Michael smiled back, but their moment of peace was interrupted by a grumbling voice from the edge of the courtyard. It belonged to Aaron's old comrade, Derrick.
"Stop showing off and call the healers, you crazy old man!" Derrick's grumbling voice broke the tension, and laughter erupted across the courtyard. Among the wounded, playful gripes and banter began to spread, cutting through the lingering solemnity.
Michael, with his practiced social charm, moved among the fallen warriors, helping them to their feet and lightening the atmosphere with jokes. As they laughed and exchanged camaraderie, the remnants of bitterness faded, replaced by a newfound bond of brotherhood.
One grizzled veteran, his face alight with humor despite the scorch marks and cuts on his armor, turned to Michael with a wide grin.
"You're truly something, young man. Are you married, by chance? I have a great-granddaughter who's a stunning beauty—refined and intelligent. You'd be perfect for her."
Another warrior nearby gasped dramatically.
"Hold on now! Haven't you heard the rumors? The King of Rania already has his eyes on Michael as a son-in-law!"
Michael chuckled awkwardly, sensing that Capone Duke's influence back in the capital was working overtime.
As the defensive barriers around the fortress shimmered and disappeared, a group of healers dressed in flowing white robes entered the courtyard. Their faces radiated kindness and purpose, and they moved with an air of calm authority. Leading them was Anita, who immediately captured everyone's attention. As she approached, the very atmosphere seemed to grow softer and more serene.
Her translucent, alabaster skin and striking red eyes were mesmerizing, yet it was her presence that truly captivated those watching. There was an inexplicable warmth and peace about her that drew all eyes. Even her fellow healers, familiar with her abilities, looked at her with reverence, as if she were a saint.
Anita walked slowly, supported by Ismahal, her older brother, whose protective grip on her arm spoke volumes about his affection and concern. Their steps were deliberate, synchronized, and steady—a perfect harmony of care and grace.
Michael's gaze lingered on Anita, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. She had grown taller, her once-bent back now straight, her gait confident and assured.
"She's extraordinary," he thought to himself.
As they approached, Michael raised his voice to introduce her.
"This is Anita of the Pamir Highlands, known as the 'Saint of Healing.'"
Ismahal's face reddened with incredulity at the title. The Saint of Healing? It seemed like an unnecessary embellishment. Whispers from the onlookers only deepened his discomfort.
"The Saint of Healing? Really? Why would someone with such abilities be hiding in the Pamir Highlands?"
"That's strange. Even in the Radiant Kingdom, that lineage died out long ago."
The skeptical murmurs soon quieted. Michael's undeniable display of power earlier made it hard to dismiss his words as mere exaggeration. Moreover, Anita's calming aura seemed to silence dissent without a single word.
Michael addressed the crowd again.
"Those of you who are injured, please line up here. The most severely wounded should come forward, while those with minor injuries can wait at the back."
The warriors, despite their pride, began shuffling into line. Their attempts to outdo one another with chivalry, however, quickly became comical.
"After you, sir. You go first."
"No, no, I'm far younger than you. Please, you go ahead."
"Young? At our age, what does that even mean? Besides, you're more injured than I am."
"Ridiculous! Anyone can see you're worse off!"
"Listen, I've got plenty of time to wait. I insist you go first."
Anita couldn't help but smile at their antics. The scene reminded her of the elders in her village, bickering over trivial matters.
Her gaze fell on Faust, who sat on the ground, his white beard stained with mud as he struggled to endure the pain of his injuries. Having been at the center of the magical assault, he was among the most gravely wounded.
Anita approached him carefully, extending her hand. Startled, Faust looked up at her. The calmness in her eyes seemed to ease his tension, and after a moment's hesitation, he took her hand.
Closing her eyes as if in prayer, Anita's expression grew solemn. A soft light began to emanate from her fingertips, spreading gently. The courtyard fell silent as everyone watched the ethereal glow grow brighter, like a miniature sun enveloping her and Faust.
With precision and care, Anita directed the light to Faust's injuries. As the radiance flowed over his burns and lacerations, his charred skin regained its natural color, and his twisted flesh smoothed and healed.
Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd. The wounds that would have taken ordinary healers days of effort vanished in mere moments under Anita's touch.
Faust stared at his renewed body in awe and disbelief, the pain that had gripped him moments before completely gone. It was as if his very cells had been reborn.
Even Michael watched in admiration, marveling at Anita's skill. While he had suspected she possessed incredible abilities from Babaru's memories, seeing her power firsthand exceeded all his expectations. Her healing seemed capable of reversing time itself—perhaps even reattaching severed limbs.
Straightening his back for the first time since the battle began, Faust let out a sigh of relief. Though he had concealed his concerns, he had doubted whether he could join the Emperor's campaign in his battered state. Now, not only was the pain gone, but he felt stronger than ever.
Humbled, Faust bowed deeply.
"Truly… your abilities are extraordinary. Anita, the Saint of Healing."
Anita blushed at the title, opening her mouth to protest, but her words were drowned out by the clamor of warriors now jostling to be treated next.
"No way! I've been waiting longer!"
Thus, the legend of Anita, the Saint of Healing, began to unfold.
With the ranks organized, Michael and the assembled warriors set off from Orlando Fortress with renewed resolve. Behind them, countless soldiers cheered and wished them luck as they departed. Their destination was the imperial capital, where the Emperor himself resided.