Chapter 5
Chapter 5
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Storage Standoff
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The hospital room, a chaotic uproar at the army commander's bellow, fell silent in an instant. Even the soldiers groaning "I'm dying" clamped their mouths shut at their superior's roar, merely blinking their eyes.
Dever's eyes flashed with bloodlust as he pressed against the wall to conceal himself.
Madam Molly hurried toward the spot where all eyes had converged.
"Beth, I'll handle this. Get the hemostatic agent from bed 7."
At Madam Molly's words, Beth immediately headed for the bed she'd indicated. Dever's persistent gaze clung to her retreating figure, utterly devoid of hesitation.
"What are you all doing? Staring like fools while your patients wait!"
At the madam’s sharp rebuke, the room, briefly halted, buzzed back to life.
"Ahh! Handle it gently!"
"Bed 5 needs surgery!"
Only after the surroundings were fully engulfed in noise did the madam catch her breath. It had been a nonstop string of tense moments since last night. Battlefields were always like this, of course.
As she poured antiseptic over Arthur's wound, the madam said quietly,
"She's new, doesn't know you. Cut her some slack."
Dever snatched up his uniform jacket with uncharacteristically rough hands and shrugged it on. He could feel everyone sneaking glances at him, everyone except one. Beth alone focused solely on her tasks, ignoring him completely.
Dever's tightly clenched lips swallowed the curses rising in his throat.
In the meantime, Madam Molly was extracting the bullet lodged in Arthur's left abdomen with forceps.
"Lucky it's not deep."
"A handsome guy like me is too precious to die. Ugh!"
Arthur, seeming revived, jabbered on before grimacing and burying his face.
"Exactly. Nexus only has two handsome dukes—you've got to survive."
"Hear that? She called me handsome."
Dever, who had been staring fixedly at one spot as if deaf to everything, walked to the center of the room.
The soldiers in their beds recoiled unsteadily at his overwhelming presence, and even the doctor pushing a cart scurried to a corner to avoid bumping into him.
"Attention."
At the low command, the boiling noise ceased instantly.
"As you know, 'Dawn' failed."
Tall stature, honed physique. Gray eyes brimming with killing intent.
Dever scanned the room sharply, looking more fitting than ever for his vulgar nicknames.
"Which means there's definitely a traitor among you we haven't caught yet."
Beth quietly gazed at the man's back, just a few steps away.
It wasn't a common laceration or abrasion scar. Whipped, then whipped again before the flesh could heal. Only repeated, prolonged lashes could leave such marks. Beth knew that better than anyone.
But who would dare whip the Nexus army commander?
As if sensing her stare, the man's gaze flicked toward her for a split second.
"Fortunately, the alliance forces arrived. Nexus will claim victory without fail. Focus on recovering."
Arthur called out "You really leaving?" to Dever, who left the room grinding his teeth in evident frustration, but got no reply.
Dever laid his dripping-wet hair straight onto the bed. The rusty iron frame creaked under his weight.
With the operation a failure, once the troops recovered, they'd rejoin the alliance forces for battle. That meant unwanted rest for the time being.
At the weary end of this endless war, fatigue crashed over Dever too. But forcing his eyes shut only brought throbbing headaches, sleep nowhere in sight.
He lit a dry cigar, pondered briefly, then pulled a familiar stabilizer from the drawer. But soon, a low curse followed as the empty vial rolled across the floor.
Of all days.
He considered the medicine storeroom but dismissed it—the hospital would still be chaotic. He had no desire to let anyone see him hunting for pills.
Through the rising cigar smoke, a woman's face floated in his mind, drifting amid the haze.
A hand waving it away lest it touch her. Yet unable to escape, inhaling the gray smoke fully—her pale nape and furrowed brow.
And today, lips parting slightly at the sight of his scars.
Shocked knowing their meaning? Or merely...
Dever, chugging whiskey straight from the bottle, wished he could dunk his head in the alcohol.
His dry hand raked roughly over his face. Even he couldn't read the expression beneath.
Perhaps the liquor flooding his throat granted his wish.
Soon, heavy drowsiness overtook him.
The dream was hazy. Fourteen, fifteen maybe. A much younger boy trembled. Before him stood his father, Duke Cassius, head and shoulders taller, expressionless as always.
Without hesitation, he seized his son's throat. His brutal grip allowed no mercy.
"Guh... Fath..."
Struggling did nothing but tighten the vise. The whip in his other hand rose high. The boy's eyes widened in terror.
"Right... wrong..."
The scene shifted abruptly.
Eighteen-year-old Dever faced Cassius in uniform. Now taller than his father, the son slowly pulled the trigger of a sleek rifle.
Dever's last and worst memory.
Bang!
"Hah... hah..."
Dever bolted upright, gasping raggedly. His heart pounded like sprinting footsteps in his ears, his sweat-soaked body chilled to the bone.
"Damn it! Goddamn it!"
With Dever's curses, everything in his grasp flew from his hands, crashing to the floor. The dull thuds shattered the predawn barracks silence.
He'd thought those memories buried.
Maybe the woman spotting his scars at the hospital had dredged up the nightmare. Or perhaps this rare pill-less night.
Shaking the whiskey bottle yielded no comfort from its emptiness.
3 a.m.
Dever forced his sagging body upright.
Outside the barracks, only crickets chirped, fireflies flickering here and there. Who could call this blood-soaked battlefield?
Dever was unaccustomed to quiet. As far back as memory reached, his hands held gun and blade.
A young Dever's days rang not with peers' voices, but gunfire and clashing steel. Older, it was cannon blasts and dying men's terrified screams.
Thus, in such silence, Dever felt like someone else entirely. Too peaceful, like a fairy tale lie.
As he'd thought, most hospital rooms were dark. His steps veered not toward the hospital, but a side path to the medicine storeroom.
No one around, as always.
Dever drew the necklace hidden under his shirt.
Unlocking the storeroom with its key and retrieving the meds from the innermost cabinet—he could do it blindfolded now.
As he turned to leave after this routine task,
A strange gun barrel glinted toward him.
Turning toward the faint breath revealed only a shadow in the dark and a moonlight-kissed muzzle.
As Dever took a step, the dim light half-illuminated his face.
Even in friendly lines, protocol demanded name and rank upon sight in darkness. Silence meant enemy—strike fast.
The sole exceptions: Dever and Arthur. No one in the unit would mistake the empire's war demon or the prince.
In an allied hospital storeroom, not a battlefield, having a gun trained on him drew a scoff from Dever. Even with his face half-lit, no demand for identity.
His sharp eyes pierced the dark, discerning the figure clearly.
The woman who'd haunted his nightmare tonight, drawing him here at dawn for pills. Beth.
Dever approached her. Though she held the gun, she stumbled back from his fearless advance.
She should know retreating in tight quarters was the worst move.
Dever recalled advice he'd never share.
Soon, his chest met the cold barrel.
Beth bit her lip at the solid muscle felt through the muzzle and the unfamiliar bob of it with his breath.
Dever gazed down at her, sinking into silence. His eyes weighed heavy. Like the cigar smoke pinning her in the barracks, his stare pressed subtly.
His hand rose toward the barrel. Expecting him to snatch it, she flinched—but instead, it went to her trembling hand.
Dever overlaid his hand on hers, yanking the slide back. The metallic click echoed in the stillness.
"Can't shoot with the slide not racked."
His whisper tickled her ear.
"Weak grip?"
Her eyes wavered anxiously at the abrupt question. His inscrutable gaze fixed relentlessly on her.
"Doesn't seem strong—bend your elbows a bit. Can't handle the recoil."
His hand moved to her slender arm now. Her stiff elbow bent as he guided.
"Now shoot."
Beth stared up at him blankly.
How many seconds passed with eyes locked? Dever tilted his head slightly.
"Guess you won't."
Tension easing, the gun drooped.
As Dever turned to leave with indifferent composure, Beth swiftly blocked him.
"Don't make this annoying. Get out."
Beth snatched the vial from Dever's hand as he brushed past dismissively. Like in the ward, fearing confrontation, she backed off a few steps—but his expression remained unchanged. Though its depths eluded her.
She scanned his body for more stolen meds.
"Why not strip me like before."
The man's dry voice trailed after her to the cabinet.
Beth hesitated briefly. How far did this man's power extend? Could it override even the hospital director's authority? But she steeled herself.
Rules were rules. Be he army commander or emperor, unauthorized access to battlefield meds was forbidden.
Just look at yesterday's rear hospital airstrike.
Shaking off last night's resurfaced memories she'd nearly voiced, Beth pressed on.
Dever, leaning against the wall, watched her. She pocketed the meds, locked the cabinet firmly, then approached with newfound resolve. As if she'd never cowered.
"Nothing else."
Dever said as she eyed him coolly.
Gazing at her diligently fluttering lashes, suddenly her round eyes lifted. Her small lips parted with an "Ah."
Before Dever could speak, Beth's hand shot out first.