Chapter 130: An Immature Suggestion

“I assume the ‘witness a miracle tomorrow’ you mentioned last night wasn’t referring to this?” Adrian stared at the bound stranger in the chair, breaking into a cold sweat.

Having lived for years in church-owned buildings, he had long since lost any sense of theft prevention awareness. This area had long been semi-enclosed—less crowded than the church interior, yet still under the church’s surveillance.

Only church clergy, guards, castrati, apprentices, and occasional figures like William would ever enter.

Even servants handling chores were scarce; priests could manage their daily needs themselves, and only the most esteemed individuals, like bishops, had one or two trusted attendants.

Moreover, the church’s own sanctity carried immense deterrent power: common folk might not believe the gods would bless them, but nearly all believed those who desecrated holy ground would be punished.

Unless driven to utter desperation, no one would target the church—especially a large cathedral like this, where the risk-to-reward ratio was abysmal in a thief’s eyes: everything inside was bulky, unmistakably marked, hard to steal, and impossible to sell.

If caught, the church’s influence meant they might hesitate to harm innocents—but a petty thief vanishing? No one would ask questions. In today’s moral climate and flawed legal system, it was entirely reasonable.

Thus, the intruder’s intent to steal mere valuables was extremely unlikely; his intrusion here was almost certainly no accident.

“Unless your potion’s effect is to conjure people out of thin air, I see no reason an outsider should be here.”

“No, but his presence right now is tied to my potion.” Kraft, wearing gloves, picked up a shard of broken glass and shook his head in resignation—his first bottle of ether hadn’t even been in his hands two days before fulfilling its purpose.

Whether lucky or unlucky, he hadn’t chosen the priest’s strong liquor, nor had he drunk concentrated sulfuric acid—he’d followed the arrangement pattern and selected the most technologically advanced item in the entire cabinet.

Due to the poor clarity at the edge of his spiritual perception, by the time his thought shifted from “What is this?” to “What is this man doing?”, he’d already missed the optimal moment to warn him. His urgent footsteps shouting “Stop!” as he rushed upstairs may have startled the intruder, who, in panic, took a deep breath.

A deep breath…

Legend had it that the inventor of ether anesthesia once tested it on himself: after knocking out his pet dog, he pressed the ether-soaked cloth to his own nose and mouth, immediately collapsing into unconsciousness—only saved because the cloth fell from his face; otherwise, he might have died from overdose.

The fated scene replayed: a different world, a different location, different people, different motives, the same self-destructive method—and even more direct.

In his spiritual vision, Kraft “saw” the entire process of consciousness fading—first panic, then quickly gone, replaced by a strange calm.

He leapt up the stairs at top speed, burst through the door, and watched the slender figure sway before collapsing before him; the last vestige of awareness caused his hand to claw desperately at the table’s edge, dragging the whole table down with him.

In an era before artificial wood substitutes, sturdy, plain solid wood furniture remained the norm—and this experimental table was among the finest, having withstood fire and acid, its surface still as solid as ever.

But when this table, both elegant and robust, fell freely under gravity onto the man lying below, the scene became… profoundly unpleasant to behold.

In the clash between dense, decades-old northern timber and the human body, based on Kraft’s personal experience, the human body’s win rate was zero. This case was no exception: the two-inch-thick, unbound tabletop struck the relaxed, defenseless forearm with crushing force.

Kraft flinched, his own arms feeling phantom pain with a distinct “crack” sound.

Given the man likely had no calcium supplement habits, his crushed forearm would almost certainly suffer one of those classic orthopedic textbook cases.

Just like now: a typical transverse fracture caused by direct blunt trauma.

The patient had probably already awakened from ether’s lingering effects, but due to psychological resistance or refusal to face reality, he was still feigning unconsciousness, eyes tightly shut.

From a humanitarian standpoint, the otherworldly soul would prefer to administer a single injection of furosemide—a “central-to-peripheral nervous system perfectly fine but insists on sleeping syndrome” miracle drug—better known as a diuretic; the bladder would complete the persuasion the mouth could not.

But such conditions didn’t exist now, so Kraft could only gently move the crushed right hand; with a faint grating sound, the patient groaned and opened his eyes—clearly no tough guy, in every sense.

The fracture was undeniable; even without spiritual perception, he could guess the general condition.

Already, mild swelling was visible; movement brought obvious pain, accompanied by a coarse, teeth-chilling crepitus—the terrifying sound of fractured bone ends grinding against each other, especially horrifying to the man’s eyes.

The man was idly fiddling with his arm, utterly unmoved by the twisted trauma, as if inspecting a burnt loaf of bread.

“Name.”

“Huh?” Not at all what he’d imagined—he’d expected the man to rage and demand who sent him, then a tense standoff, with concessions depending on how long he could hold out.

Or worse: the church deemed him worthless and quietly disposed of him.

“Mr. Intruder who breached my domain, I’d like to know your name.” Kraft gripped the man’s arm, his posture suggesting he might twist it at any moment, turning the broken limb into a twisted rope.

Honestly, he was terrified, speechless.

Sometimes Kraft looked like a fanatical inquisitor from a religious tribunal, the most terrifying version of legend—and he was merely a bold thief from the docks, lured by a two-gold-coin bounty to steal “a personal item from a church outsider.”

Those eyes fixed on him: impatient, dismissive, and some strange, indescribable residue beyond his vocabulary.

In that single glance, he was too terrified to speak.

Kraft turned to the priest, silently asking whether his demeanor seemed off—he’d just remembered last night’s nightmare, slightly distracted.

Adrian shook his head; from his experience hearing confessions, perhaps Kraft was too gentle, failing to intimidate the scum who survived in the docks’ shadows. He needed to personally slap this villain who dared threaten his future wealth and freedom—make him understand why the Lord’s court had angels of punishment.

Kraft stopped the priest; they still needed someone embodying mercy and gentleness, to play the foil to the “villain.”

“Fine, if you won’t speak, no matter. Mr. Nameless, I’m not in a hurry to learn who covets these potions—after all, he hasn’t gotten them yet, has he?”

“We can talk about something else—like your hand. You surely know its importance better than I need to explain, but you may not understand it as well as I do.”

“The forearm consists of two delicate bones, like wooden supports holding up a shack—bones holding up flesh. Their perfect articulation allows the hand to rotate normally.” Kraft demonstrated the forearm’s flexible motion to the bound listener, highlighting the pronation and supination enabled by the ulna and radius.

“But now, the retribution for your crime has severed them in half. Imagine a cook’s rolling pin smashing two fish bones.”

“Crack!” He clapped his palms together sharply against the table, triggering the memory of pain from moments before unconsciousness: “Now they’re broken into four pieces. Your forearm contains four bones.”

“Oh, don’t worry—I won’t do anything. I’ll just watch. Pain will make you unconsciously tighten your muscles, causing the bone ends to lift. Have you ever seen a storm-shattered mast? The splinters pierce the sails. But bone is harder than wood—it can pierce your flesh.”

“Do you hear that? The grinding sound? That’s the fracture ends moving. It might cut vessels, block blood flow, causing pooled blood to swell, ache, burn, and redden.”

Kraft gestured for him to look at his arm, pinned to the armrest—there, indeed, was swelling, redness, and a faint warmth detectable.

He shifted tone, as if offering kind reassurance: “But don’t worry—this means it’s still alive. For now.”

“But it will swell more, hurt more. The distal end, starved of blood, will grow cold and pale, the pulse vanish, and finally die—a useless lump of flesh, slowly blackening and rotting.”

Compartment syndrome—the most severe early complication of fractures, common in the forearm—but given current conditions, the probability was… at least according to spiritual perception at the scene, unlikely.

Kraft saw the listener carefully sensing his arm, his face twisted—because every symptom described was accurate, and indeed worsening.

“The upside? You won’t have to worry about your future life—because the toxins from the dead limb will drag you straight to hell to confess your sins.”

“That’s what I wanted to explain to you. After all, understanding your own bodily condition is every person’s right…”

“Koven! My name’s Koven!” He couldn’t take it anymore—he was just a petty thief blinded by a little money, barely more skilled and slightly more famous than his peers—why was he being subjected to this?

“Ah, Mr. Koven, I’m delighted you’ve chosen to speak. These days, rational, empathetic conversation is rare—even I struggle to persuade others.” Kraft rubbed his hands, offering a professional smile.

“Originally, I could’ve ended our connection in a simpler way for me—but my priest friend objects.”

Adrian understood Kraft’s meaning and promptly added: “We are taught to forgive. Those who steal, we guide to reform—not to take their lives.”

“But this evil’s fruit cannot be blamed on me, even if I am a doctor.” Kraft shook his head, showing little concern. “And treatment would require forcibly pulling the arm to realign the bone ends—no one could endure it.”

He slightly loosened the ropes and tugged Koven’s hand; the man screamed, tears and snot streaming—hard to imagine how horrific the described treatment would be.

“Please, think of another way! I’ll tell you who sent me!” This pain surpassed every beating from his childhood “teacher” combined—it felt as if his arm had been severed, and indeed, it had.

“They thought hiring a middleman meant no one would know—but I can guess who contacted them.”

Another wail—he tried moving his arm; abnormal motion brought cutting, needle-like pain. He imagined how bone spurs were slicing through his muscles inside.

He no longer cared whether he could survive afterward—if he didn’t survive this moment, there’d be no afterward.

“I don’t care. Tomorrow I’ll lock these away—no one will get what they want from this room.” Kraft showed no reaction, as if asking for his name had truly been only for convenience—Koven’s information mattered less than observing the arm.

The most devastating interrogation is this: the interrogator wants nothing, his mind racing wildly, topics drifting, his ultimate goal merely to create terror and pain.

Psychologically, Koven felt he was nearing hell—or already at its gates. The white-robed priest before him was an angel bargaining with the devil; the bizarre bottles were the devil’s cauldrons for boiling men.

“Can’t we think of another way? Surely there’s more than one treatment?” The beer-bellied “angel” spoke.

The black-robed man fell silent for a moment, as if reluctantly offering a choice out of friendship’s favor.

“I have an immature suggestion.” Indeed, not mature at all.

“But for you, it’s an opportunity.” Prove its effectiveness yourself.

“Possible side effects: coughing, tearing, dizziness, headache, nightmares—even risk of suffocating to death.”

“No problem! Please, try it!” Koven clung to this last straw: “I can lead you to that guy if I live!”

“Good! That’s what you said.”

…

For ether’s first application, anesthesia-assisted reduction was vastly preferable to other options—especially with this accidental, serendipitous usage example as guidance.

When Koven, with a strange unease, was brought back into the room, he saw the dark glass vial again filled with that sweet-tasting, pungent-smelling liquid.

Kraft poured the liquid into a fresh flask, inserted a glass tube, and handed the entire setup—water bath included—to the priest. His solemn expression made Koven believe he wasn’t planning to end his life.

“No nebulizer? Try warm water—barely warm, almost imperceptible. Watch it closely—don’t let it vanish too fast; just enough to make him fall asleep.”

Then stop promptly. Reduction takes little time—just a few minutes. Based on this man’s accidental intake, the amount in the bottle is safely within limits.

Supine position, shoulder abducted, elbow flexed. Apply longitudinal traction along the forearm toward the distal end, while pulling the elbow upward in opposition.

Kraft silently recited the text, eyes fixed on the priest’s round-bellied glass bottle—no visible change on the liquid’s surface. In reality, ether, with a boiling point below body temperature, was continuously vaporizing; colorless gas traveled through the tube into Koven’s lungs.

Far more troublesome than the black liquid—it required precise control of inhalation rate, limited by crude tools and reliant on intuition alone. Simultaneously, observe the patient’s reactions, watch for adverse effects.

Koven closed his eyes; his breathing, previously erratic from pain, grew calm, his chest rising and falling steadily, evenly, rhythmically.

Attempting traction produced no reaction; Kraft raised his hand, signaling the priest to lift the ether bottle from the water, halting release. Tedious, hard to control, risky—but within known parameters.

Next came traction: simple to describe, but requiring immense force to overcome muscle resistance and straighten the forearm.

Strength and precision combined—like wielding a great sword to carve lace. Few dare pit internal forces against bone in a tug-of-war.

Only under this powerful, steady traction could rotation, shortening, angulation, and other displacements be accurately corrected, realigning the fracture ends. Even with Kraft’s strength, it was difficult without assistance.

Between efforts, he checked Koven’s ribcage—his intercostal respiratory muscles must not suddenly succumb to ether’s dream and cease functioning.

Once structure was roughly aligned, came the final step: pressing firmly between the two bones. Without anesthesia, this pain would feel like a cart wheel rolling over.

This cruel action would separate the interosseous membrane, completing the final realignment of the fracture ends.

“Take the bottle away.”

Apply double splints, tie the bandages tightly with secure knots—the reduction was complete.

A journey of a thousand miles, a life’s cost—and in ten minutes, the cornerstone of surgery was embedded into an era that did not belong to it.