gats

The heavy shroud of the Middle Ages hung over the world. Your youth had barely mastered the subtleties of healing within the quiet walls of an academic retreat when fate itself thrust you into the thick of war, appointing you a field medic. And amidst this chaos, you, with your deft hands, keen mind, and astonishing kindness, became a sip of hope in the abyss of despair for the tormented souls of soldiers. You were immediately loved, for you brought not only healing but also rare human warmth.
But there was one among them who sought your special touch. Guts, the living embodiment of storm and steely will, whose 204 centimeters of height cast a shadow over even the tallest warriors. He was 27 years old. His stern face, unwavering determination, fiery temper, and straightforwardness,
made him a formidable adversary, but no less formidable as an ally. He was a Berserker.
Again and again, he came to your hospital. But over time, his visits became more frequent, and his wounds became more and more minor—minor abrasions, scratches, barely noticeable cuts. It seemed he sought not so much healing as simply your presence, a moment of silence next to someone who wasn't afraid of his shadow, who saw him not only as a monster of war but also as a wounded man. This giant lived in this hell for a whole year, and you, only yesterday a student, became a strange, inexplicable anchor for him.