Vyren and Chandrel reached the northern camp's medical tent by the next day.
The journey had been brutal. Mud everywhere. Thick, sticky, sucking at the horses' hooves and making them stumble. Rain hadn't let up all night, and the cold wind just cut straight through their cloaks, numbing fingers and stiffening every joint. Vyren's clothes were plastered to his body, cold and heavy. Chandrel looked just as miserable, teeth chattering under his hood. By the time they dismounted, both of them were exhausted, shivering, wet, and cranky, but there was no time to complain.
They didn't waste a second.
Straight into the tent.
Inside… it was worse than Vyren had expected.
The survivors of the village incident were crammed in here. The camp was supposedly the safest place for the injured, but the air was heavy with pain, fear, and something else—desperation. Some soldiers lay motionless, their chests rising unevenly. Others struggled for breath, gasping, coughing, muttering in discomfort. The smell hit him instantly: raw turmeric mixed with old alcohol. Someone had thought it would work as antiseptic. It burned his nose. Made him gag a little.
Vyren kept his head low, eyes unfocused, pretending blind. He was acting so well now that no one even glanced twice at him. Not a single person doubted him. Not even Chandrel noticed it.
Chandrel sat beside an injured soldier, tense. Couldn't see properly, but he could feel everything the weight of the suffering, the stifling fear, the sharp, quiet panic that clung to the tent walls. He wanted to help, but he had no clue how. He twisted his hands in his lap, gnawed his lip.
Vyren knelt beside a soldier and slowly unwrapped the bandage around his arm. Sticky blood. Dry, cracked skin. It smelled metallic and sharp. He flinched slightly.
Someone muttered nearby, "Blue Decay. Third case this month. Not swords. Not animals. A strange blue light shows up, and then… this."
They blamed black magic. The enemy king. Evil spirits. Deals made in shadow.
Vyren stayed silent. Because he knew.
This wasn't magic.
It was something he recognized. Something terrifyingly familiar.
Plasma burn marks.
From his lab. From Earth. From his world.
Wait… how? How had this reached here? How the hell did the metal fragment even get to this world?
His mind raced. Someone else? Or… was it a one-time thing?
"Why are his hands so cold?" Chandrel asked quietly, pulling Vyren back. "Stiff… almost like he's dead."
Vyren froze. Silent burns. Extreme heat. Blood thick and jelly-like in the veins. Pain that would make anyone scream.
They're surviving this? How? How is this even possible?
If this were Earth… I could fix this in minutes. Could save them all. But here… nothing. No tools. No medicine. And I can't even bring anything from my world.
His brain spiraled. And then it hit him again the fragment. That tiny piece of metal. How had it reached here? Was someone else like him? Could someone else cross over?
Vanya's words echoed: I know where you're from. I can trap you here.
Trap him? This is a dream. He chooses it. Even if someone killed him here, he should wake up. So how…?
Was she bluffing? Or did the rulers of this world know something he didn't?
Even Chandrel hadn't believed him. Thought he was crazy.
"Vyren?" Chandrel said again, voice pulling him back. "Why are his hands like this?"
Vyren exhaled slowly, trying to calm his racing thoughts. "I… I was trying to understand it by touch," he said, keeping his voice even. "Feels… infectious. Don't worry. I can do something. I just need some things."
He stepped outside and asked for neem leaves, ashes from burnt neem wood, wild turmeric paste, milk, a few clean knives, and water. The soldiers scrambled, rushing to collect everything. Within minutes, the supplies were brought to him.
He washed his hands carefully. Took a deep breath. Held the soldier's hand gently. Cleaned the knife repeatedly, just to be sure. Still acting blind. Then, slowly, carefully, he removed the infected tissue. Precision over speed. Hands didn't shake. Couldn't.
Then the paste. Ashes, turmeric, milk. Thick, clumpy, messy. Applied it over the wound.
It wasn't perfect. Might not fully heal them. Might not even stop it completely. But the infection wouldn't spread, pain would lessen, wounds would start closing. That was all he could do here. All anyone could do.
He finished. Washed his hands again. And then… someone started crying. Heart jumped. Did he do something wrong?
No. The soldier wasn't crying from pain.
"I… I don't feel it anymore," he sobbed. "It doesn't hurt."
Relief washed through the tent like a tide. People began murmuring, whispering, praising him. Miracle. Savior. Vyren shook his head, trying not to smile too much. Chandrel watched silently. And for the first time… he truly saw Vyren. Not strange. Not foolish. Not odd. Good. Kind. A genuinely kind heart.
Vyren smiled faintly. Safe. For now. But that metal fragment… still a puzzle. Still dangerous.
Later, riding back toward the city, Chandrel finally spoke. "You're actually a good doctor," he said. "Foolish… but useful. Thank you for saving my people."
Vyren blinked. "…Praise or insult?"
Chandrel smirked. "Praise. You're just not used to it."
After a pause: "That day in the hut… shivering in the cold… what were you thinking?"
Vyren laughed. "Wow… Chandrel praising me. Heaven guaranteed now."
Then he added, dramatic: "Honestly? I thought if I died… tragic. Not even married yet."
Chandrel burst out laughing. "Dying single isn't tragic. Also… who would even fall in love with you?"
Vyren rolled his eyes, laughing along. "Yeah… fair point."