untouchable.

But now... this stranger, lying pale and lifeless before me, and something inside me broke.

A tightness gripped my chest, my stomach knotted, my hands shook despite the tray in them. I wanted to turn away, to walk out, to pretend this didn't matter. Yet I couldn't. The emptiness I felt wasn't fear — it was a kind of sorrow I hadn't known I carried, a helplessness at a life snatched too soon.

The volunteer beside me muttered, half crying, half whispering curses. I wanted to join them in despair, to let go of it all.

Then the doctor's voice cut through, firm and commanding: "Don't give up! Not now! Keep going!"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, shook off the weakness crawling up my spine, and forced my legs to move. Every step toward another patient was heavy, every action a battle between the instinct to flee and the pull to help.

For the first time, I realized that life, even of a perfect stranger, could touch me, could demand I act. And in that recognition, something inside me shifted.

I gripped the tray tighter and moved to the next patient, letting the memory of the fallen stranger cling to my mind like a shadow. Every step hurt, every movement burned through my wound, but I forced myself forward.

The volunteers and nurses around me moved like a single machine, efficient and relentless. I mimicked them, handing out medicine, helping patients shift on the stretchers, and swapping trays when supplies ran low. At first, it felt mechanical — a mimicry of purpose rather than true will.

But slowly, I began to notice small victories. A patient's groan softened into a cough, a pale hand curled around the medicine I offered, a volunteer nodded at me in silent thanks. Each tiny act was a stand against the chaos that had swallowed the Noble District.

And all the while, the image of that one dead stranger lingered. I felt the pull of helplessness, the ache of sorrow, but I also felt something else, a growing resolve. I wasn't invincible, I wasn't some untouchable shadow, but I could act. I could make a difference, even if it was small, even if it was temporary.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I understood that surviving wasn't enough. I had to keep moving. I had to fight, not just for myself, but for those who still had a chance.

By the time the last patient in the room was treated, a strange exhaustion settled over us. Every muscle ached, every step burned, and yet there was a quiet satisfaction — we had helped. For the first time, I felt that weight lift slightly, a faint sense that our work mattered.

The power of saving a life brought back my strength, and my pain faded away. As we finally rested, I realized my entire life had been about running and hiding behind my reputation. But here, in this filthy room, amidst the blood and the stench, I feel truly alive. The work, though forced at first, became my own choice. It gave my life a worth it never had before. This is my proof of living, my dedication to others, not just to myself.

Then a loud voice cut through the stillness. An older doctor appeared at the doorway, urgency written on his face.

"New injured arrived! We need all hands! All doctors, come with me. Leave the nurses here to care for the wounded. Volunteers, we need you too!"

Before anyone could answer, he strode out, and the other doctors followed him without hesitation.

He turned toward us volunteers. "Anyone willing to help, come to the central room. There's no space here."

I looked around at the empty trays, the exhausted volunteers, the patients who were finally resting. My side throbbed, my arms ached, and my heart still pounded from the rush of action. Yet something inside me stirred.

Somehow, despite the pain and exhaustion, I knew I would follow. Because now, more than ever, I wanted to be part of this fight.

I dropped the empty tray onto the nearest table and followed the path the doctor had taken, weaving between stretchers and volunteers still catching their breath. The corridor was tighter here, the air thicker with sweat, blood, and antiseptic, the groans of new patients echoing off the walls.

As I entered the central room, I saw it was already packed with injured, some barely conscious, some writhing in pain. Doctors barked instructions while nurses moved swiftly between beds. Volunteers like me rushed to hand over medicine, carry supplies, and help shift the wounded.

A wave of panic threatened to wash over me. I was exhausted, my wound still burning, and the memory of the patient I couldn't save in the previous room clawed at the edges of my mind. I wanted to turn away, to leave and hide.

But then I saw the doctors, moving as if nothing could stop them, and the nurses, calm despite the chaos, and the other volunteers, grim but determined. Their focus was contagious. I felt a spark deep inside — a pull to act, to contribute, to be more than just a survivor.

I picked up the nearest tray and moved toward the first patient who needed me. Hands trembling, heart pounding, every step a battle against fatigue, but I kept going. And as I worked, helping stabilize one patient after another, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time: the quiet, steady satisfaction of doing the right thing.

The central room was a furnace of chaos. Patients moaned and thrashed, their pain echoing off every wall. Doctors barked orders, nurses darted between stretchers, and volunteers like me ran to keep up, moving medicine, equipment, anything that might save a life.

Everywhere I looked, someone was snatching the living from the jaws of death. A doctor pressed on a chest, a nurse held a vein open for an IV, another volunteer carried a stretcher half a dozen steps at a time. The tension was suffocating — one wrong move and a life could slip through our fingers.

I felt my wound throb violently, a hot, sticky line of blood running down my side. I stumbled for a moment, and a nurse near me caught my arm. "Your wound!" she said sharply, dragging me to a small corner. She ripped a strip of clean cloth from her supplies and pressed it against the bleeding cut, tying it tightly enough to slow the flow.

"Better?" she asked, her voice calm but insistent.

I nodded, grimacing at the pain, my hands still shaking from the adrenaline.

Then I was back in the fray. The tray in my hands felt heavier than ever, every step a reminder that my body wasn't unbreakable. But I couldn't stop. Not when people's lives were in the balance, not when I had the chance to keep someone alive, even if just for a little longer.

The room pulsed with urgency, fear, and determination. And for the first time, I didn't feel like a shadow fleeing danger. I felt like I was part of something larger — part of the fight to hold life against the chaos.

The air in the central room was thick and heavy, almost suffocating. Every breath I took burned my lungs, and the stench of blood and antiseptic made my head spin. My wound throbbed with every step, and my legs felt like lead.

For a moment, I wanted to stop. To sink to the floor and let someone else take over. But I couldn't. Another patient cried out, a nurse shouted for an IV, and the doctor's voice cut across the room like steel: "Move! Keep them alive!"

I forced myself forward, tray in hand, dodging fallen equipment and weaving between stretchers. Each patient I reached, each medicine I handed, felt like a small victory. My exhaustion was there, nagging and sharp, but it didn't matter. There was no time to think about myself. Not when the fight for life raged around me.

And so I moved on to the next patient, following the rhythm of the chaos, my pulse racing, my body screaming, but my mind, for the first time in a long while, focused entirely on keeping someone alive.

Then a voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding:

"Stop all of this at once!"

Moments later, gunfire cracked overhead. The shots weren't meant to kill — they struck high, echoing against the walls as a warning.

An officer stepped forward, leading a squad of armed men. His eyes swept over the room, cold and calculating. "Doctors," he barked, "stay your hands!"

A young doctor, barely older than a volunteer, stepped forward. "Sir," he said, voice steady, "let us carry on our work. These men need help. If we stop, they will die."

The officer swung his hand with brutal force. The doctor went down hard, blood spilling from his mouth as he hit the floor. The room went silent, frozen, every volunteer and nurse staring in disbelief.

I felt my stomach twist. My wound burned, my hands shook, and the tray I carried felt impossibly heavy. Yet something inside me tightened, a mix of fear, anger, and the raw urgency of lives still at stake.

The warning shots rang out again, but I couldn't stop. Not now. Not when people were still alive, still needing help.

The officer's voice cut through the room again. "We are looking for someone. When we're done, we retreat. After that, you can do whatever you want."

At the words "looking for someone", my heart jumped into my throat. My mind raced: They're looking for me. They're going to find me.

I dropped the medicine tray onto the nearest table and stepped forward before the officer could stop me. My voice was steady, though my hands shook. "I... I'm Phan Chí An. I live in the Noble District. You've found me. Let the doctors do their work."

The officer's cold eyes locked onto mine. He leaned close and whispered in my ear, "So you are the Hero Writer I've heard about."

I barely had time to nod before his hand slammed into me with the butt of his gun. Pain exploded across my side; my wound tore open and blood began to run freely. He struck again, each blow like a hammer. If he kept hitting me, I thought, I would die. And yet, in his mind, I was just a wild dog.

Then — a sudden distraction. A pillow flew at him, hitting his arm. He spun, searching for the source. In that moment, the nurses lunged. They grabbed me, pulling me away from the officer, pressing clean cloths against my wound, murmuring urgent words as they worked to stop the bleeding.

I lay there, gasping, pain radiating through my body, but alive. Somehow, I was still alive.

The old doctor stepped out into the room, his presence commanding. The other doctors and nurses straightened immediately, their eyes full of respect and quiet honor.

The officer swung his hand toward the doctor, but with a single, fluid motion, the old man caught the strike. He twisted the officer's arm downward, forcing him off balance. The officer's face contorted with pain. The old doctor released him, eyes calm but unyielding.

The officer snatched a gun from a nearby soldier, aiming it with sharp precision. The old doctor, unflinching, revealed a golden medal around his neck. "Shoot," he said, voice steady, "one more gunshot in here, and your head will roll."

The officer froze, eyes widening as he recognized the insignia. His voice trembled. "Major General of the Southern Battalion... so you are here. Sorry about my orders, but I am looking for a rebel in this hospital. I hope you will grant me permission."

The old doctor lowered the medal, his voice calm but firm. "Although I am a retired general, the Emperor has granted me this hospital — untouchable by the military. I grant you no request."

The officer, still tense, pressed the point. "The rebel this time killed many nobles in the Noble District. They cannot be forgiven, sir."

The old doctor squinted, his gaze cutting through the room. "Who killed the nobles? Whatever the reason, this hospital is never touched by the military or politicians. For me, they are just patients. Leave, or I call the Marshal."

The officer barked an order, and his squad began to retreat. The instant the soldiers were out of the hospital, the old doctor turned back to us.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice tight but commanding. "We must evacuate. The army will return soon, and when they do, my medal will not protect us. Anyone who wants to leave — go. The rest of you, stay here and move the patients to safer places."

He approached a bed where a wounded soldier lay. Kneeling beside him, he said quietly, "Sorry, friend. We don't have enough hands to help you now, but you will live. Your comrades will come back and treat you."

The soldier cursed, furious and frustrated, but the old doctor didn't flinch. Around us, many volunteers and nurses had already left, choosing safety over responsibility. Those who remained moved quickly, lifting and shifting patients with grim determination, trying to save as many as possible.

The old doctor passed by me, his eyes catching mine. "You, come with me," he said.

I followed the old doctor through the crowded corridors, my side still burning, my wound bandaged but throbbing. The air was thick, heavy with the smell of blood, sweat, and fear. Volunteers and nurses moved quickly, carrying stretchers, handing off medicine, and guiding patients toward safer rooms.

"Keep moving," the old doctor said, his voice low but urgent. "Prioritize the critical ones. Others we'll manage if we run out of time."

I stumbled slightly over a loose strap of a stretcher, but he caught my arm and steadied me. "Stay close. Watch your footing."

Everywhere I looked, chaos was being transformed into order. Volunteers shifted patients efficiently, nurses barked instructions, and even the wounded soldier I had seen earlier was being helped by the nurse before leaving. I handed trays of medicine, adjusted IVs, and helped lift those who couldn't walk. My body ached, my side burned, but I kept moving, following the rhythm of the old doctor.

For the first time since the Noble District, I felt purpose. The exhaustion was real, but it was meaningful. Each patient we moved, each small life we saved, felt like a stand against the chaos that had surrounded me for so long.

I followed the old doctor and the small group of volunteers down a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The walls were close, the air heavy and stuffy, carrying the scent of blood, antiseptic, and fear. Every step echoed, a reminder that we were exposed, moving through a fragile artery of the hospital while danger still lingered outside.

The old doctor moved with deliberate calm, his eyes scanning each corner, his voice low but commanding. "Keep close. Watch the patients. No one lags behind."

We turned a tight corner, then another, the narrow hall stretching before us like a tunnel. Patients on stretchers groaned softly, volunteers adjusted their grips, and I gritted my teeth against the pain in my side, keeping pace.

Finally, we reached an old wing of the hospital — smaller, quieter, but solid. Its windows were thick and partially boarded, the structure giving a sense of safety, even amidst chaos.

"Settle here," the old doctor ordered. His voice carried authority, and we immediately began moving the patients into the rooms. "We'll tend to the critical first. Others, as best we can."

I placed a stretcher carefully, checking the patient's position, and watched as the others worked with the same grim efficiency. The old doctor's presence gave a strange calm to the room, a center of order in the storm.

For the first time, the hospital felt like a sanctuary, even if only temporary. We were safe — for now.

We moved the patients carefully into the old hospital rooms. The air here was cooler, quieter, but still heavy with the smell of blood and antiseptic. Volunteers shifted stretchers, adjusted pillows, and checked IVs. Nurses barked instructions, their voices sharp but steady, guiding us in the flow of care.

I wiped sweat from my brow, my side still throbbing, but I forced myself to keep moving. I carried a tray of medicine from room to room, checking the labels, handing it to the nurse or volunteer who needed it. Each action felt deliberate, necessary — a small part of holding this fragile order together.

The old doctor moved among us like a conductor, silent gestures guiding our rhythm. "Place the critical ones here. Others there. Keep them stable, and stay alert. We cannot afford mistakes."

I paused for a moment, adjusting the blanket on a patient who whimpered softly. The weight of my own exhaustion pressed down, but I pushed it aside. Every small movement mattered. Every life we could protect mattered.

Some volunteers rested briefly, catching their breath, but the old doctor's eyes swept over us. "No one stops until the patients are settled. After that, you may rest. Focus now."

I nodded, swallowing against the pain, and went on. Step by step, patient by patient, I felt myself becoming part of the rhythm — part of the fight to preserve life amidst the chaos. For the first time, I knew I was doing something that mattered, and that knowledge burned brighter than the exhaustion in my body.

After the patients were settled, I finally allowed myself to rest. Volunteers slowly trickled out, returning home, their bodies as exhausted as mine. The nurses remained, moving quietly between beds, checking IVs, adjusting blankets, and monitoring vitals. The old doctor took his shift among the patients, a steady presence even in the dim light of the night.

I sank onto an empty cot in the corner, my body aching, my side still throbbing, and let myself close my eyes for the first time in hours. The exhaustion pressed down on me like a weight, and sleep hovered just beyond reach.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, a soft voice called my name. "Phan Chí An... the doctor wants to see you."

Groaning, I pushed myself up and followed the nurse down the quiet corridor, the air heavy and still. She led me to one of the patient rooms where the old doctor was taking his shift, lying in the dim glow of a small lamp, watching over the patients.

I hesitated at the doorway, fatigue threatening to drag me back down, but I stepped inside. The old doctor's eyes met mine, calm yet piercing. "Come closer," he said.

I obeyed, every step echoing softly on the floor, my body still screaming for rest. Whatever he wanted to say, I sensed it would matter.

The old doctor examined my wound again, his hands steady and practiced. After a moment, he looked up at me and asked, "You... Hero Writer, right?"

I nodded. "Yes, doctor."

He finished his inspection, giving the wound a careful press and adjustment. Then he leaned back slightly and asked, "You know... the soldiers hated you?"

I shook my head. "I... I don't think they hate me, sir. All my writing, all the stories I tell, praise them as heroes. I honor their fight."

The old doctor smiled faintly, shaking his head. "No, son. The soldiers hated you because of the trophy you get."

Shock hit me like a punch. "No... I didn't take any trophy," I stammered.

He nodded, calm and patient. "Yes, but the world remembers you, not them. People all around the world know your name, remember your deeds... and forget theirs."

I lowered my head, the weight of his words settling heavily on my chest. His words were a knife. I had always thought of myself as a hero, someone who did the right thing. But to them, I was just the one who stole their glory. Every word I wrote, every time I was honored, was a reminder that they, the real soldiers, had been forgotten. A bitter and guilty feeling welled up inside me, heavier than the wound that still bled.

A silence stretched between us. I could feel the weight of the day pressing down, the quiet hum of the hospital around us, and the steady breathing of the patients.

The old doctor finally spoke. "I didn't call you here to ask about that. I want to know... what are you planning now? Trying to return to the Noble District?"

I shook my head slowly. "No, sir. It wouldn't be easy to go back there. But... can I follow you? I want to learn your medicine, your treatments, to help like you do."

The old doctor shook his head, his gaze firm but kind. "No. You are not the one fit for hospital work. Take this," he said, pressing something into my hand, "and go out there. See the true world you live in. Don't become a frog in a well, thinking the world only exists in your writing."

I looked down at the object in my hand, that the envelope of money, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in me. The fight, the chaos, the lives I had touched tonight... perhaps this was only the beginning of what I truly had to learn.

I tried to hand the envelope of money back to the old doctor. "No, sir, I can't take this," I said, my voice weak from exhaustion.

He shook his head and insisted, slipping it into my pocket before I could protest further. "You'll take it. You earned it tonight, whether you realize it or not."

I looked down at the envelope, then whispered, "Thanks... Doc."

He studied me for a moment and asked, "So... how was the healing work? How did it feel, helping someone?"

I hesitated, then admitted, "I feel... great. But... I have a question to ask you, sir."

The old doctor waved a hand, dismissing the formality. "Drop the formalities. I like it when you call me Doc. Now, what's your question?"

I took a breath, feeling the fatigue and the adrenaline of the night still coursing through me, and prepared to speak the question that had been growing inside me all evening.

"The soldiers called you Major General of the Southern Battalion," I said, hesitating. "That means you could have a mansion in the Military District... so why are you here? Why the hospital? Why are you still in the army?"

The old doctor didn't answer directly. Instead, he looked at me, eyes steady. "When they first found you, you were soaked in blood. Gunfire from the Noble District was so loud we could still hear it here in the Merchant District. I imagine many bodies... so tell me, what did you feel looking at them?"

I swallowed, remembering the chaos, the lifeless forms scattered across the streets. "I... I was afraid," I admitted. "But the bodies themselves didn't give me fear. The fear that gripped me was the fear of my own death."

He nodded slowly, as if expecting that answer. "Yes. War, killing, fighting... it always leaves people dead. But when you take a life, what do you feel? Empty? Cold? Satisfaction?"

I shook my head.

"Exactly," he said. "When you take a life, a void is left behind. It's like a bottomless pit in your soul. You can try to fill it with pride, but it will never be full. But when you save a life, you fill a void—not your own, but theirs. That's when you feel alive; that's when you feel like you truly exist."

I thought of the patients, the frantic nurses and volunteers, the moments I had held trays, pressed bandages, and helped save someone from the edge of death. "I... I feel... alive," I said quietly, the truth sinking in. "I feel... like I matter."

The old doctor nodded slowly, his gaze steady. "When I led the army to war," he said, voice low but firm, "people died under my command — friend or foe, armed or unarmed, it didn't matter. With every life taken, I felt the beast inside me grow stronger. The more I killed, the less human I became."

He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle. "So I sent a letter to the Emperor, asking for my retirement. I gave up everything — my belongings, my titles, my fame, and my power. I gathered what money I had and opened this hospital. Since then, I've healed countless people: merchants, travelers, soldiers, even politicians. I even treated the Emperor himself. This medal," he said, touching the golden emblem around his neck, "was a gift he gave me for that."

I looked at him, struck by the contrast between the stories of war and the quiet dedication to saving lives, and felt a weight settle in my chest — a mix of awe, respect, and something I couldn't yet name.

The old doctor leaned back slightly, his eyes distant but focused. "You know," he said, "it's not the medal that gives me the courage to keep going. I'm addicted to the feeling of curing and healing. The moment a patient fights back from the edge of death, the moment I help them win against it... that feeling is so great."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "That is what keeps me going, day after day, through all the exhaustion and pain. Not fame, not power... but the lives I save."

I listened quietly, my thoughts turning over his words. For the first time, I felt the difference between stories and reality — between the thrill of recognition and the quiet, relentless work of keeping people alive.

The night stretched on, endless and quiet, though the hospital still hummed faintly with the sounds of the few remaining patients. The old doctor's shift seemed to last forever, tending to each patient with unwavering focus. When another doctor arrived to take over, we finally returned to our places to rest.

I lay down, but sleep wouldn't come. My head kept replaying the conversation with the old doctor — his words about life, death, healing, and the true weight of heroism. The exhaustion in my body clashed with the restless thoughts in my mind.

For the first time, I felt a pull stronger than the stories I wrote, stronger than the fame I had earned. I knew what I wanted. I would follow him, learn from him, and explore my country — not just as the Hero Writer, but as someone who could see the world, understand it, and maybe, in some small way, make a difference.