Rosie's Games

Chapter 402: Formidable Challenge

"Will of the goddess?" Rosalind sneered. A subtle display of contempt played across her features, reflecting her skepticism and perhaps even a hint of disdain. However, before the tension could escalate further, Martin swiftly intervened, redirecting the focus to the wounded.

"Instead of arguing, let us attend to the wounded," Martin spoke before Dorothy gets the chance to answer her. "Since I am here, it is best that I help out in the infirmary. Dorothy let us go. People are wounded. Let us not waste our time arguing."

Dorothy smiled.

"Of course, Father," Dorothy replied, gracefully bowing to Rosalind before following Martin towards the infirmary, a sense of purpose and compassion emanating from her.

Observing their departure, Rosalind turned to Denys, her expression retaining a touch of concern. She sought his perspective, hoping to gain insight into the strange aura she sensed around Dorothy.

"Denys," Rosalind began, her voice low and contemplative, "have you noticed anything peculiar about that woman?"

Frowning slightly, Denys pondered her question, his brows furrowing in concentration. After a moment's reflection, he shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," Denys replied.

Rosalind nodded, accepting Denys' answer without further probing.

"Very well," Rosalind stated, her voice composed. "Let us join the others."

Not long after, they arrived in the area where Brinley Fluer had been standing earlier. From there, Rosalind could clearly see what was happening outside.

She narrowed her eyes at the chaos in front of her.

Rosalind, initially underestimating the magnitude of the confrontation, found herself taken aback by the ferocity and skill of their enemies. What she had anticipated as a straightforward encounter quickly revealed itself to be a formidable challenge.

The representatives of the four great families, known for their prowess in combat, displayed their expertise with precision and calculated maneuvers. Their blades gleamed in the sunlight as they engaged the monstrous creatures, each strike intended to incapacitate or vanquish their opponents. Yet, to their astonishment, the monsters seemed to possess an uncanny knowledge of their combat techniques, adeptly evading their blades with eerie agility.

The monsters were no ordinary foes. While they were not that tall compared to their adversaries, their imposing figures still radiated raw physical strength. The sheer power behind their strikes sent shock waves through the air, shaking the ground beneath them. Rosalind observed with growing concern as the representatives of the four pillars struggled to match the monsters' brute force, their bodies straining against the relentless onslaught.

"Shall I join them?" Denys asked.

Rosalind looked around before she nodded. "Please wrap it quickly." She needed to know what is going on. She needed to know where these monsters are coming from!

Denys nodded. Then he joined the others by jumping from the gates.

Seeing this, Rosalind turned around and walked towards the infirmary where Martin and Dorothy were busily helping the wounded.

Within the confines of the infirmary, chaos reigned supreme.

The constant influx of wounded soldiers, battered and bruised from their harrowing encounters with the relentless monsters, created an atmosphere of urgency and despair. The once orderly space had transformed into a scene of pandemonium.

The air hung heavy with the unmistakable metallic scent of blood. It permeated the room, mingling with the antiseptic odors of medicinal supplies and the pungent tang of sweat.

The echoes of pain and anguish reverberated through the somber space, intermingling with the hurried footsteps of human nurses clad in bloodstained attire. They moved with a sense of purpose, their faces etched with determination as they navigated the labyrinth of beds, attending to the wounded with care and compassion.

Their hands, once pristine, now bore the crimson stains of their valiant efforts to save lives. They worked tirelessly, bandaging wounds, administering medicines, and offering words of solace to those in need.

However, Rosalind was not here for that.

Amidst the chaos and despair that enveloped the infirmary, Rosalind's focus zeroed in on Dorothy, who stood side by side with Martin, attending to the gravely wounded.

Dorothy grew up with the weight of expectations that she would be the chosen recipient of the goddess's blessing. To fulfill that role, she had diligently trained in the art of wound dressing and first aid since she was younger, preparing herself for moments like this.

Because of this, Dorothy's remarkable proficiency in tending to the injured no longer surprised Rosalind.

With a grace that belied her youthful appearance, Dorothy skillfully maneuvered through the sea of pain and suffering, her hands moving with practiced precision. Each bandage was expertly applied, and each wound was treated with care and meticulousness that would rival the skills of a seasoned healer.

Rosalind's thoughts drifted to the events in her past life, a surge of recognition washed over her.

The similarities between Dorothy's current actions and those from her previous existence were undeniable. At that time, Dorothy pretended to receive a blessing and helped all the wounded soldiers.

She would toil relentlessly, pushing herself to the brink of exhaustion until her body could no longer withstand the strain. The facade she had crafted had garnered her endless accolades and adoration from both the aristocracy and common folk alike.

She averted her gaze for a moment, collecting her thoughts and summoning her inner strength. Determination coursed through her veins as she approached a wounded soldier lying on a makeshift cot. However, just as she prepared to offer her assistance, the commanding voice of her father, Martin, cut through the air.

"Someone assist the duchess out of the infirmary. This scene is not for the faint-hearted," Martin's words reverberated inside the large infirmary.

Rosalind turned her attention towards her father, meeting his gaze squarely.

"I am certain that you would understand why I have to let someone assist you out of this room, right, Duchess?" Martin's question hung in the air, awaiting a response.

"No," Rosalind's voice carried a quiet strength. "There is no need."

Martin's brows furrowed, perplexed by her defiance. Before he could utter another word, Rosalind raised her hand, the air around her fingertips shimmering with ethereal darkness. A tendril of inky mist emerged, gracefully snaking its way toward the soldier's side, where a deep, claw-like wound marred his flesh.

Silence settled upon the infirmary as all eyes turned to witness the mysterious phenomenon unfolding before them.

Rosalind's gaze never wavered from her father's as she continued to channel her healing abilities, willing the dark mist to mend the soldier's grievous wound.

A sense of awe and wonder rippled through the room as the soldier's injury began to close before their eyes.