The air was thick with dread.


    Everyone had seen it.


    The battlefield was painted in blood.


    Lucian—standing atop a mountain of corpses, drenched in the crimson of his enemies.


    And yet, now—


    He was barely breathing.


    The Duke stood before the gathered soldiers, reading the medical report aloud.


    His voice was calm, but the weight of his words crushed them all.


    "Both hands—fractured. Internal bleeding. Ribs shattered. Lacerations cover his entire body. He was tortured."


    A silence settled over the camp.


    Then came the final blow.


    "There are two possibilities," the Duke continued. "One—he may never be able to hold a sword again. Two—because of excessive blood loss, he might not make it to the morning."


    A soldier stepped forward, his face pale.


    "Is there… is there even a chance?"


    The doctor hesitated.


    "One per cent."


    One.


    The weight of the number settled in everyone''s chest like a stone.


    One per cent.


    A breath away from death.


    For a moment, the silence was unbearable.


    Then—


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    A voice cut through the night like a blade.


    “One per cent is enough.”


    All eyes turned to a soldier, his fists clenched.


    “He is one man… who defeated an army of three hundred alone. If anyone can survive with a one per cent chance—it’s him.”


    Another soldier nodded, his eyes blazing.


    "Yes! He’ll make it!"


    More and more voices joined the chorus.


    Faith.


    Determination.


    They believed in him.


    The Duke, watching them, finally spoke.


    "Doctor. Do your surgery. Leave the rest to him."


    But the doctor…


    Didn’t move.


    The medical tent was silent.


    The doctor stood paralyzed, staring at the tools in his trembling hands.


    His assistant pleaded.


    "Sir, please. If we don''t act now, he''ll—"


    "I can’t." The doctor’s voice was hoarse.


    "What?"


    "I can’t do the surgery."


    The assistant froze.


    Then, the Duke’s guards entered.


    “The Commander is summoning you.”


    The doctor’s hands clenched into fists.


    The Duke’s office was dimly lit, the shadows stretching across the walls.


    The doctor stood before him, his shoulders stiff, his eyes filled with something between fear and guilt.


    The Duke’s voice was quiet, controlled.


    "Is everything prepared for surgery?"


    The doctor lowered his gaze.


    Silence.


    The Duke’s fingers tapped against the desk.


    "I asked you a question, doctor."


    Still, no answer.


    Then—


    "WHY?" The Duke’s voice turned sharp. "Why won’t you treat him?"


    The doctor’s lips trembled.


    Then, with a shaking breath, he spoke.


    "It was… an Imperial Order."


    The Duke’s eyes narrowed.


    "What order?"


    The doctor’s voice was barely above a whisper.


    "The King… ordered that no medicine be given to the third prince. No doctor must save him. If I disobey… my entire family will be executed for treason."


    A heavy silence.


    The Duke stared at him, his mind racing.


    The King…


    Karl…


    Wanted Lucian dead.


    The doctor’s breath hitched, waiting for the Duke’s reaction.


    But the Duke said nothing.


    Not a single word.


    Then, he dismissed him.


    That night, long after the camp had fallen into uneasy sleep,


    The Duke entered the medical tent.


    In the flickering candlelight, he looked down at Lucian’s battered, unconscious body.


    Without a word, he pulled a small vial from his coat—a rare medicine from the cold lands of the north.


    He opened it.


    And applied it to Lucian’s wounds.


    Then, he left.


    No one saw.


    No one knew.


    Except for the guards outside the tent.


    "You saw nothing," the Duke said.


    And they nodded.