The Perks of a Proper Healer Were This Good

They had been out on patrol for a day and a half, so heading back to the city now was clearly unsuitable. Fortunately, according to the original owner's memories, a large farmstead lay another dozen or so li ahead. The group lifted the stretcher and continued onward. As they left the farmhouse, Gret took an extra look around, detouring to inspect where the wild dogs had been tearing at something. His heart immediately sank:

It was a grave. The burial had been extremely shallow, just a two-foot-deep pit with stones piled around its edges—and now, more than half of the body that had supposedly been buried lay exposed outside the grave.

They had arrived in a hurry and lacked proper tools, so they could only press onward. After crossing a ridge, everyone sat down to rest and drink water. Captain Karen propped himself up on the stretcher:

"Little Grete, give me some water..."

Knew it would be like this... Gret silently let out a breath. In his previous life, before and after an abdominal operation, patients and their families would be taught all kinds of common medical knowledge. Here, the normal procedures had all been thrown into chaos, leaving him to roll up his sleeves and handle it himself:

"No, you can't eat anything right now! And you can't drink water either!—Desperately thirsty? Even then, no!"

"Then... when can I drink water?"

Gret: "..."

Normally, two or three days after surgery, once gastrointestinal motility recovered and the patient passed gas, they could start on liquid food. But intestinal paralysis was mostly caused by anesthesia, with only a small part caused by surgical trauma. The surgery just now had involved no anesthesia whatsoever. Although the intestines had been injured, the Healing Potion had healed them quickly once it was applied...

So how long would it take for motility to recover?

Surgery, physiology, textbook after textbook, every kind of paper. Guidelines issued edition after edition by the European Society for Parenteral and Enteral Nutrition and the American Society for Parenteral and Enteral Nutrition. Countless references flipped through Gret's mind in a rush.

Before him, Uncle Karen looked at him with hopeful eyes. Around him, the warriors held their breath and stared—

One second, two seconds, three seconds...

Under the early-summer afternoon sun, a drop of cold sweat quietly slid down Gret's back.

No one had performed intestinal surgery without anesthesia in nearly a hundred years. There was no theoretical basis, no experimental data. What was he supposed to use to decide how many days the patient should fast?

His knees?

He could only use the most primitive method! Gritting his teeth, Gret dropped to one knee, braced both hands on the ground, and bent down.

"Uncle Karen, don't worry. Let me listen!"

He lifted the leather armor and clothes covering the injured man, turned his head sideways, and pressed his ear to Captain Karen's abdomen. The sour, rancid stench of sweat mixed with blood rushed into his face. Gret jerked back, nearly fainting from the smell—

Ah, why wasn't there a stethoscope?!

His expensive 3M stethoscope! His adorable little bright-red darling!

The Yuwell stethoscope issued by his hospital! Even if it cost only one-tenth as much as the 3M and its clarity was a whole level worse, it was still better than nothing! Little Yuwell, come to me! I'll never look down on you again!

If nothing else, just give me a potato chip tube... Even if I couldn't publish in a top journal, I could at least use it as a stethoscope!

On his first day after transmigrating, Gret burst into tears for the countless time.

His sorrow was that enormous.

Yet he still had to force himself to comfort the wounded man. "Uncle Karen, don't worry. Once your intestines start rumbling, then you can drink a little water..."

"What about food?"

"No! Definitely not! Uncle, hold on a little longer. Once you're completely better, I'll cook something delicious for you myself!"

"Little Grete, are you trying to poison me?" Captain Karen burst out laughing.

Gret: "..."

Don't underestimate me! The original owner might have been a terrible cook, but that didn't mean I was!

I had to find a chance to redeem myself! Redeem myself!

But redeeming himself was impossible right now. Gret held his breath and listened hard for a while, yet never heard the rumbling sounds of intestinal activity. He straightened up, took several deep breaths, and soothed the injured man.

"Uncle Karen, you still can't drink water yet. Hold on a little longer. I estimate no more than two or three days. If you're really thirsty, here, wet a strip of cloth and moisten your lips..."

After resting, they resumed their journey. Delayed by the battle and treatment, they did not reach the farmstead where they planned to camp until the sky was completely dark. Gret followed the group out of the woods and, from far away, saw the farm brightly lit, every building illuminated.

"Strange. So many lights..."

Wally, the Shield Warrior walking at the front, muttered. As they drew closer, everyone understood at once. Quietly parked on the threshing ground outside the farmyard stood a luxurious carriage, utterly out of place amid the farm's plain, almost shabby surroundings.

Its body was made of dark walnut wood. Silver ornaments shaped like daffodils were set into its sides and rear. At the center of each flower's petals sat a large sapphire, dazzling beneath the lamplight.

One look was enough to tell that only rich people could ride in it.—No, more than rich people. Looking at that emblem, it had to belong to a noble, didn't it?

Gret immediately led the squad aside. Young Priest John was also common-born and had only recently become a Priest Apprentice. He had no desire to provoke nobles for no reason. He followed the group around the side without saying a single unnecessary word.

This farmstead was fairly large, with several buildings forming a low, irregular cluster. A fence surrounded the houses, made entirely of sharpened wooden stakes planted side by side in the ground. The gap between every two stakes was no wider than a fist. Clearly, the owner placed great importance on defense.

The squad followed the outer edge of the fence around to the back entrance. The owner came out to receive them and led them into the kitchen. The farm owner had once been a City Guard squad leader himself and was well acquainted with Captain Karen. Seeing him injured, he was greatly alarmed and pulled everyone over to ask question after question:

"How did you get hurt?"

"Ah, your life was saved. Good, good! Then eat something proper. We have honored guests today, and there's mutton soup stewing in the kitchen!"

"What? You still can't eat?... All right, then the rest of you, eat more!"

While the kitchen bustled with preparations for dinner, Gret stood outside the door leading to the hall and peered inside. The hall was long and wide, yet extremely low, entirely disproportionate to its area. The ground had been firmly tamped down and was grayish white, clearly made from local lime mixed with soil.

The inner quarter had been raised into an earthen platform, one step higher than the rest. A table covered with an undyed tablecloth stood across it. Another dining table, longer and lower than the first, stretched from the middle of the platform all the way to the hall entrance, forming a T shape with the table above. The lower table was extremely rough, its boards barely planed at all. Clearly, it was for farmhands and those of lower status.

Gret remembered this arrangement of dining tables from movies and documentaries in his previous life: Oxford, Cambridge, those ancient colleges, and Harry Potter all had layouts like this.

The feast at the main table had already ended. A young priest in his early twenties was slowly sipping wine. An array of knives and forks lay before him. When Gret poked his head in, the first thing he noticed was the priest's pale-blue silk robe gleaming brightly.

A knight sat upright below the priest, his armor shining, an unsheathed greatsword resting at his side. The long table below was covered in a mess of cups and plates, and half the escorting soldiers had already dispersed. A few half-grown boys in coarse linen vests, apparently farmhands, were still wolfing down food.

"What are you looking at?"

A broad palm landed on his shoulder. Gret turned around to find Brother Raymond grinning slyly as he looked over Gret's shoulder into the hall.

"Oh, a priest of the Spring Goddess.—See that? This is how proper healers are treated: carriages, silk robes, silver bowls and plates, wine... Little Grete, don't worry. You'll have all that soon too!"