The sky was gray, and fine rain drifted down, causing passersby to hurry along. Even with umbrellas, they were of little use; the rain danced with the wind and got everywhere.
On the towering city walls, soldiers stood every five or six meters. Unfortunately, they had to endure the rain, while more soldiers huddled in the corners of the walls. Despite the row of makeshift shelters meant to shield from the wind and rain, they couldn't keep out the damp, chilly wind.
To keep warm, the soldiers had to light bonfires. The firewood was made from split furniture, much of it brand new, but no one felt any pity.
It was wartime.
A man named Hank, draped in a raincoat, patrolled back and forth. Suddenly, he stopped and shouted at a group of soldiers huddled around a fire, "Move the powder kegs away! Are you looking to get yourselves killed? If that stuff ignites, we're all doomed."
"Yes, sir!"
"Understood, sir!"
The soldiers quickly sprang into action. Hank felt slightly better but then noticed seven or eight muskets leaning against the wall, getting drenched by the rainwater running down.
"Dammit, those guns are your lives. Are you throwing your lives away?"
Hank's furious scolding was piercing in the misty rain.
This city was called Brookfield, the third-largest city in the Lakewood Province of the Republic of Corosonia. Despite being a major city, the area enclosed by its walls wasn't very large.
After all, Brookfield was just a commercial city, neither a military stronghold nor a capital, so it didn't require heavy fortifications.
But now, even this commercial city was gripped by fear.
Outside those towering walls, the once bustling commercial street was now desolate, and the previously crowded square was overrun by stray dogs.
These walls were built six centuries ago when Brookfield was first established. Throughout the years, successive mayors had considered tearing them down. However, intermittent wars had ultimately preserved them.
Over the ages, the area enclosed by these walls had become the oldest part of Brookfield. The last renovation was two centuries ago. The streets here were narrow, and the houses were closely packed. The residents had some wealth but were far from affluent.
Now, most of Brookfield's 250,000 residents had been relocated here.
In the entire old city, only Garden Street on the west side appeared somewhat neat and beautiful. This neighborhood had now been requisitioned by various departments of Brookfield City.
On the top floor of a four-story building, Colonel Carson was peering out through a narrow skylight. The gloomy weather outside matched his current mood.
The Colonel Carson glanced at the people standing behind him, then at the note on the table. Just a few hours ago, the war zone command had sent this person,Brenton, along with a truckload of injections and this order.
"Brenton, I want to hear the truth. Are the injections you brought really vaccines to prevent the plague?" the Colonel Carson asked. Technically, as a soldier, he shouldn't have asked such a question. He dared to ask only because he was sure the person behind him would never betray him.
"Since you've already guessed..." Captain Brenton sighed. He could have chosen not to answer or to lie, but he couldn't bring himself to do so in front of his former superior. He could only tell the truth: "These drugs are officially called K65, the most commonly used muscle growth agent. After using it, muscle growth is rapidly catalyzed, and metabolism speeds up. Battlefield doctors often inject this drug into wounded soldiers to accelerate healing."
Although he spoke casually, the Captain Brenton felt uneasy inside.
Everyone knew that this drug was not meant for ordinary people. While it offered many benefits, it came at the cost of shortening one's life.
Injecting a standard unit of K65 could increase physical strength two to four times in a short period, making a person less prone to fatigue, capable of overworking, and more resilient to injuries, significantly increasing their survival rate on the battlefield.
But within ten years, this person would suffer from vascular occlusion, muscle atrophy, rapid aging, and almost no one lived beyond twenty years.
After pondering for a long time, the Colonel Carson seemed to make up his mind. He turned around, put away the order on the table, and wrote a new note.
After finishing, he sprinkled some wood shavings on the note to dry the ink, then called in his adjutant.
"This is an order from the war zone command. To prevent the outbreak of the plague, all severely injured patients in the medical center must be vaccinated."
Watching the adjutant leave, the Colonel Carson turned to the Captain Brenton said, "This is my decision. You can report it truthfully to the war zone command."
"Sorry, sir, my job is only to deliver the drugs and orders to you. I have a tight schedule with many tasks, so I can only stay for an hour. In this hour, I saw nothing and heard nothing."
After saluting, the Captain Brenton left the room.
The central square of the old city had long been turned into a temporary medical center.
Even though the front line was two to three hundred kilometers away from Brookfield City, the temporary medical center was packed with people.
As a second-tier city and one that wasn't strategically important, Brookfield was considered relatively safe.
In the six centuries since Brookfield was built, wars had never reached the city. Even when the entire Lakewood Province fell, the city remained calm.
Thus, all the wounded from the front lines were sent here.
Continuous tents covered the entire square. These tents were made from large oilcloths, supported every few meters by wooden poles, and crowded underneath with beds.
Annoying rainwater leaked through the gaps between the oilcloths, so basins and kettles could be seen everywhere to catch the water, and the ground was wet.
Hundreds of young nurses, sixteen or seventeen years old, walked around under the tents. Brookfield didn't have that many nurses; most were school students.
Since the war started, all schools only held half-day classes, and students were conscripted to various tasks for the other half.
Most of those working in the medical center were girls, but occasionally boys could be seen.
In a corner of the square, a fifteen or sixteen-year-old boy was struggling to unload boxes from a cart. The boxes were heavy, but what annoyed him more were the "Handle with care" labels on them.
This boy, Jefferson, was very handsome. He had slightly curly brown hair, a straight nose, and distinct cheekbones. Unfortunately, his pretty face was marred with scars, including a bruise on his left cheek and a cut at the corner of his mouth.
Jefferson was fifteen years old and lived in the old city. Previously, this indicated a lower-middle-class status, but the war had turned the old city into the only refuge.
Jefferson's parents owned an entire house, which now meant a lot of money. The house had four floors, and by selling the lower three floors, Jefferson's family had made a small fortune.
The family had been poor for a long time, so with some money, they naturally improved their living conditions.
Jefferson deeply regretted not stopping his parents' irrational behavior. Recently, he had been living in constant conflict, with fights becoming routine due to envy.
He used to work elsewhere, where most boys either helped forge weapons in blacksmith shops, repaired carriages in coach houses, or helped build fortifications on the city's outskirts.
Jefferson had worked everywhere but never stayed long, as trouble always found him within a week.
Initially, he endured, thinking that backing down would resolve the issue. However, he soon realized that those causing trouble aimed to extort benefits from his parents.
They targeted him because his father had joined the reserve corps, and no one dared to cause trouble in the military. His mother rarely went out, staying home to sew bandages, another military job that supplemented the household income. No one dared to break into their home, as wartime intrusions were punishable by death.
Knowing that submission was futile, Jefferson stopped yielding. Though usually mild-mannered, he never backed down when provoked. His facial injuries were from fighting six older boys.
He was beaten badly, but the six boys fared no better.
Having seldom fought before, Jefferson didn't realize he was such a capable fighter.
After the fight, he was transferred to the medical center, where most workers were girls and the few boys were physically weak. No one here posed a threat to him.
Every situation has two sides. While it was good that no one could threaten him, it also meant he had to do all the heavy work.
Now, he had to unload all the boxes and stack them neatly. Given the rain, he couldn't let the boxes touch the ground and had to carry them to the warehouse, a hardship only he fully understood.
The medical center's warehouse was a small three-meter square room made of wooden planks, reeking of iodine.