The field hospital, buried deep underground, resembled a vast, labyrinthine anthill, with countless chambers and passages. The rooms are linked by corridors, formed a tangled maze.

In one room, there were four or five patients, each suffering from grievous wounds. One had lost his sight, another had shattered limbs. Despite the torment they endured, not a single groan was heard. They seemed to possess extraordinary resilience, enduring their suffering in grim silence.

You paused at Chiến’s bed to change his bandages. There he lay, gaunt and frail, like a delicate scrap of paper. His wounds, inflicted on his chest and abdomen, had deteriorated to the point where his life hung precariously in the balance. You had heard that, before succumbing to unconsciousness, he had fought with remarkable bravery, taking the lives of two enemy soldiers.

Chiến rarely woke fully, mostly remaining in a state of profound weakness. During his periods of delirium, he called out for his mother, his siblings, and his comrades. His pleas echoing the desperation of a soul struggling against the void. Even in his restless sleep, peace seemed elusive.

Today, however, Chiến showed an extraordinary clarity, his eyes glowing with a miraculous vitality in these final hours. His smile, though faint, conveyed a deep gratitude. It was not a joyful smile, but one of acceptance and valor. Chiến spoke with a gentle yet resolute tone:

"Don’t waste your efforts on me," he said softly but with firm resolve.

"Save the medicine and strength for the others."