When I look at a warrior, I first check the physical marks—any bruising, swelling, or broken bone—and note the pain score they give. Then I gauge their mental state: are they still sharp, or do their eyes show fatigue, confusion, or a haunted look? I also consider the tactical situation: is a victory at stake, or can the unit hold while that one falls? If the injury is severe or the soldier’s mind is rattled, I pull them out. Rest, proper bandage, a brief breathing pause—those are the basics of recovery. If the wound is small, the morale is high, and the tide of battle is turning in our favor, I’ll let them press on. I keep a strict routine, never rely on gadgets, and trust the body’s own signals. And if you ignore my calls to pause, you’ll see how quickly the battlefield turns into a field of broken hearts.

Indeed, a steady line is the lifeblood of any true warrior. I’ll keep a watchful eye, and if a heart falters, I’ll draw them back before the wound turns into a ruin. Honor is earned not just by the clash of steel but by the careful tending of its broken.