The Moment I Realized, I Could Also Help

Azazel sat in a quiet corner of the medical wing of the war outpost, hands moving over the different medical instruments laid out before him. The constant ugly gloom of the war against the voidlings seemed to stretch endlessly before him. The rhythmic sound of clashing steel and the occasional howl of a void creature echoed in the distance, but here in the relative safety of the medical wing, it was eerily still.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion creeping into his bones. Though he was not a warrior, the weight of the war pressed heavily on him. His mind began to drift, and as it did, memories from the early days of the war surfaced. They were extremely vivid, as though they had happened just moments ago.

He had never wanted to fight. In fact, the idea of wielding a weapon against the terrifying void creatures seemed impossible to him. He had seen them, the shadowy figures with their tendrils and gaping maws, creatures of nightmares brought to life. Azazel knew he would have no chance on the battlefield. He had no natural strength, no wings of steel or fire like the Stelciars, no claws or venomous abilities like some Phosrays had begun to develop.

In those early days, he remembered standing in the back lines, helplessly watching as his comrades rushed forward into the fray. They were swift and agile, their tail tips glimmering with the bioluminescent light that kept the darkness at bay. But even their light, as bright as it was, began to fade as the endless waves of voidlings battered them. One by one, he watched them fall, wounded, exhausted, struggling to rise again.

Azazel had felt useless then. No matter how much he wanted to help, his hands, so steady with a scalpel, shook in the face of combat. He couldn’t save anyone from the battlefield itself. He could barely protect himself. In those moments, he had hated that feeling more than anything, the feeling of powerlessness as the battle raged on.

But then something incredible happened.

He remembered the day he first witnessed it. The Phosrays, battered and bruised, their lights flickering weakly, began to push past their limits. It wasn’t long before the Phosray warriors, once simply winged defenders, evolved in the midst of battle. Their wings, once soft, almost fragile, began to shimmer with a new, deadly energy. Toxic spikes, sharp as blades with poison seeping from their tips, erupted along the edges of their wings. These once purely defensive creatures had found a new way to fight.

Azazel had watched in awe as the Phosrays, reinvigorated by this newfound power, dove into the heart of the voidling masses, their wings cutting through the creatures. The spikes dripped with poison, and the voidlings recoiled as each strike met its mark. The Phosrays, who had been on the brink of collapse, now fought with a fury and strength Azazel had never thought possible.

And there he had been, standing useless, untouched in the chaos. Those very Phosrays, who had evolved not just for themselves, but for their comrades, were the reason Azazel had survived that day. Their toxic spikes shielded him, their strength pushing back the voidlings that would have torn him apart.

It was in that moment, as he watched them, that Azazel understood something profound. He could never wield those wings, nor could he fight alongside them in battle. But he could ensure that those who fought so valiantly had the chance to rise again. His place wasn’t on the battlefield, but in the tent, in the surgical room, where his hands, though untrained in combat, could still save lives.

That was when he had decided to volunteer his medical expertise for the war. He wasn’t a soldier, and he would never be one. But he was a healer, and in a war where every fighter counted, healing was its own kind of power.

In the months since, Azazel had devoted every waking moment to tending to the wounded, perfecting his craft. He had saved countless lives, Phosrays and Stelciars alike, and though the war raged on, he had found peace in knowing that he was doing everything he could. Every time he sewed up a wound, every time he reset a broken bone or removed a corrupted void fragment, he was honoring those who had saved him on that battlefield.

The sound of heavy footsteps pulled Azazel from his memories. His sharp eyes flicked toward the entrance of the medical ward, where two Stelciars rushed in, carrying a Phosray on a stretcher. 

"Azazel! We need you, now!" one of the Stelciars barked urgently.