I Won't Harm People With Medical Skills!

A Necromancer, formerly a Deputy Director of Emergency Department, spoke at length about bones, as if they had known each other for years. After chatting for half the night, the Necromancer Andrew Lynn, carried away, reached across the table and grabbed Gret's wrist:

"My dear friend! You are truly suited to be a Necromancer. How about it, do you want to join us in Black Crow Marsh? I can introduce you...

Oh, right! I'll ask my mentor! My mentor is an Archmage of level 11. After he breaks through his limits, he might even help you become a Lich!"

Gret: "..."

Thanks, but I'm not really interested.

I don't think I've lived enough yet.

However, the Necromancer's suggestion wasn't entirely unappealing. Gret flipped his wrist and firmly gripped the other man's hand back:

"I'm more interested in Elemental Magic. Mister Lynn, you mentioned the Mage Tower and the Magic Council before. Could you introduce me?"

"Ah—Elemental Magic, Elemental Magic." The Necromancer spread his arms wide in exaggeration. He threw his head back and sang, his voice rising and falling dramatically, like a coloratura passage in an opera:

"Everyone likes Elemental Magic. At least, they'll choose Alchemy or Summoning. As for the poor Necromancy faction, every time we try to recruit someone, we get the same answer:

'Respected Mister Lynn, I prefer Elemental Magic...'

'Respected Mister Lynn, I prefer Alchemy...'

Except for those who are consumed by the deepest grief and wish to resurrect loved ones, no one, no adult, would choose the great Necromancy!"

Gret was mortified. People with dramatic personalities were fun to observe from a distance, but up close, they were incredibly stressful. He dodged the spittle flying from the Necromancer's mouth, his brain working at full speed, lost in thought:

Is this guy a performance artist?

Or is he having a manic episode?

Are there other symptoms that could support the flight of ideas I observed earlier?

Does Necromancy affect human hormone secretion, and thus, mental state?

There's nowhere in this damn other world to get an EEG, or even a basic blood test...

"Uh... if it's inconvenient..."

"Convenient! Of course, it's convenient!"

Mage Lynn stepped forward enthusiastically. Gret couldn't dodge in time, and the man grabbed him by the arms, spittle spraying directly onto his face:

"Even though the Northerner in charge of the Mage Tower is fat, irritable, and loves to drink, he once explored the Strait of Hall with me and fought alongside the iron-clad soldiers of the Church of Radiance! My dear friend, don't worry, with my letter of recommendation, he absolutely won't turn you away!"

The Necromancer zipped over to the desk like the wind, spread out a piece of parchment, and scribbled furiously:

"Here!"

"Uh, thank you so much..."

"A small matter!" Lynn waved his hand generously. He glanced towards the door, then suddenly grinned slyly and leaned closer to Gret:

"By the way, is that Knight's hand really ruined? Can't it be fixed?"

"He didn't have the tendon sutured," Gret shrugged.

"Can you fix it?"

Gret hesitated, neither nodding nor shaking his head. He could do tendon suturing if he really had to, but it was primarily hand surgery—a delicate procedure involving suturing tendons, blood vessels, and nerves one by one, requiring a microscope. After hours of surgery, taking off the microscope would leave him dizzy.

Besides, this damn place didn't have microscopes, nor the specialized needles and threads for micro-suturing. The treatment effect, while better than nothing, would be predictable.

Moreover, he wasn't skilled in that area. Gret clearly remembered that back in school in his past life, he could only anastomose four or five rat tails per class—the blood vessels in rat tails were similar in thickness to those in hands and were the cheapest material for practicing basic skills.

The best student in the class, who was later poached by the hand surgery department, had a record of 12.

However, in Necromancer Lynn's eyes, Gret's lack of denial was an affirmation. The Necromancer's eyes lit up:

"Then how exactly should it be treated?... Or, how about I drag him in here, and you can operate on him right now to show me?"

No anesthesia, no sterilization, no hemostasis, just straight to work? That was too barbaric, absolutely not!

Gret opened his mouth, unsure how to answer—or where to even begin complaining. However, the Necromancer had already taken action. With a wave of his hand, the stone door separating the hall from the inner chambers opened again, and the Black Cat leaped to the ground.

Gret saw a flash of black light before his eyes. The Black Cat, named "Mister Troca," was normal-sized when it jumped down, but by the time it landed, it was the size of a lynx. By the time it reached the doorway, its size had caught up to that of a leopard.

Amidst the beast's low growl, a crunching sound of breaking bones echoed, followed by the Roman Knight's scream.

"Let me go—let me go!"

The Roman Knight struggled, his voice growing closer. Gasps erupted from the hall, startling who knew how many people. Priest Donald's voice was particularly loud:

"Let him go! Mage, please, let him go!—Gret! Gret!!!"

Gret stood frozen.

In his two days in this other world, he had been pinned down, had a sword held to his throat, been forcibly conscripted, and attacked by a monster... He had experienced more danger than in the past month, or even the past year.

But never had a moment made him feel so cold all over.

Someone who, just hours ago, had been high and mighty, even capable of threatening his life, was now being dragged inside by a Magic Pet, simply because the Necromancer was curious and wanted to see an unfamiliar surgery.

The cleaver is in the hand of the butcher, and I am the fish.

But in a world like this, the butcher of one moment might become the fish of the next. Who can say for sure?

"This isn't right..."

Gret shook its head like a windmill. The Necromancer, however, thought Gret had a grudge against the Knight and was unwilling to treat it, so it tried to persuade Gret:

"Just treat it and let me see! At worst, you can heal him first, and then I'll..."

With a sweep of its palm in the air, Gret broke out in a cold sweat and continued to shake its head. Its head buzzed, feeling like its eardrums and ossicles were about to shake right out.

"Don't want to kill? Then... heal him first, and then cut his tendons?"

In the time it took to say two sentences, the Black Cat, which had transformed into a leopard, had already carried the Knight to the stone door in its jaws. Facing imminent death, the heavily injured Knight unleashed its greatest potential, its hands desperately gripping the edge of the stone door. It raised its head and stared intently at Gret, its gaze filled with both hatred and despair.

Crack!

The edge of the stone door snapped under the Knight's fingertips. Gret trembled all over:

"No!"

It turned around, stepped forward, and blocked the Necromancer. Looking directly into the other's eyes, its gaze was firm:

"I will not do such a thing. I swore an oath never to use my medical skills to harm anyone!"

Thanks to @balalala_ for the 100 Qidian coins

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