A different world game? A different world game!

In the medical camp.

The dwarf's sudden words startled the people treating him, and they all looked at him.

The assistant, who was preparing to administer the drug, stared at him, his movements frozen in mid-air.

The dwarf warrior gasped for breath, his chest heaving violently, aggravating his newly stitched wound.

The temporary pain made the dwarf grimace, but he didn't care, his eyes burning with an almost devout persistence.

He seemed very determined.

"The scar...the scar remains! This is...this is a medal! I swore an oath before the anvil!"

“Every…every scar I’ve crawled back from the abyss…is a symbol of honor! It’s a way of telling those stinking scum…that I’m not dead yet!”

The voice was weak, yet it resonated deeply.

It's not that all dwarves have this tradition, but for dwarves who are willing to come to the abyss, willing to come to this hellish place to fight against demons, every scar is a medal, the source of a story.

Perhaps when they are old, sitting by the fireplace, their children and grandchildren will sit around them, touching the wounds on their chests, pondering the origin of each scar.

Then, they will be able to part their long white fox fur to reveal those hideous and exaggerated scars, and tell the story behind each scar to the seeker of knowledge.

It has so many uses.

The reason he was so badly injured this time was clearly because he killed a powerful opponent because of the scar.

If it were removed, that would be absolutely unacceptable.

The young female priest beside him, a low-ranking priest who had been focused on healing, couldn't help but look up at the stubborn dwarf.

A distinct hint of helplessness flashed across her delicate face.

In her view, scar removal is the final step in perfect treatment and a necessary procedure to reduce the risk of infection and pain later on.

That's how it's always been done.

Moreover, this is part of her treatment and learning here, and it can also be considered as accumulating experience.

Her small nostrils twitched slightly, and her lips moved silently, as if she were muttering words like "short stone."

Finally, she rolled her clear eyes upwards, giving the canvas at the top of the tent a wide, exaggerated look, as if afraid no one would notice her displeasure.

But her hands did not stop moving at all.

After all, that's what the patient said, and it also saves a bottle of medicine.

Both morally and logically, we should agree to the other party's request.

With neither the captain nor the assistant objecting, she simply rolled her eyes again, then resignedly withdrew her hand, which was about to assist in applying the ointment.

If you don't want it, I don't want to use it either.

This is a good opportunity to save resources.

She then poured more pure holy light energy into the dwarf's body to help stabilize his injuries and resist the slightly increased risk of infection that might have arisen from his refusal of the scar-reducing ointment.

She respected the soldier's choice, even if it seemed incomprehensible to her.

Especially in this damned place where even breathing smells like sulfur from the abyss.

Anyway, I'm safe and sound. As for that hideous "medal"? Let it be.

The assistant observed the priestess's reaction, then glanced at the unwavering determination in the dwarf warrior's eyes, and finally silently put the expensive "Perfect Healing Scar Removal Cream" back into the potion bag.

He shrugged and whispered to the dwarf warrior, "As you wish, old soldier. Get some rest."

He then waved to signal the stretcher bearers to carry him to the resettlement area.

A new stretcher was already waiting at the door, on which lay another elven archer, his body shrouded in ominous black aura and his arms twisted and deformed.

This one doesn't look as badly injured as the dwarf from before, but he's actually in a much more difficult situation.

So much so that the group, who had just calmed down a little because of the dwarf's actions, immediately became serious again.

The commotion inside the tent did not diminish in the slightest. The steady and powerful commands of the priest captain, the responses of his assistants, the groans of the wounded, and the hum of the instruments... all converged into a never-ending torrent of blood and medicine.

These voices are the voices of the healers here as they bravely fight against the relentless waves of death coming from the front lines.

Here, every second is a battle against death, and every stitched wound is a resounding response to the roar of the abyss.

It can tear flesh apart, but it cannot destroy the will to continue.

Even if this will can sometimes be as stubborn as a rock that refuses to have its edges smoothed out.

Outside the camp.

The air was always filled with sulfur dust mixed with the rusty smell of fresh blood, the stench of ruptured entrails, and the complex odors of herbs, disinfectant, and sweat that permeated the tents.

This smell penetrates the nasal cavity and seeps into the bone marrow, becoming an instinctive memory for everyone on the front lines.

It seems they've gotten used to the taste here.

The campsite stretches for hundreds of meters, with hundreds of huge white tents standing like islands on the scorched earth.

Each tent was marked with a blood-red cross—a symbol of order and a beacon of hope in despair.

The crowd surged through the passageways between the tents, like a murky underground river.

The stretcher bearers moved tirelessly, their steps heavy yet swift:
"Make way! Seriously wounded! Make way!"

"Left arm severed, artery gushing blood! Quick!"

"Cursed Contamination! Tent Seven!"

Shouts, groans, and urgings mingled together.

On both sides of the passage, the wounded huddled together, curled up, or leaned back to each other.

Most of them had missing limbs or were wrapped in bandages soaked in pus and blood.

Some were missing arms, their empty sleeves tied around their waists; some had lost their lower legs, the stumps crudely fixed with wooden boards; their faces were a bloody mess, their chests wrapped in thick bandages that oozed dark red blood…

They occupied every inch of ground where they could sit, but they all consciously stayed close to the edge of the tent, leaving the life-saving passage in the middle.

Those who are still able to move around, or whose injuries have partially healed, will help carry some supplies whenever they can.

As the stretcher team carried the fresh, bloodied and mangled bodies past, the wounded soldiers could only wearily glance up, their eyes filled with exhaustion and a hint of relief—at least they could still sit here.

"High-potency medical supplies! Battalion Three is in dire need! Send them over immediately!"

A hoarse voice boomed from the entrance of one of the tents.

"Chaos Eliminator! We're almost out! Does anyone have any left?!"

Someone immediately responded from the other direction.

"Number three bandages! We're running out of number three bandages! The warehouse! Hurry to the warehouse!"

Anxious shouts rose and fell.

"Purification Crystals! We're consuming too much! We need to replenish them!"

The voice was choked with sobs. Such voices rose and fell, one after another, in an endless stream.

The logistics soldiers were busy like worker ants.

They were carrying heavy boxes containing precious medicines, bandages, and crystals.

They pushed a cart piled high with empty bottles and blood-stained gauze, hurrying to the processing point.

They carried boxes of purification crystals and rushed to the entrance of the tent that had issued the urgent appeal.

Sweat soaked through their backs, and their faces were covered in dust and blood.

The air was filled with a mixture of medicine and sweat, mixed with the smell of blood and sulfur.

The wounded sat on the edge of the tent, wearily chewing on the dry, hard rations that had been distributed and drinking murky water.

Despite being missing limbs and constantly in pain, being able to sit here and rest for a moment is already a great fortune.

Casual conversation became their way of temporarily forgetting their pain.

"Did you see that?"

An elven warrior with fresh claw marks on his face and splints on his arms pointed his chin at the sky.

His voice was hoarse but filled with the excitement of surviving a disaster.

"Just now, from the 'Rock' defense line, that beam of white light shot down from the floating tower! Vast swaths of holy light poured down!"

"I felt the chill in my bones was dispelled. If it weren't for that holy light holding back the gargoyles' dive, my guts would have been ripped out."

He touched the bleeding bandage on his abdomen with lingering fear.

A minotaur warrior with a broken leg moved his massive body with difficulty, leaning against the tent pole.

He said in a muffled voice, "Holy Light? Humph! That stuff is good! But my life was pulled out of the pile of berserker corpses by the Night Watchman."

Without saying a word, he jabbed me with a needle! That bright green medicine! Guess what?

The minotaur stared wide-eyed, like copper bells.

"My wound, which bled like a fountain, stopped gushing after a few sizzles. The excruciating pain felt like it had been drained away."

"After catching my breath, I can still swing this half of my totem pole and smash the heads of two little devils who are trying to take advantage of the situation."

He patted an empty medicine bottle hanging from his waist, treating it like a precious treasure.

"This stuff is a real lifesaver. I've never seen such a miraculous medicine!"

"Who can argue with that!"

An orc soldier, whose face was half corroded and pitted, spoke up, his voice whistling through his broken lips.

"Back in the fortress, a bottle of 'healing potion' was ridiculously expensive, and its effects were so-so. It was slow to stop the bleeding and caused excruciating pain."

“These medicines for the Night Watch are different! The ‘Potential Recovery Potion’ makes you feel a warm current rush from your throat to your limbs and bones as soon as you drink it, and you regain some strength. The key is that there’s plenty of it! Look,” he gestured with his good hand to the stretchers being carried in and out around him.

"For three days and three nights, the demons' attacks came wave after wave, more ferocious than mad dogs. In the past, the shortage of potions alone would have been enough to kill half of our brothers."

"And now? Although they still complain about being short-staffed, they always manage to fill the gaps! Don't you think they have some kind of talent?"

He looked up at the sky, as if trying to find the answer in the flowing light of the floating tower.

Another dwarf warrior, who was clumsily wrapping a new bandage around his severed arm with one hand, scoffed upon hearing this, spitting out a mixture of saliva and blood.

"Potion-making talent? Your vision is too narrow!"

He strained to raise his short, thick neck, pointing at the floating towers in the sky that resembled giant eyeballs.

One of the towers was rotating slightly, its tip flashing with runes. A soft, orderly white light shone precisely on a section of the distant city wall where fierce fighting was taking place, instantly suppressing a swirling mass of demonic black mist.

These various floating towers are arguably the most beautiful sight along this defensive line.

They have performed remarkably well in this fight against the epidemic.

Large-scale attacks, various buff spells, and even temporary large-scale healing.

These items are almost all present, depending on the function of each floating tower.

What they liked most was that these floating giants could dispel the abyssal aura around them, resist the abyss, and constantly emit demonic sounds.

At least they don't have to be constantly on edge when facing the enemy.

It's important to understand that keeping their minds constantly on edge during combat and during rest is an immense torment for them.

It can be said that the most important function of these floating towers is to dispel the surrounding chaotic magic and suppress the spiritual influence of the abyss.

"See that? That's the real deal!"

A fanatical light gleamed in the dwarf's eyes.

"Those towers! The light shields they emit, the brothers on the front lines all say, make them clear-headed when they're inside!"
"The whispers of ghosts and wolves in the abyss have weakened by seven or eight points! I feel lighter and more agile, and it doesn't seem so easy to die from a knife wound."

"And that healing light just now, when I came down from the city wall, my back was slashed by the horned demon's pitchfork, leaving a long gash with the flesh turned inside out."

"As a result, when that white light swept over, the bleeding stopped by more than half immediately. If this had happened before, I might not have survived."

"The wound is still warm and itchy, which is more effective than drinking ten bottles of medicine. I think the Night Watch's talent lies in creating these alchemical artifacts."

He patted the cold alloy tower base beside him with his bandaged hand.

"These city walls, these turrets, these floating towers... without these things anchoring us here, relying on potions? We would have been trampled back to our hometown by the devil's stinky feet long ago."

The wounded around him nodded in agreement, their tired faces showing their approval.

Yes, the relentless onslaught of the tide for three days and three nights wouldn't have been possible without this sturdy defense, this efficient medical care, this constant supply of medicine, and the protection of the Sky Fortress...

Those who are missing limbs are probably too badly mutilated to even be pieced together at this point.

Potions provided emergency relief, floating towers stabilized their spirits, but defensive lines and alchemical weapons were the backbone that allowed them to stand firm amidst this bloody grinder.

Whispers spread among the wounded, carrying with them the relief of surviving and a deep respect for the Night's Watch's skill.

An even more piercing scream came from a nearby tent, followed by the priest's urgent chanting of a spell.

A fresh, strong smell of blood drifted on the sulfurous wind, instantly shattering the brief atmosphere of casual conversation.

Everyone's expression turned serious, and they instinctively gripped the edges of their weapons or bandages.

This is the abyss.

Even the slightest disturbance would cause them some stress, even though they were currently receiving treatment behind the city walls and were still wounded soldiers.

These battles are never-ending.

The minotaur warrior with the missing leg struggled to stand up, while the dwarf with the missing arm spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva and turned his gaze back towards the meat grinder-like city wall.

There, the roars of demons and the howls of order intertwine tirelessly, like the heavy heartbeat of the abyss itself.

Above the cluster of tents, the light from the floating towers shone even more purely and resolutely against the murky sky. (End of Chapter)