The sky gradually darkened. The sunset's afterglow dyed the western horizon a fiery red, gilding the blazing clouds, while the deep-blue sea reflected shimmering golden-red waves.
The sea, which had been a battlefield by day, was now calm. Thanks to the combined efforts of the Gryphon Riders and the naval fleet, the Orcs' ships had been almost completely wiped out. Only a handful of the Red Dragonriders who had come to aid them escaped destruction. By comparison, the Alliance Navy had lost about half its forces, while nearly a fifth of the Dwarf Gryphon Riders had been killed or wounded.
The joy of victory could not entirely dispel the gloom brought on by the heavy casualties. Although the Alliance had won a clear victory in the earlier battles, the field hospital was still shrouded in sorrow.
Alvin followed a small number of military Priests and a large number of ordinary medical staff, joining them in treating the wounded Warriors. Few Priests had actually been sent to the battlefield. Even the Paladins, whose divine magic was limited, had joined in caring for the injured.
After using every healing spell he had on several critically wounded men without hesitation, the boy, who had no other experience, began assisting the more experienced medical staff. As he worked, he quietly learned how to clean wounds, prevent infection, stop bleeding, apply bandages, and handle all the other necessary details and techniques.
At first, being so close to bloodied, mangled wounds made him feel sick. But the wounded men's cries of pain and the hope shining in their nearly despairing eyes kept him going.
"Water!"
"Hold it here, press hard!"
"Give me a bandage."
"Wrap it around once here, then tie it tight."
After finally helping bandage another critically wounded man, the boy wiped the fine