As KO gripped Young's gloved hand with such violent force that he thought his frail bones might shatter, Young squealed loudly. His high-pitched cry wasn't meant to communicate that he meant no harm, nor was it a conscious protest against the bone-crushing grip. Young squealed simply out of raw, primal fear—and for very good reason.
As KO pinned one of Young's hands in a vice-like grasp, his gleaming dirk was simultaneously leveled mere inches from the other. The sudden threat caused Young to instinctively freeze in terror. Completely overwhelmed and paralyzed by panic, his body took over, forcing an ear-piercing scream from his throat with all the strength left in his lungs.
The sudden, deafening shriek echoed violently across the desolate clearing, breaking the heavy silence of the battlefield and cutting through the dying rogue's haze like a splash of ice-cold water, forcing his combat instincts to recalibrate in a sharp, disorienting instant.
Surprised by the ear-piercing squeal, KO shifted his hazy gaze upward to focus on the figure before him. The moment he recognized Young's terrified face and realized he was in no actual danger, KO immediately released his iron grip. He redirected that hand toward the deep gash in his own side, pressing hard against the severe wound to stem the heavy flow of blood.
However, his other hand never let go of the dirk. Instead, his fingers coiled even tighter around the hilt. Though he lowered the blade away from Young's chest, he kept it drawn and ready, poised to strike at a moment's notice should another threat emerge from the shadows.
Young composed himself a moment later, taking a deep, shuddering breath before shakily lowering his gloved hands back toward KO's severe injuries. He reactivated the mystical aura of his gloves, striving to jumpstart the healing process and accelerate the rogue's rapid recovery. It was during this delicate procedure that Bark finally caught up to them.
Surveying the ghastly, deep gash carved into KO's torso, Bark couldn't help but let out a heavy, discontented sigh. His brow furrowed in grim fascination as he wondered what kind of monstrous foe could have dealt such a gruesome, bone-deep strike to their formidable second-in-command.
The mere sight of their legendary second in command brought so low was a chilling reminder of the horrors lurking in the Darkovian domain, shattering any lingering illusion that their small unit was safe simply because the immediate fighting had quieted down.
Fortunately, his silent questions were answered soon enough when Willow materialized from the surrounding shadows to join them. Young had managed to maintain an admirable sense of selfless chivalry when KO was the only wounded comrade in front of him. However, the moment his eyes landed on Willow—noticing the jagged cuts and dark bruises that now marred her supple skin and natural elegance—his professional resolve wavered dramatically.
Caught in a sudden wave of protective instincts, the old medic found himself intensely tempted to abandon KO mid-treatment altogether and redirect his remaining healing energy toward the battered woman instead.
Finally, Young couldn't bear the inner conflict any longer. The moment he noticed that KO's condition had stabilized enough for the rogue to stand comfortably on his own, Young eagerly offered his medical services to Willow. Understandably, Willow hesitated at first, her guarded instincts urging caution.
However, after taking a glance at KO and confirming that he was indeed in a far better state than before, she accepted the healer's aid.
Young took a deep, steadying breath and tried his absolute best to savor what felt like a miraculous, golden opportunity. Getting the rare chance to tend to the exquisite, supple skin of a female dark elf was something he had never imagined. He approached his task with delicate care, calmly and meticulously administering his restorative magic to every jagged wound across Willow's body that required attention.
As the soothing, luminous energy flowed from his gloves onto her bruised skin, he though he felt a powerful, invigorating warmth surged backward through his own veins, banishing the heavy fatigue that had plagued his exhausted limbs and igniting a vibrant spark of long-forgotten vigor deep within his chest.
Remarkably, the more energy he funneled into mending Willow's injuries, the more energetic he felt himself—almost as if he were being magically regressed back into his prime. Feeling a sudden, heady rush of youthful passion and adolescent fervor, he realized these fleeting, precious moments made every harrowing battle they had fought to survive here feel utterly worth it.
As Young was administering healing to Willow, grinning foolishly from ear to ear, two additional figures stepped out from the shadows and approached the gathered exiles. It took only a single glance in their direction for Young's cheerful expression to instantly harden.
Their very presence exuded an unmistakable air of impending trouble, and in that split second, the young medic felt he would rather be anywhere else in the world than where he stood right now.
The first figure to grace his vision was a striking young woman with long, cascading locks of curly hair and a flawless expanse of rich, dark skin. Her two striking eyes held dark green pigmentation circling the pupils; while breathtakingly beautiful, they harbored a subtle, wild hint of madness flickering deep within their depths.
Supple, dark lips adorned with a deep emerald hue gave the impression of custom green lipstick that matched her alluring yet menacing demeanor.
An aura of absolute, undisputed authority radiated off her in palpable waves, instantly smothering the casual mood of the camp and demanding the undivided attention of every veteran warrior present as if she held their very lives suspended in the palm of her hand.
This woman was no royal princess, nor did she wear the extravagant garments of royalty. Instead, she donned functional attire: an asymmetric leather tunic that was sleeveless on one side with a full sleeve on the other, paired with tight, leather pant-like hose. Yet, despite her common clothing and lack of royal blood, every fluid movement she made—and everything about her commanding disposition—compelled onlookers to view her as true royalty.
Indeed, one would be an absolute fool not to accord her the same profound deference and respect one would pay to a sovereign, for within the hierarchy of the Exiles, her elevated status was effectively just that.