Fate's Choice: Livestream at the Start Summoning Billions of Ravens

When the second needle went in, Karim's screams suddenly stopped.

It's not because it doesn't hurt.

The pain was so intense that even my vocal cords spasmed.

"Karim, open your eyes!"

Lyra stared into his pupils, and the boy's eyes rolled upwards.

"If you dare close your eyes, I'll sew your ears to your stomach, you hear me?"

Karim's lips moved, and he managed to squeeze out half a word.

"mom……"

Omar's expression changed.

"Dr. Leila, his face is completely white, and his lips are blue."

He placed his finger on the boy's carotid artery and waited two seconds.

"The pulse almost stopped, and there were several seconds between each pulse."

Before he finished speaking, Karim's chest stopped rising and falling.

Leila threw away the needle and thread, placed her hands on the center of the boy's chest, and began to press.

"Fati, help me count!"

"One, two, three, four..."

Fatima squatted down beside her, counting and crying at the same time.

"Twelve, thirteen, fourteen..."

Leila pressed her hand against the creaking wooden door, and could feel the shape of the boy's ribs beneath her palm; he was so thin that only skin covered his bones.

"Karim! You better take a breath!"

no respond.

"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty..."

Omar placed his hand on the back of her hand, and the two of them pressed together.

Fatima's counting grew increasingly fragmented.

Omar spoke first.

"Dr. Leila... he's gone."

"They didn't leave!"

Leila's voice cracked.

"His carotid artery is still there, his brain isn't completely dead, he can come back!"

"But……"

"Shut up and massage me!"

Another round of shells exploded overhead, and dust covered her head and face, mixing with her tears to form a gray mud.

She didn't know how many times she pressed down; her arm ached so much it felt like it was about to dislocate, and her knuckles were painfully pressed against the boy's sternum.

Please.

Leila's voice squeezed out of her throat. She didn't know who she was talking to—to the sky above the basement, plowed and torn apart by shells, or to the names written in her textbooks of operating rooms that had never responded to any of them.

"You've taken more than two hundred, that's enough."

"Don't take this third one today."

No one answered her.

Fatima had already cried out in pain, while Omar tilted his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

Just as Lyra was about to run out of her last bit of strength, a very soft and faint voice came from above her head.

It's not a cannonball.

It's not gravel.

Something, carrying a faint airflow, fell straight down from above through a crack in the concrete ceiling.

A short, silver metal cane, about forty centimeters long, was firmly planted in the muddy ground next to the operating table in front of her.

Two metal snakes coiled upwards from the middle of the staff, their heads forked at the top, facing each other, each holding a silver orb the size of a grain of rice in its mouth.

The staff emitted a soft, silvery-white light, just bright enough to illuminate the blood covering her hands.

Fatima took a step back.

"What is that...?"

Omar stood still, his mouth agape, forgetting to close it.

Lyra stared at the staff for three seconds, then raised her right hand.

Her hand was covered in Karim's blood, the blood of the three people who died today, and the blood of countless others she couldn't remember from the past forty-six days.

The moment my fingertips touched the silver staff, a warm force flowed into my palm.

Forty-six days, without anesthesia, antibiotics, or a stable power supply.

Two hundred and seventeen names.

It is not affiliated with any armed group.

Three locks, all verified in the same second.

A silver halo burst forth from her palm, spreading outwards from where she stood, passing through concrete walls and dirt ground, silently covering an area of ​​three kilometers in radius.

On the operating table, a silvery glow emerged from Karim's abdominal cavity.

Fatima was the first to scream.

"Shrapnel! Shrapnel is pushing itself out of the wound!"

Three pieces of shrapnel embedded deep in the abdominal cavity were gradually pushed out by the new tissue, emerging from the edge of the wound, sliding onto the wooden board with blood and making three soft sounds.

The damaged intestinal wall tightened in the light, the torn muscle fibers re-woven, and fresh pink tissue grew from the blackened wound at a visible speed.

Omar's legs were trembling, and he had to hold onto the wall to keep from sitting down.

"His chest... is moving."

Karim's chest heaved violently, and a short, sharp cough escaped his throat.

A little girl's voice came from the hospital bed in the corner.

"It doesn't hurt anymore."

Eleven-year-old Faiza, who had suffered burns to 60 percent of her body from a white phosphorus bomb, had been waiting to die on this bed for nine days. Now, the charred, rotten flesh was peeling off her body like withered leaves, and pink new skin was growing underneath.

"Auntie, it doesn't hurt anymore!"

In the next ward, an elderly man named Turki, whose right leg had been fractured for two weeks and had not yet healed, let out a cry.

"The bones are moving! I can feel them aligning!"

On the three severely infected patients, the pus receded like the tide, the rotting tissue was covered by a silvery membrane, and healthy cells were rapidly expanding underneath.

Fatima knelt on the ground, hands clasped together, forehead touching her knees, and repeatedly recited the same prayer in Arabic.

Omar leaned against the wall, looking up at the silvery light seeping down from the ceiling, tears streaming from his temples into his ears.

"Dr. Leila... what is this?"

Leila did not answer.

Her gaze swept over all the living people who were healing and landed on the three wooden beds against the wall.

Silver light flowed over the white cloth, over the bed board, and over everything covering the three corpses.

Then we continued walking forward.

There was no stopping.

No infiltration.

Six-year-old Samir did not move.

The young people who left in the morning haven't moved.

The mother who left in the afternoon did not move.

Fatima looked up from her prayer, saw Leila's face, and her voice broke.

"Lyra...it can't save them, can it?"

Laila released her silver staff, squatted down, and gently placed her palm on the white cloth covering Samir, remaining there for a long time.

"Those who have already left cannot be brought back."

Her voice was very soft.

"Sorry I'm late."

On the operating table, Karim's eyelids twitched a few times, and he struggled to open them a crack, his pupils reflecting the silvery light that filled the room.

"Aunt."

His voice was so hoarse that it was almost inaudible.

Where is my mom?

Leila closed her eyes, her tears falling onto the blood-stained muddy ground, splashing up a tiny silver ripple.

No one answered immediately.

Fatima lowered her head, covered her mouth tightly, and her shoulders trembled.

Omar stood at the door, his facial muscles taut and pale, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, all that remained was a very low inhale.

Leila kept her eyes closed for a long time before opening them again.

She didn't lie to him.

They didn't tell him the whole truth at that time.

She simply reached out her bloodied hand and gently pressed it against Karim's forehead, her voice hoarse and almost unlike her own.

"Survive first."

Karim looked at her, his eyes still reflecting the silver light. He was too weak to ask a second time; his eyelids drooped again, but his chest still heaved.

Alive.

At least he was pulled back from the brink of death.

Leila slowly raised her head and looked at the silver short staff stuck in the mud.

It is still glowing.

The light did not stop because Karim was rescued, nor did it dim because of the silence of the three corpses.

Like some emotionless, unwavering rule, it continued to spread outward from the staff, through blood, through soil, through concrete.