Thunder and Fire

Father Raphael sat at his desk, a new report laid out before him. 

This morning, the flank troops had been ambushed by magic beasts while digging trenches, suffering heavy casualties. 

The flickering candlelight cast wavering shadows on the somber words of the report.

Father Thomas had meticulously compiled the damage report into a table and sent it to Father Raphael's desk.

The document clearly outlined the staggering losses they faced—lists of dead and injured soldiers and dwindling supplies.

Raphael's gaze lingered on those cold, unforgiving numbers, his brow furrowing as a heavy sense of helplessness washed over him.

As the situation worsened, reports like this would likely become more frequent.

Yet, the current predicament left him nearly powerless to act.

The candlelight flickered gently, as if silently sighing alongside him.

Supplies were running low, the soldiers' morale was plummeting, and the enemy was closing in, yet Raphael had no immediate solution to resolve any of these problems. 

With a deep sigh, Raphael slowly picked up his quill, dipped it into the ink, and began writing a brief reply.

He instructed Father Thomas to "Hold on. Reinforcements and supplies are on their way."

After finishing the letter, Father Raphael set down the quill and massaged his tense temples.

He gently blew on the ink to dry it, then sealed the letter and handed it to the deacon standing nearby.

"Deliver this to Father Thomas as soon as possible."

The deacon took the letter and left swiftly, leaving the tent in silence once more.

As the candlelight flickered, Father Raphael remained seated, deep in thought about their next move.

Suddenly, a childlike voice echoed in his mind.

"That brat seems to have a reaction to thunder elements."

Father Raphael wasn't surprised by the voice; instead, a rare smile appeared on his face.

"Is that so?

That's good," he replied calmly, as if these silent conversations had long since become routine.

The childlike voice continued, tinged with confusion. 

"But the brat also seems to respond to fire elements.

Even though he's already awakened his fire affinity, he still can't sense the fire element."

Raphael nodded slightly, his tone thoughtful. 

"He needs a trigger—only then can he truly sense the fire element."

The voice paused for a moment before asking, "A trigger? What kind of trigger?"

Father Raphael's gaze shifted toward the candlelight. 

"Triggers vary from person to person.

Some awaken in extreme environments, others in moments of life and death.

For Borne... perhaps it will take a breakthrough—a profound transformation during a critical moment."

The childlike voice was silent for a while before speaking again. 

"But I can't teach him thunder or fire magic.

I don't even like those elements," it admitted, frustration apparent.

Raphael didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he calmly asked, "Which do you think he should pursue—thunder or fire?"

The question caught the voice off guard, and it hesitated for a moment before replying. 

"Thunder, I guess.

Its power is more fierce, while fire is relatively weaker in the early stages."

Raphael listened to the analysis, his gaze still fixed on the flickering flame, seemingly lost in thought.

After a long pause, he suddenly spoke, his tone carrying a deeper meaning. 

"Do you remember that tall, golden-haired man?"

The voice responded immediately. 

"Yes, I remember."

A trace of confusion lingered in the simple reply, as if unsure why Raphael would bring up this person.

Raphael continued, "Do you recall his eyes, burning with flames?"

The voice grew somber, almost heavy with emotion. 

"I'll never forget those eyes...

I still remember them vividly."

Raphael sighed softly, his words laden with depth. 

"That man was his father."

The voice fell silent for a long time, as if lost in thought.

The candle's flame flickered in the tent, the atmosphere growing heavier. Finally, the voice spoke again, its tone resigned. 

"But... I don't know any fire magic."

Raphael smiled faintly. 

"Don't worry, someone else will teach him fire magic."

The voice didn't respond further, as though it had accepted this fact.

Meanwhile, the tension in the camp was palpable.

One by one, torches were lit, casting flickering light across the soldiers' exhausted faces.

The air was thick with the scent of blood, a reminder of that morning's brutal battle.

The ground, soaked with blood and mud, squelched with every step, making the camp feel even more oppressive.

Wounded soldiers groaned in pain, their cries echoing through the night.

Medics rushed from one patient to the next, their hands stained with blood, moving frantically yet never fast enough.

Despite their best efforts, the air remained filled with the sounds of anguish and despair.

Among the dim firelight, Dillon and Victor were struggling to carry a drunken Borne.

His face was flushed from the alcohol, his steps unsteady, and every word he mumbled was drenched in the stench of booze.

"It's all Albert's fault! Why'd he have to give him such strong liquor?"

Victor grumbled.

Borne's left arm was slung over Victor's shoulder, his body limp, unable to support his own weight.

His words were slurred and incoherent, and it was clear he was barely conscious.

Victor sighed in frustration and exchanged a glance with Dillon.

"Let's get him to wash his face. If the captain sees him like this, we're all in for it."

Dillon nodded, propping up Borne's other arm. 

"Yeah, if the captain catches him like this, we'll all be in for a lecture.

Let's head to the river quickly before anyone notices."

Together, they half-carried, half-dragged the drunken Borne away from the camp, toward the small river on the outskirts.

The firelight behind them slowly faded as their footsteps echoed in the quiet night.

"Borne sure knows how to get drunk," Dillon muttered, shaking his head with a hint of exasperation.

Victor didn't respond, too focused on adjusting Borne's weight on his shoulder to avoid being completely crushed.

They quickened their pace, eager to sober Borne up before anyone else noticed.

Borne, meanwhile, alternated between giggling and sobbing uncontrollably, leaving Dillon and Victor utterly bewildered by his erratic behavior.

They finally reached the river.

Carefully setting Borne down, Victor immediately crouched by the water, scooping up a handful of the cold liquid and splashing it onto Borne's face.

"Hey, wake up, Borne!"

Victor's voice was filled with urgency, but Borne only mumbled incoherently, his eyes still closed.

Frustrated, Victor lightly slapped Borne's face a few times.

The mild pain seemed to jolt Borne slightly, and he slowly opened his eyes, blinking groggily. 

He squinted at Dillon and Victor as if trying to recognize them through the haze of his drunkenness. 

"Who... who are you?"

Borne slurred, his eyes unfocused as he stared at them.

Victor rolled his eyes. 

"Who are we? You're more drunk than I thought!

Get it together, or you're going to be in serious trouble when the captain finds out."

Dillon sighed, crouching beside Borne and patting his shoulder. 

"Come on, Borne, pull yourself together. Don't forget we're still in camp."

Borne's mind slowly cleared as he recognized Dillon and Victor.

He shook his head, trying to snap himself out of it, but the alcohol still weighed heavily on him.

His body felt weak, and everything around him seemed to sway between reality and dream.

"I'm fine..." he mumbled, trying to reassure them.

But no sooner had he spoken than his eyes drooped again, and his body slumped, sinking back into a deep sleep.

Victor and Dillon exchanged a weary look, letting out a collective sigh of resignation.