"Wow—it's healing magic!"
"He really cast healing magic!"
"Little Gret, you're amazing!"
A low murmur swept through the hall. Children of five, six, and seven or eight, older boys, farmers, and their wives all pressed eagerly forward. Gret's three comrades—spearman Raymond, archer Thorn, and Shield Warrior Wally—had to join hands and form a semicircle to keep the onlookers from crowding their captain.
Young Priest John was practically glowing with excitement; even his freckles seemed to shine one by one. By contrast, Roman Knight's expression grew even darker—
Divine Grace could be bragged about, but Divine Arts couldn't be faked. If genuine healing magic had come from the boy's hand, then the youth in the rough linen vest before them was at least truly blessed by a god.
And clergy were, at least in name, all equal to one another. As Priest Donald had said earlier, "We are all servants of the gods." Especially when they served different gods, neither could order the other around. The idea of a temple knight ordering a priest about was utterly absurd.
What a pity. He couldn't go after that rude commoner brat anymore...
He slowly withdrew his hand from his sword. Gret, with his back to him, noticed nothing. He was wholly absorbed in his own thoughts:
The Hippocratic Oath.
From ancient Greece to the present day, across nearly two thousand five hundred years, generation after generation—tens of millions, perhaps even hundreds of millions of doctors had believed in and upheld it.
"Wherever the art of medicine is loved, there is also a love of humanity."
Since 1991, successive generations of Chinese medical students had recited this oath as they entered the field of medicine. From then on, healing the sick and saving lives became their calling. When disaster struck, they donned their white coats like armor and advanced fearlessly, like soldiers.
Year after year, the faith that had accumulated was immeasurably powerful—
If it was possible, if even a tiny drop of it could somehow fall upon me, it would be enough to help me find a foothold in this unfamiliar world.
Thank you, Hippocrates. Thank you to the teachers and mentors who came before me. Thank you to all the doctors who have fought, and continue to fight, in the past, the present, and the future...
Gret's thoughts raced. The next moment, he forced himself back to the present and focused on the injured man:
The healing spell had taken so much effort to cast. He had to use it where it mattered—he couldn't waste it!
Sterilize and disinfect the abdominal wound!
Give it the same effect as an antibiotic wash! Prevent postoperative infection!
Heal the rectus abdominis, the greater omentum, the peritoneum, and the superficial fascia! If there's any strength left, heal the other wounds on his body as much as possible...
Uh... so how was he supposed to make this healing spell do what he wanted?
Gret had no idea.
If he'd been a full-fledged priest—or even a Priest Apprentice—his tutor would have taught him how from the very beginning. How to guide it with his mind, what key points to pay attention to. He would have been taught and had a chance to observe others; before casting his first healing spell, he'd have seen it countless times.
The problem was that when it came to healing magic, Gret was a complete novice. The whole thing about the Nature God granting him enlightenment was something he'd made up...
No choice. He'd just have to wing it!
Gret began to imagine. He tried to recall everything he'd seen during the surgery, along with his understanding of human anatomy from years of clinical experience. Then, bit by bit, he carefully sketched it all out in his mind...
A sacred stream of light swept through the abdominal cavity. Wherever it passed, Staphylococcus aureus, E. coli, Pseudomonas aeruginosa, and all sorts of other bacteria were wiped out. Gret even pictured what the bacteria looked like.
Under the white light, platelets gathered in every injury, large and small. The blood clotted, sealing the wounds.
Just as when Healing Potion had been poured over them, the deep red rectus abdominis, the pale rectus sheath, the loose greater omentum, the torn mesentery, and the abdominal wounds he'd stitched—or hadn't had time to stitch—all began healing rapidly, layer by layer.
Granulation tissue formed, blood vessels grew, and epithelial cells crept across the wounds. At last, the injured tissue returned to its former, undamaged state...
Gret didn't know how much good imagining all this would do. He simply closed his eyes and concentrated, picturing everything that would—or should—happen inside the abdominal cavity, drawing upon his solid knowledge and his ability to sketch in his mind.
Fortunately, every surgeon was an artist, or at least a hopeless one. In their daily clinical work, they often drew anatomical diagrams to explain things to patients. Sketching all this out in his mind was no trouble for Gret.
He concentrated on his mental picture. To the others, it looked as if he were carefully guiding the healing spell. Before anyone knew it, the hall had fallen quiet. Warriors and farmers nudged one another, then stopped whispering altogether, trying even to quiet their breathing.
Only a few children remained blissfully unaware, laughing and playing. Before long, though, the rough hands of the farmers' wives pulled them close and clamped firmly over their mouths.
The whole place was silent. Gret could hear only the torches crackling and the deliberately muffled, heavy breathing all around him. Then, in the stillness, a long sound suddenly rang out:
"Prrt—"
It was loud, long, and unmistakable. The warriors around Captain Karen froze for a moment, then burst into laughter:
"Hahahaha! The captain farted!"
"The captain actually farted!"
The warriors chuckled and laughed together. Amid the laughter, Gret opened his eyes and jumped up in delight. Just like when he'd been a resident and performed his first appendectomy, hearing the patient's first fart:
"He's passing gas!"
He clenched both fists, raised them high, and punched the air. The operation was a success! The recovery was going well! His mental image—if that was what it was—seemed to have worked!
"Uncle Karen, your intestines have healed!"
Captain Karen still looked stunned. It wasn't until Gret said it a second time that he came back to himself, still hardly daring to believe it:
"Am I better?"
"You're better!"
"They've healed already?"
"At least they've started working! Passing gas means your intestines have started moving again. Uncle Karen, you can eat!"
"That's wonderful!"
Captain Karen was excited, and so were the warriors. But Captain Karen's former comrade, the farmer Edmond, was even more excited. The moment Gret announced that the captain could eat, he turned around and called out:
"Boys! Bring out the food! Good wine, good food, big chunks of mutton—bring it all out!"
Oh no... he shouldn't have said that. Gret hurriedly jumped up to stop him. "Don't! He can only have a little milk! Thin porridge at most! Nothing else!"
"What? Didn't you say he was all healed?"
"The newly healed tissue can't handle the strain yet..."
Calls, protests, and explanations all tumbled over one another in a noisy uproar. Through it all, Roman Knight stood with his arms crossed, watching Gret with a cold, hostile gaze.
"Wherever the art of medicine is loved, there is also a love of humanity."
A salute to all medical workers.
Thank you to @Hidden Flower Creek for gifting the protagonist 200 Qidian Coins. The book has its first character card, and it's for the protagonist—you've seen it, right? Please stop by and give the protagonist a little heart now and then. If you have a reward to give, you can give it to the protagonist; it works the same, and once the star rating goes up, we can save up for a promotion~~~
Looks like I can stay on the light novel channel's homepage for another day ^^
Before you continue