"The convoy on the swamp side has been cut off."
The evacuation soldier’s shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his water-soaked cloak. Even so, he did not look back once.
Ruan counted the remaining lanterns before he counted the stretchers. In the dark, the light ran out before the road did.
Black mud had hardened on the tips of the evacuation soldier’s gloves. Through the cracks in that mud, red water seeped thinly out.
Those words entered the tent first.
Ruan pulled his hands out of the water that had just begun to boil.
Footsteps approached the entrance, squelching through the mire.
An evacuation soldier roughly threw back the tent flap.
Rainwater dripped from the end of his wet cloak.
"The convoy on the swamp side has been cut off."
The soldier’s breath caught in his throat.
"The wheels sank. Even the stretchers can’t get across. We posted men up to the forward temporary marker, but they can’t hold any longer."
Ruan rubbed his wet hands on his apron.
A sodden mud road rose before his eyes.
It was a place that swallowed your feet even by day.
At night, even the lanterns swayed, making the route worse.
If the evacuation party stopped at such a passage, wounds would grow cold atop the stretchers.
"How many."
"Six stretchers. More if you count the wounded who can walk."
Ruan silently bit the inside of his lip once.
It was a night when the smell of the swamp came in thicker than the smell of blood.
He always hated that smell.
The stench of wet grass, mud, and rotting water clung damply to the inside of his lungs.
Karen was already adjusting the scabbard at her waist.
Instead of asking a question, she looked at Ruan.
It was not the face of someone who would grab him and tell him not to go.
It was the face of someone calculating how far she would have to stop him if he truly went out.
"I’ll go."
Ruan’s voice was brief, but the end of his breath cracked slightly.
Karen answered at once.
"Stay behind me."
Bern swallowed a curse and came over beside the stretcher.
"It’s madness, but if we wait here, more will die. Get the thread and tourniquets first."
Sera swiftly laid the necessary things atop a wet cloth.
Thread, needles, gauze, a scalpel, tourniquets, short splints.
Ruan swept them into his hand bag.
The hand holding the bag trembled heavily.
Karen saw the movement, but said nothing.
Instead, she gave Ruan’s shoulder one short push.
"Don’t look at the ground. Look at my back."
Outside the tent, it was darker still.
Three lanterns swayed in the hands of the evacuation team.
The light blurred yellow in the rain and did not last long over the mire.
Every time he took a step, the squelching earth clung to the soles of his boots.
The wheel ruts were already half-submerged in water.
The evacuation soldiers following behind stepped only in those ruts.
It was a path where one step to the side would sink you up to the ankle.
Ruan’s breathing grew shorter and shorter.
From far away, the sound of clashing metal and horses crying came thinly on the wind.
They were not in the middle of the battlefield.
Even so, it was too close.
Close enough that the smell of cold iron reached them more strongly than the smell of the injured.
Once, from the mire beneath his feet, a brief sinking scream could be heard.
He could not tell whether it was a human voice or the wind.
That indistinct sound only choked him more.
Karen and four evacuation soldiers walked close around Ruan, clearing his path.
Ruan moved between them.
More than the fact that he was being protected, the burden that he was slowing them down came first.
A shout burst out ahead.
"Over here!"
One lantern swung wide.
A cart stuck in the mire was tilted at an angle.
Half of one wheel was buried in swamp mud.
Three stretchers had been set down around it, and two were still hanging over the cart.
Blood and rainwater mingled and streamed along the ground.
The soldier on the nearest stretcher recognized Ruan.
His blood-clotted eyelids barely lifted.
"He’s... here."
At that one sentence, the evacuation soldier sitting beside him jerked his head around.
Then he pressed harder on the wound he had been holding down.
"Hold on. The medical officer is here."
The same words burst out from the other side.
They were spoken in small voices, yet in the night air they were strangely clear.
"Hold on."
"Just a little longer. Don’t let go yet."
A chill ran down Ruan’s spine.
As he knelt, he spoke at once.
"Shut your mouths. I check breathing first."
The first was a thigh wound.
The arrow shaft had been removed, but the inside had been badly torn.
Blood was seeping again from beneath the cloth tied around it.
Ruan put his hand in and peeled away the wet cloth.
Through the gaping flesh, dark red blood flowed slowly, but deep.
"Lantern closer."
The firelight trembled.
That trembling made him more uneasy.
Ruan wiped the moisture away with the back of his hand and pressed the place where the vessel pulsed.
"Tourniquet again."
The evacuation soldier hurriedly changed hands.
Ruan hooked the thread and tied it.
His fingers trembled, but the knot was not wrong.
The soldier clenched his teeth and almost grabbed Ruan’s sleeve, then stopped.
Instead, he held on to Ruan only with his eyes.
The second was below the ribs.
With every breath in, the edge of the wound opened like a wet mouth.
It was not where blood was pouring out, but his breaths were short.
Ruan brought his ear close and listened to his breathing.
It made a harsh sound, as if water had filled it.
"Move this one first."
The evacuation soldier asked, startled.
"Isn’t the leg wound more urgent?"
"That one is tied off for now. This one’s breath will stop first."
It was a short answer.
The evacuation soldier immediately nodded.
Once the order was given, strength returned to the hands gripping the stretcher handles.
Ruan moved to the third stretcher.
This time, the man’s head was split, blood covering his face.
Rain and blood mixed together, covering both eyes.
Even though the soldier was half-unconscious, when Ruan’s shadow fell over him, he reached his hand into the air.
"Medical officer."
His voice was almost a sob.
"I’m not going. I’m not going."
Instead of answering, Ruan opened his eyelids and checked his pupils.
Then he felt behind the man’s head.
Wet blood and torn flesh caught on his fingertips.
Clenching his teeth, he pressed gauze down.
"If you don’t want to die, stay still."
At that single sentence, the soldier went quiet, even holding his breath.
The evacuation soldier beside him muttered lowly.
"I told you, with those words, they all hold on."
Ruan did not answer.
The moment he replied, his hands would tremble more.
His breath had already grown short.
His chest kept rising and falling shallowly.
The sounds were too loud, and the firelight shook too close.
Karen stepped forward once.
Looking into the darkness toward the swamp, she spoke curtly.
"Finish quickly."
There was urgency in it.
It was not comfort offered to someone afraid.
It meant there was truly no time.
Ruan only nodded once.
From the side trying to free the cart wheel came the sound of digging out the mire.
Each time the shovel blade sank into the waterlogged earth and came free, a dull, heavy sound spread.
Beneath the lanterns, wet hands moved busily back and forth.
The evacuation team moved the stretchers in the order Ruan had chosen.
Not one of them objected.
They all already knew that the rhythm had changed after Ruan arrived.
To Ruan, those eyes were heavier than his hands.
If one hand was late, those gazes would collapse straight into blood.
The moment he was about to take hold of the fourth stretcher, the ground beneath his feet gave way sharply.
Ruan’s boot sank halfway into the mire.
His body pitched forward.
Karen’s hand immediately snatched his collar.
"Back."
Ruan swallowed his breath and regained his balance.
The hand bag struck hard against his side.
The metal inside the bag clinked with a brief sound.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.
His fingers grew colder.
"I’m fine."
That was what he said, but his voice cracked a little.
Karen heard it, but let it pass.
Instead, she pushed Ruan farther inward.
Two evacuation soldiers naturally took positions on the outside.
It was when they were lowering the last soldier left on the cart.
A young spearman tried to smile with his blood-soaked face.
Only the corners of his mouth barely lifted.
"If the medical officer came all the way here... we won’t be pushed back."
Someone agreed in a low voice.
"We get through today."
Those words were not a victory song.
They were a small certainty caught between rough, wet breaths.
And yet, on a night road, a certainty like that forced people to walk a little farther.
Ruan hated those words.
The reason they survived should have been tourniquets, the order of stretchers, and judgments made before it was too late.
But no one said it that way.
"Lift the stretchers first."
Ruan cut them off shortly.
"Don’t talk. Match your steps."
At that one sentence, the soldiers gripping the handles lowered their bodies at the same time.
The stretcher came down from the cart.
The wheel stuck in the mire also lifted wide one last time, then twisted free.
The evacuation team let out a short breath.
The road back was slower than the road out.
When one of the front stretchers caught on the ridge of the mire, the patient’s breathing immediately shortened.
Ruan moved beside the stretcher and pressed beneath the bandage.
Only after confirming that blood was not seeping out again did he let them move their hands away.
The lanterns swung lower, and the stretchers were heavier.
Ruan kept reaching out from the middle, tightening bandages again and making slipping hands adjust their grip.
When someone’s groan lengthened, he immediately looked into their face.
Even though his own breath had grown shorter, he counted others’ breaths first.
Every time one of the front stretchers caught on a ridge in the mire, the wounded soldier clenched his teeth and shook.
Each time, Ruan moved beside the stretcher and pressed around the wound with his palm.
He checked whether blood was seeping out again.
The evacuation soldiers moved their feet only at the moment Ruan took his hand away.
When the tent lights began to appear again in the distance, the soldier lying on the front stretcher muttered without even opening his eyes.
"Since you came... I’ll live."
Ruan did not answer.
With his wet hand, he only pushed the stretcher handle up once more.
Muddy water splashed up to his ankles.
Beneath the swaying torches, the bloodstained wooden handles gleamed.
Behind them, the freed wheel gouged a long track through the mire.
The tenacious sound dragged out over the mud.