Overtime Turned Me into a Corpse, and I Transmigrated

The saline solution is here?

Wu Zhou turned his head and saw a rough, callused hand holding out a wooden bowl. The warrior's hands were covered in calluses. Even after deliberate washing, the dark grime beneath his fingernails remained. His blackened yellow thumb still hooked over the rim, the nail plunged deep into the water...

One glance was enough to make Wu Zhou's stomach churn. But in this godforsaken place, finding something else to hold the saline solution...

Forget it!

In a thatched-roof house like this, with wooden buckets so filthy their original color could not be seen, there was probably nothing else besides wooden bowls!

Wu Zhou lowered his head and took a sip of the saline solution, testing the taste as sorrow surged through his heart.

This was how miserable it was out in the wild without ready-made saline solution.

Boil water on the spot, mix it with cooled boiled water on the spot, then add salt on the spot. He even had to calculate how much salt to add in his head!

He tasted the concentration, then checked the temperature. The concentration was probably a little off, but the temperature was roughly right. As for it being half a degree below 37 degrees, or the saline concentration being off by 10%...

He could not worry about that much!

Add salt, add salt, add more salt. To be safe, Wu Zhou had them add salt three times in a row before reaching a concentration he found satisfactory. Then he directed this bunch of clumsy men to wipe the mouth of the water bag clean with strong liquor, lift it, and pour—

From the upper abdomen to the lower abdomen, he rinsed every inch carefully. After one thorough wash, he gently cradled the intestines in both hands and called out again:

"Lift him! One takes the shoulders, one takes the feet, and one lifts his back!"

The Red-haired Archer supported the injured man's shoulders.

The young man who had first knelt beside the injured man and held his intestines lifted both of his legs.

The Young Priest, who was kneeling in an extremely twisted posture opposite the injured man, one hand pressing the brachial artery and the other the posterior tibial artery, also let go with Wu Zhou's permission. After the surgery, examination, washing, and the series of procedures, the bleeding from the injured man's left arm and left leg had basically stopped. The freckled youth's compression work was over, and he switched to supporting the injured man's back.

"One, two, three, lift! Turn him toward me!"

With a rush, the saline solution that had washed out the abdominal cavity poured down.

Wu Zhou continued weeping internally.

There was no suction device, no drainage tube, nothing at all... Use wheat stalks or reeds to suck it out and spit it away? Just imagining those warriors' mouths full of huge yellow teeth, and the possibility of failing to suck properly and spitting half a mouthful back into the abdominal cavity, made Wu Zhou decide to forget it.

With no other choice, he could only use the simplest, roughest method: wash out the abdominal cavity, lift the man up, and pour the water out.

Once the water had mostly drained, Wu Zhou conducted one final careful examination. His luck was not bad. Nothing was bleeding—or, in terms Wu Zhou was more used to, there was no active bleeding found. At last, he let out a breath, straightened slightly, and held out his hand to the side.

"Sutures!"

...No one responded.

There were no forceps, no needle and thread, no instrument nurse with smiling crescent eyes gently placing the Needle Holder into his palm...

Wu Zhou: "..."

T_T

He should have gotten used to this already.

This was not a hospital or an operating room. There was no first assistant, second assistant, instrument nurse, circulating nurse, or a whole team helping and coordinating at his side. When he called for sutures, there was not even anyone nearby who understood what he meant...

"Give. Me. Needle. And. Thread!"

"Ah?... Oh!"

The heavily freckled Young Priest sprang up and began rummaging through his inner pocket.

Wu Zhou's eyes lit up.

He had originally thought that, broken-down as the thatched house beside them was, it was still someone's home and ought to have needles and thread. Who would have thought this little freckled priest was carrying some? Not bad. Priests ranked above commoners, so the things they used ought to be better...

No, wait!

What kind of junk was this?!

A sewing needle—no, judging by its length and thickness, it was clearly a needle for stitching quilts!

And it was bent!

Bent!

Bent from being forced out of shape while sewing clothes!

And this thread! This thread! He was not asking for antibacterial sutures or barbed knotless sutures, but what was with this single strand of hemp thread, all knotted and uneven, not smooth in the slightest?

Forget it... He could not demand too much from a dump like this...

Wu Zhou did his best to console himself and rapidly stitched the abdominal wall shut. As he sewed, the veins on his forehead throbbed wildly. There were no absorbable sutures, no silk thread, only the crudest hemp thread—and the needle threaded through it was a sewing needle! Straight! Straight!

There was no Needle Holder and no curved needle. Holding a sewing needle in his fingers and jabbing it into flesh—only those who had done the stitching knew what that felt like...

He focused, held his breath, and patiently stitched layer by layer. Peritoneum, superficial fascia, skin and subcutaneous tissue... After meticulously completing the three layers of sutures and tying the final knot, he flopped backward in utter exhaustion and lay flat on the ground.

"Bandage him up..."

There was not even anyone to help wipe away his sweat.

How sad.

No one had wiped his sweat during the surgery, but fortunately, once it was over, someone still took care of him. The moment Wu Zhou lay down, five or six hands reached over to support him. The warriors he had just ordered around frantically, who had not dared utter a word, crowded around him and began speaking all at once:

"Little Grete, you're amazing!"

"Little Grete, when did you learn how to do this?"

"Little Grete..."

Wu Zhou: ...???

His exhausted mind turned once, then again, and finally pumped a memory into his head. Right, they were calling him. His name was Gret, Gret Nordmark, a new recruit in the City Guard...

Today, he had followed the squad out of the city on patrol, while also escorting the priest—the freckled one, named John—home to visit relatives. The one who had just been injured and whom he had treated was their squad captain, Uncle Karen, who had always looked after him.

When Uncle Karen was injured, the one kneeling on the ground and holding his intestines had been his nephew Raymond, a spearman. There was the Red-haired Archer Thorn, and the Shield Warrior Wally, whom Gret had sent off earlier to boil water. Together, they made up the squad's entire lineup.

So... I transmigrated?

Sure enough, after working myself to death with insane overtime in the emergency department, I had ultimately become a corpse...

Sigh, I made it through residency, made it through attending physician, but I never expected to fall at the hurdle of associate chief physician!

Wu Zhou silently wiped away a bitter tear for himself. He looked around at the gently rolling hills in the distance and the lush green grass, at the quaint thatched-roof houses, at the teammates beside him with high noses, deep-set eyes, and white faces. Finally, he lowered his gaze, observed a second of silence for himself, and muttered soundlessly:

"From now on, I'm Gret..."

Gret raised his eyes again and saw a row of warriors—oh, and a priest too—staring intently at him, their gazes blazing. Clearly, everyone was shocked and curious about how he had suddenly become capable of cutting open a belly to save someone.

Gret: "..."

How was he supposed to explain this?

Could he possibly tell them that he had acquired these skills through twelve years of primary and secondary education in his previous life, seven years of combined undergraduate and graduate study, plus more than a decade of clinical work?!

If he really dared say that, he would... be burned at the stake, right...?

There was even a priest at the scene who had seen everything and could report it to the church when he returned. There was no way to hide it even if he wanted to!

Gret, trembling.jpg

Just as his imagination went from the Inquisition to the stake, and was about to progress to the ten great tortures, a worried question interrupted his thoughts and saved him from the flames:

"Little Grete... can the captain survive?"

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