Online Game: Starting With SSS-Ranked Summons

They don't even know who I am. Of course, they don't; they are illusions.

The irony was breathtaking. These powerful nobles, who'd commanded armies and influenced kingdoms, reduced to pleading with a young woman they'd forgotten existed.

I could save them all. My abilities are more than sufficient. This isn't a test of knowledge or ability.

The healing knowledge flowed through her consciousness—exactly how to treat each injury, which patients to prioritise, how to stabilise the critical cases while working through the others systematically.

Or I could let them die. Let them experience the fear and pain they inflicted on others.

"Healer!" The man's voice carried from his tent, weaker now as blood loss progressed.

"Please, I can feel myself fading. Whatever grievances you hold—surely mercy is better than vengeance."

Mercy...mercy. Mercy! That's all they talk about. Yet they don't have an ounce of it.

Jasmine's hands clenched into fists as the weight of choice pressed down on her. Every instinct trained into her screamed to heal the wounded to gain the favour of sylvia and to pass the test.

But every memory of her mother's crying, her dad's slow death.

They're dying. All of them. Just like my father died because of their choices.

The camp fell silent except for laboured breathing and muffled sobs. Injured nobles watched her with growing desperation as precious minutes ticked by.

Time is running out. For them, and for me to decide what kind of person I want to be.

One of the nobles made a wet, choking sound that indicated his lung was collapsing completely from the poison. Without immediate intervention, he had perhaps five minutes left.

Despite the complex injuries around her, they were still mostly treatable if she acted soon.

They're all going to die unless I help them. Die like father died—slowly, painfully, abandoned by those who could have saved him.

Jasmine took a step towards one of them, then stopped.

Why should I? Why should I heal the hands that signed father's death warrant?

The man's eyes met hers, and for a moment, she saw past the political schemer to a terrified man facing mortality.

"Please," he whispered. "I have grandchildren. They need me."

Jasmine's resolve hardened as the memories crystallised into cold fury.

Let them experience what they inflicted. Let them know what abandonment feels like. Even if they are nothing but illusions.

She turned away from them and walked deliberately toward the camp's exit.

Behind her, voices rose in desperate pleas:

"Wait! You can't just leave us!"

"We'll pay anything! Name your price!"

"Please, show compassion! We're dying!"

Compassion. The very thing you denied my father when he needed it most.

Jasmine paused at the tent line, looking back at the men who'd destroyed her family.

"You want compassion?" Her voice carried clearly across the camp. "Ask the families of the soldiers who died whilst you enjoyed yourselves. Ask the children orphaned by your profiteering."

Let them understand what powerlessness feels like.

"We didn't know—"

"You knew." Jasmine's tone held finality. "You all knew. And you chose your own schemes."

She continued walking toward the camp's perimeter, each step carrying her further from healing and deeper into the satisfaction of justice served.

They made their choices. Now they live—or die—with the consequences.

The pleas behind her grew more frantic, more desperate, but Jasmine didn't look back.

This is what betrayal feels like. This is what abandonment means. Learn it well.

The tent flaps fell closed behind her, muffling the sounds of approaching death.

Let them have the same mercy they showed father. None at all.

...

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jasmine stood at the camp's edge, listening to the fading pleas behind her. Each desperate cry felt like vindication for years of suppressed rage.

They're experiencing what father felt. Abandoned. Helpless. Forgotten.

A wet, choking sound echoed from one of the tents. Someone's lung had finally collapsed completely. The end was approaching for at least one of her father's betrayers.

Good. Let them know what dying betrayed feels like.

But as she prepared to leave the nightmare behind, a new voice cut through the medical camp's despair.

It was young and terrified.

"Papa? Papa, where are you?"

Jasmine froze.

A boy, perhaps four years old, stumbled between the tents. His clothes marked him as nobility, but dirt and tears had stripped away any pretense of dignity.

A child. There's a child here. What is this test?

"Papa!" The boy's voice cracked with panic. "The soldiers said you were hurt! They brought me to see you!"

No. This wasn't part of the test. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The child spotted one of the dying nobles and ran toward him. "Papa! There you are! I was so scared—"

His words died as he saw the extent of his father's injuries. Blood pooled beneath the man's body. His breathing came in shallow, desperate gasps.

"Papa, you're hurt bad," the boy whispered. "But the healer will fix you, right? Like she fixed Mama's fever?"

He doesn't understand. Doesn't know what his father did.

The dying noble—one of the conspirators whose name Jasmine had buried in her hatred—reached out with a trembling hand to touch his son's face.

"It's going to be alright," he lied through gritted teeth. "Papa just needs... just needs some help."

The boy turned toward Jasmine with desperate hope. "Please, lady! Papa needs healing! He's hurt really bad!"

Innocent. Completely innocent of his father's crimes.

Jasmine stared at the child, her resolve wavering for the first time. This boy hadn't betrayed anyone. Hadn't voted to destroy her family.

But his father did. His father helped orchestrate everything.

"Please!" The boy ran toward her, tears streaming down his face. "I'll give you all my toys! My pony! Anything you want! Just help Papa!"

Jasmine knelt to the boy's eye level, studying his face. He had his father's eyes but none of the calculation that had marked the conspirators' expressions during their meetings.

He loves his father. The way I loved mine.