Rat-a-tat-tat—rat-a-tat-tat—
Outside the trenches, all manner of firearms roared without pause.
Unless they were charging, shouting on the battlefield was a grave taboo.
Compared to the voices of men and the thunder of artillery, human cries seemed utterly insignificant...
But if one listened closely, there was a group of people yelling themselves hoarse.
"Flame-Burning!" "Crackling Explosion!" "Pulverizing Curse!" "Rend and Tear!" "Boulder, Come!"...
Yes, they were France's official Aurors and reserve wizards.
At first, the Muggle soldiers had been astonished by how absurd these people looked, coming to the battlefield without guns or cannons and merely waving little wooden sticks.
But once they witnessed what this group could do—
Their initial shock turned into secret delight, and eventually into numb acceptance...
Wizards were people too. They bled, and if they were unlucky enough to be hit, they died...
Of life's three strongest bonds, one was having carried guns together.
As the war reached a stalemate, then descended into their current string of defeats—
Many moving, heroic tales emerged between Muggles and wizards.
The temporary hospital behind the lines, tucked away in an inconspicuous mountain ravine, had been excavated by several wizards working together.
But they had left afterward, leaving behind only a few newly graduated young wizards to work here alongside a group of Muggle doctors.
Supplies were now desperately scarce. Unless the wounded were important figures or wizards, everyone else could only receive Muggle surgical treatment.
So no one should expect to recover quickly through wizarding means after being injured.
Wails, groans, and muffled sobs filled the relatively spacious cave.
Pop—
The space at the cave entrance twisted.
A witch appeared, carrying a wounded man in her arms.
The witch was not doing well either. She swayed a few times, failed to steady herself, and accidentally dropped to