The Museum's Wounded
"Mama, no monsters nearby."
Belpe's report came through the headset. It meant the area was clear.
"Good work, Belpe. Join us right away."
[I'll be right there.]
The moment the short reply cut off, light tapping footsteps echoed from above. The sound of leaping between rooftops grew closer until Belpe's silhouette appeared at the edge of the building across from the museum. With the sniper rifle slung across his back, he launched himself from the final rooftop and landed lightly in front of us. His breathing was completely steady, as if the person who had been dashing across rooftops and firing shots moments ago was someone else entirely.
What a monster. Seriously.
His fox ears twitched once, folding and unfolding—whether it was a greeting meant for me or just the wind, I couldn't tell. Either way, it was very much like him.
"We're going straight into the building. Keep the line formation."
[Yes, Mama.]
I felt a little bad for Belpe, who had just returned from sniper duty, but there was no time to rest. Every second counted, and every person mattered. Since there would be no buildings to snipe from once we entered, it made sense for Belpe to join the ground team. More importantly, in tight indoor spaces, every extra gun increased our survival odds.
Belpe seemed to understand that. Without a word, he slipped into his position behind Sirius. He swapped the sniper rifle for the pistol at his waist, smoothly racking the slide with one hand to check the chamber. His movements were fluid, already prepared for close-quarters combat the moment he rejoined us.
"Moving out."
We advanced toward the museum in a straight line: me at the front with the shield, followed by Spica, Felis, Sirius, and Belpe bringing up the rear. The formation was ideal for narrow corridors and doorways—the shield bearer cleared the path while the shooters on either side provided covering fire.
As we neared the building, I felt the team members' ears all twitch at once. Felis's cat ears perked up, and Sirius's dog ears swiveled left and right. They were picking up sounds the rest of us couldn't hear.
[There are a few monsters near the entrance.]
Felis reported first.
[I can hear people's footsteps on the second floor. The survivors are safe.]
Sirius added. His dog ears hadn't just caught the monsters—they'd also picked up the sound of people moving quietly on the second floor.
That hearing really is something… I'll have to give him plenty of head pats later.
Monsters on the first floor, survivors on the second. We just need to clean up the first floor cleanly.
It wasn't the worst-case scenario. If monsters and civilians had been mixed on the same floor, shooting would have been impossible. Since the floors were separated, we could fire freely.
"Right. Reload and get ready to breach."
[Yes, Mama!]
By the time we reached the main entrance, I could hear the faint sounds of reloading through the headset. Click, click, clack. Magazines being removed, checked, and reinserted in quick succession. Once I confirmed everyone was ready, I reached for the door handle.
It didn't budge. Locked.
The door's locked, but there are monsters inside? They must have come in through the windows or somewhere else.
Turning my head, I saw several floor-to-ceiling windows on the side of the building shattered. The glass fragments were scattered inward, not outward—clear signs of something breaking in from outside. Monsters wouldn't have politely opened the front door, after all.
The locked door was actually a good sign. It meant the survivors had locked it during the initial attack and evacuated to the second floor. At least they had some sense.
I spoke briefly into the headset.
"Breaching."
There was no need for a crowbar or explosives. That would take time and the noise might agitate the monsters inside, sending them up to the second floor. We needed to be fast and quiet if possible.
I shifted the shotgun to one hand and gripped the door handle again with the other. As I applied pressure, the metal handle crumpled in my palm. I yanked the entire door inward with force.
Crack.
The lock gave way with a tearing sound, and the door swung open at an angle, hinges partially ripped out. It was enough to create an entryway.
A damp, metallic smell wafted out from the dim interior—a mix of monster stench, dust, and the earthy scent of broken pottery. Completely out of place in a museum.
I shoved the broken door aside and stepped inside first, shield raised.
Just past the entrance desk where a guide would have stood, a monster was sprawled out. It noticed us a beat too late. The spikes along its back bristled toward the shield. As it began to puff up in a threatening posture—
Tat-tat! Tat-tat-tat!
Before it could fully raise its spikes, gunfire from behind tore through its head and side. It collapsed in front of the desk without even managing a proper threat display. Almost pitiful.
Tough luck…
Having the door ripped open and suddenly facing a group of intruders, only to be turned into a sieve before it could even bristle. If only the rest would go down this easily. But things were rarely that simple.
Shield forward, I moved past the lobby toward the exhibition hall. Something crunched under my boots. Shards of broken pottery. The display cases had been smashed, their contents spilled across the floor. Once carefully crafted vessels, now trampled underfoot.
What a waste…
I didn't know much about art, but anything displayed in a museum couldn't have been cheap. Expecting monsters to appreciate pottery was asking too much, but it still felt like a shame.
Stepping over the fragments into the exhibition hall, I heard new sounds.
Grrr, screech, grrr.
Low growls mixed with sharp cries. Monster vocalizations—and not just one. Two of them. And they weren't facing us. They were facing each other.
In the center of the hall, between shattered display cases, two boar-like monsters were locked in a rolling, biting struggle. One clamped its teeth into the other's neck; the bitten one kicked back with its hind legs. They flipped, and the roles reversed. Rolling across the pottery shards, their fight looked fierce yet oddly leisurely.
Wow… even monsters play with each other.
Actually, I couldn't tell if they were fighting or playing. They were biting hard enough to draw blood, but not inflicting fatal wounds. It seemed more like roughhousing than a real battle. Maybe for monsters, this was play. Dogs did the same thing—growling and tumbling over each other.
…Definitely not telling Sirius about this.
Whether it was a fight or play didn't matter.
Move.
I pressed the shotgun against the side of my shield and pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang!
Two anti-monster rounds slammed into the entangled pair—one into the back of the one on top, the other into the side of the one underneath. They sprang apart in surprise and turned to look at me. Four ugly boar-like eyes locked onto me at once.
"What are you looking at?"
Bang!
The final round punched straight through the nearest one's forehead. As it fell backward, the remaining monster tried to charge, gathering strength in its hind legs—
Bang!
A shot from behind cut the attempt short. It collapsed sideways without ever pushing off.
"Clear."
They'd been playing among themselves only to be dropped by bullets they never saw coming. That was the limit of low-grade monsters—low enough awareness to not even notice us entering.
I reloaded the shotgun and scanned the exhibition hall. No more movement.
We passed through the first-floor exhibition area and headed for the stairs. As the sound of our boots on concrete echoed in the stairwell, I sensed human presence above. Breathing, soft groans, hushed whispers.
Quite a few people made it.
At the top of the stairs, another iron door stood firmly shut. Like the front entrance, it was locked—but this time, I had no intention of ripping it off. What waited behind it wasn't monsters. It was people. If the door suddenly tore open, the already terrified survivors might have heart attacks.
Charon wasn't in the business of killing people directly.
I lowered the shotgun, gripping it by the stock, and knocked on the iron door three times.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
"Mobile Rescue Team! You're safe now!"
I deliberately softened my voice. Shouting in my usual "Big Mama" tone would only cause panic.
A brief silence followed. The murmuring behind the door grew louder, then came the sound of a lock disengaging.
Click.
The door opened from inside.
Through the gap appeared a pale-faced woman, around thirty. Whether she was staff or a visitor, I couldn't tell. The moment she saw us, she spoke in a frantic voice.
"This way! We have critically injured people!"
She hadn't opened the door out of trust—she was desperate enough to let anyone in if it meant help. Her face wasn't just pale; it was almost ashen, and her eyes trembled as she looked at us.
Things are pretty bad in there.
The smell of blood hit me as I stepped inside—different from monster scent. Familiar. Human blood.
I made my decision immediately.
"Felis, Sirius. Guard this spot."
[Yes, Mama.]
The two shooters took positions on either side of the stairwell entrance, muzzles trained downward in case monsters tried to rush up.
"Belpe, maintain contact with HQ. Keep checking on the rescue helicopter request."
[Understood.]
Belpe switched frequencies and began coordinating with headquarters.
"Spica."
At my call, Spica stepped forward.
"We've got work. Let's go."
[Yes…!]
Spica's expression changed. The tension from combat was gone, replaced by something else. The face of a medic. He slung his rifle, unfastened the medical pouch at his waist, and prepared with practiced ease. The moment he heard there were patients, he switched completely.
Spica hurried inside with the medical pouch, and the woman who had opened the door followed right behind him. She'd recognized the pouch and combat uniform as a medic's instantly.
She thinks he's the medic and follows him… when the real one is me.
Well, she wasn't wrong. Spica was a medic. She just didn't know yet that the one actually doing the healing in this team was the shotgun-wielding, shield-carrying person behind her.
I nodded once and followed them through the door.
We ran down the corridor and arrived at what had once been a pottery workshop. Pottery wheels and worktables lined the room, and shelves held rows of bisque-fired pieces. It had been set up for visitors to try their hand at clay—now it was a makeshift infirmary.
People lay or sat on aprons and towels spread across the floor. Some had makeshift bandages on their arms. Others pressed towels to bleeding foreheads. Quiet sobs mixed with the anxious shuffling of terrified people. Using torn aprons for bandages and workshop towels for pressure—pitiful, yet impressive. Someone had done what they could, and that was why these people had survived this long.
In the center, on one of the worktables, lay a man in critical condition. His face wasn't just pale—it was completely bloodless, ashen. The cloth wrapped around his abdomen was soaked crimson. A wound peeked through his clothes, likely from claws or a stab. The blood loss was severe. He was breathing, but his eyelids were half-closed, and his lips trembled.
Good timing.
A little later and he would have been in real danger.
Spica had already dropped to his knees beside the patient, helmet tossed aside. He opened the medical pouch, checked the pulse, examined the pupils, and assessed the bleeding with careful fingers.
Fast.
This was a completely different person from the cautious fighter in combat. With a gun, he was still a rookie—but kneeling before a patient, he looked every bit the doctor.
Spica looked up at me and called out.
"C-Charon! Should I start anesthesia right away?"
His voice trembled slightly—not from nerves, but urgency. The patient's condition was that bad.
"Yeah. Go ahead."
I glanced down at the man's face and added,
"If we put him through that much pain in this state, he really might die."
If he were completely unconscious, it might be different. But forcing healing on someone still aware and dying could push the pain beyond what the body could endure. Even if the wounds closed, if the heart stopped during the process, it would be pointless. Dying from healing—the worst-case scenario of falling into Charon's River Styx and actually crossing over.
"I'll administer the painkiller right away!"
Spica pulled out a sealed syringe and vial from the pouch. He checked the label, drew the exact dose, and expelled the air with clean, practiced movements. It took less than twenty seconds from finding the vein to injecting.
Yeah… this kid's hands are definitely better suited to syringes than guns.
The painkiller didn't take effect immediately. The patient's face remained twisted in pain, teeth still clenched. But gradually, the tension in his jaw eased. The furrow between his brows smoothed, and his ragged breathing began to calm.
"Is the painkiller kicking in?"
"Yes… even the best painkillers take a little time."
Spica checked the pulse again, fingers resting lightly on the patient's wrist, eyes fixed on his face, missing nothing.
Once Spica confirmed the patient was sufficiently relaxed, he nodded at me.
"Then let's begin treatment."
I set the shield down on the floor, then placed the shotgun on top of it. With the combat gear removed, my shoulders felt lighter—but what came next was heavier than any fight.
I knelt beside the critically injured man. Carefully peeling away the blood-soaked cloth revealed the full extent of the wound.
Deep.
It wasn't a scratch—it was a puncture. It hadn't gone through the abdomen, but it had gone deep, tearing surrounding tissue, and the bleeding wouldn't stop.
I placed both hands over the wound. A familiar healing light began to glow from my palms.