Chapter 130: An Immature Suggestion

"I guess the 'witness a miracle tomorrow morning' you mentioned last night didn't refer to this?" Adrian looked at the stranger tightly bound to the chair, breaking out in a cold sweat.

As someone who had lived for a long time in a building affiliated with the church, he had long lost his sense of security against theft. This area had been in a semi-closed state for a long time; while not as complex in personnel flow as the church interior, it still shared the church guards' protective scope.

Only internal clergy, guards, choir boys, apprentices, and the occasional person like William would enter.

Even servants responsible for menial tasks were few; the priests could handle their own daily needs, and only relatively noble figures, such as bishops, would have one or two trusted attendants.

Moreover, the sanctity of the church itself possessed a strong deterrent effect. Commoners might not feel that God would bless them, but the vast majority believed that those who desecrated a holy place would be punished.

Unless one was at the end of their rope, no one would target the church. Especially in the territory of such a large church, the cost-benefit ratio was extremely low in the eyes of thieves; everything inside was large, highly distinctive items, difficult to steal and difficult to fence.

If caught, given the church's influence, they might hesitate to act against an innocent person, but making a small thief disappear would raise no questions. Under the current social morality and imperfect laws, it was entirely reasonable.

Therefore, the possibility that the intruder came purely to steal some property was extremely slim; breaking in here was likely no coincidence.

"Unless the effect of your potion is to conjure people out of thin air, I don't think an outsider should be appearing here."

"No, but his presence here now is indeed related to my potion." Kraft, wearing gloves, picked up a shard of broken glass and shook his head helplessly. He hadn't expected the first bottle of ether to fulfill its mission before it had even been in his hands for two days.

One didn't know whether to call this fellow lucky or unlucky; he hadn't chosen the priest's strong liquor, nor had he taken a swig of concentrated sulfuric acid, but instead, following the arrangement pattern, he had chosen the item with the highest technical content in the entire cabinet.

Since the clarity at the edge of his mental sensory range was not ideal, by the time his thoughts shifted from "what is this" to "what is this person doing," he had already missed the best opportunity to warn. His hurried footsteps shouting "Stop!" as he ran upstairs might have frightened the intruder, who, in a panic, took a sharp, deep breath.

A sharp, deep breath...

Legend has it that the inventor of ether anesthesia once tested the law on himself. After anesthetizing his family pet dog, he pressed a handkerchief soaked in ether to his own mouth and nose, immediately collapsing into unconsciousness; had the handkerchief not fallen from his face, he might have died from inhaling an overdose of ether.

A fateful scene replayed: different world, different location, different people, different purposes, the same suicidal method, even a bit more direct.

In his mental vision, Kraft "saw" the entire process of losing consciousness—very panicked at first, but soon no longer panicked, and even somewhat serene.

He leaped down the stairs at top speed, rushed to the second floor, pushed open the door, and that slender figure swayed and fell before him. His last shred of consciousness made his hand desperately claw at the edge of the nearby table, dragging the table down with him.

In an era before artificial fake wood products appeared, solid, sturdy wooden furniture was still the mainstream, and this experimental table was a standout in quality among them, having withstood the trials of fire and acid, its tabletop remaining as solid as ever.

But when this table, combining texture and quality, fell freely under gravity onto the person lying on the ground, the scene would be quite... unbearable to witness.

In the clash between dense wood grown over decades in the cold northern environment and the human body, based on Kraft's personal experience, the human body's win rate is currently zero. This time was no exception; the two-inch-thick, unedged tabletop struck the relaxed, unresisting forearm in a crushing manner.

Kraft flinched, his arms feeling a phantom pain accompanied by a "crack" sound effect.

Given that the other party was unlikely to have a habit of calcium supplementation, the smashed forearm would likely become a textbook case welcomed by orthopedics.

Just like now, a typical transverse fracture on a single plane caused by direct violence.

The patient should have already woken up from the aftereffects of the ether, but due to resistance or an unwillingness to face reality, he was still pretending to be unconscious and refused to open his eyes.

From a humanitarian perspective, the otherworldly soul would prefer to inject a special medicine for "Central to Peripheral Nervous System Nothing's-Wrong-But-Insists-on-Sleeping Syndrome"—also known as Furosemide, or Lasix—the bladder would complete the persuasion process that the mouth could not.

However, the conditions for this were not currently available, so he could only move the crushed right hand slightly. Amidst a faint grating sound, the patient opened his eyes with a hoarse grimace. It seemed he wasn't made of tough bones, in both senses of the word.

It was undoubtedly a fracture; one could guess the general situation without even using mental senses.

Even now, slight swelling was visible, with obvious pain upon movement, accompanied by a rough, teeth-grating grating sound. That was the terrible sound produced when the surfaces of a complete fracture rubbed against each other during relative motion, a sound particularly terrifying in the other person's eyes.

This person was now handling his arm with great interest, showing no reaction to the twisted and deformed trauma, as ordinary as tasting a burnt loaf of lunch bread.

"Name."

"Huh?" It was not quite as imagined; he had thought the procedure would be the other party furiously asking who sent him, followed by a struggle between the two, with the specific concessions he could obtain depending on how long he could endure.

Or worse, the church might decide he had no value and dispose of him silently.

"Mr. Thief who broke into my territory, I would like to know your name." Kraft pressed down on his arm, looking as if he were about to twist it a full circle, turning this broken limb into a pretzel.

To be honest, he was somewhat terrified and simply couldn't speak.

Sometimes Kraft looked like a madman of the religious inquisition who treated lives like grass, the most terrifying version of the rumors. And he was just a bold thief from the port, tricked by a commission of two gold coins into stealing "the private belongings of a church outcast."

Those eyes stared at him, impatient, indifferent, and with some lingering strangeness that his vocabulary was unable to accurately express.

In just that moment of eye contact, he was so frightened he couldn't speak.

Kraft turned to the priest, silently asking if his demeanor was inappropriate? He had just thought of last night's nightmare and was somewhat distracted.

Adrian shook his head. Based on his experience hearing confessions, it was likely that Kraft was being too gentle, unable to intimidate the scum making a living in the dark corners of the port. He should personally slap this villain, who was trying to destroy his future financial freedom, twice, to let him understand why there are angels of punishment beneath the Lord's throne.

Kraft stopped the priest; this place still needed someone with a benevolent and gentle image to play the opposite role to the "villain."

"Alright, if you are unwilling to speak, it doesn't matter, Mr. Nameless. I am not in a hurry to know who is coveting this potion; after all, no matter what, he hasn't gotten it yet, has he?"

"We can talk about something else, like your hand. I believe its importance to you needs no elaboration, but you may not understand it as well as I do."

"The forearm, it consists of two delicate bones, like a shed supported by a wooden frame, the bones supporting the flesh and skin. Their perfect fit allows the hand to rotate normally." Kraft demonstrated the flexible movement of the forearm to the audience tied to the chair, highlighting the pronation and supination supported by the ulna and radius.

"But now? The retribution for your evil deeds has severed them in half. Just imagine: a chef's rolling pin smashing onto two fish bones."

"Crack!" He brought his palms together like a blade and struck the table hard, awakening the pain memory from the moment before he lost consciousness. "Both broken into two pieces; now your forearm has four bones."

"Oh, don't be afraid, I won't do anything, just watching from here. The pain will make you unconsciously exert force, causing the bone fragments to stick up. Have you ever seen a mast broken by a storm? Splinters pierce the sail. But this is harder than wood; it can pierce into your flesh."

"Did you hear that? That grinding sound is the fracture moving; it might also cut blood vessels, block blood flow, and the accumulated bruising will make you feel swollen, hot, and red."

Kraft gestured for him to look at the arm fixed to the armrest; there was indeed swelling, pain, and redness there, with a faint sensation of heat perceptible.

The tone shifted, as if offering kind comfort again, "But don't worry, this means it is still alive for now, temporarily."

"But here it will swell and hurt more and more; the distal end, unable to be nourished by blood flow, will instead become cold and pale, the pulse will be undetectable, and finally it will die completely, becoming a meaningless lump of flesh, slowly turning black and rotting."

Compartment syndrome, the most serious complication in the early stages of a fracture, common in the forearm, but judging by the current situation's probability... at least the results of the mental sensory exploration at the scene of the incident make it unlikely.

Kraft saw the audience carefully feeling his arm and displaying a quite twisted expression, because every point of symptom description within was correct, and there were indeed signs of worsening.

"The benefit is, you don't need to worry about how to live in the future, because the toxins from the necrotic arm will take you to hell to confess your crimes."

"This is what I want to explain to you; after all, understanding one's own physical health status is a right everyone should have..."

"Coven! My name is Coven!" He simply couldn't take it anymore; he was just a small thief whose head had been turned by a little money, at most with much higher skills than his peers and a bit famous, why did he have the honor of receiving such treatment?

"Ah, Mr. Coven, I am truly glad you are willing to speak. In these times, rational and understanding exchanges are rare; even I find it not easy to persuade others." Kraft rubbed his hands, showing a professional smile.

"Although according to the original idea, I could terminate our connection in a way simpler for me, my priest friend objects."

Adrian understood Kraft's meaning and immediately added, "Mainly, we learn to forgive others; for those who steal, teach them to correct themselves, without harming their lives."

"But this is the evil fruit cultivated by evil deeds, so I cannot count the evil fruit of his death as my fault, even if I am a doctor." Kraft shook his head, indicating he didn't care much, "Moreover, treatment can only forcibly stretch the arm and realign the bone ends to their original position; no one can endure that."

He loosened the rope slightly and tugged Coven's hand, causing him to weep and snivel in pain; it was hard to imagine how terrible it would be as described in the treatment.

"Please, think of another way! I'll tell you who sent me!" This pain was worse than all the beatings from the "teacher" who taught him how to make a living as a child; it felt as if his arm had been severed alive, and in fact, it already was.

"They thought hiring a middleman meant no one would know, but I can guess who made contact."

Another wail erupted as he tried to move his arm; the abnormal movement brought with it a cutting, needle-pricking pain. He seemed to imagine how the bone spurs were slicing through the muscle inside.

He couldn't worry about whether he could continue his life afterward; if he didn't pass this hurdle, there would be no afterward.

"I don't care much. Tomorrow I'll put these things away; no one will get what they want from this room." Kraft showed no sign of being moved; it seemed he asked for the name only to facilitate communication, and news about Corwin was less interesting than observing that arm.

The most devastating interrogation was exactly this: the other party wanted nothing, their mind racing like a madman's, topics drifting aimlessly, with the ultimate goal being only to create terror and pain.

Spiritually, Corwin felt he was not far from hell, or perhaps right at its gates; the white-robed priest before him was an angel bargaining with the devil, and those oddly shaped bottles and jars were the devil's cauldrons for boiling people.

"Still, let's think of a way? There can't be only this one treatment." That beer-bellied "angel" spoke.

The black-robed man pondered for a moment, as if reluctantly offering a choice out of consideration for a friend's face.

"I have an immature suggestion." Indeed, not very mature.

"But for you, it is an opportunity." You proved it effective yourself.

"There may be side effects like coughing, tearing, dizziness, headaches, nightmares, or even the risk of suffocation and death."

"It doesn't matter, please try it!" Corwin desperately clung to the last straw, "I must be alive to help you catch that guy!"

"Good!" Those were your words.

For the first application of ether, anesthesia-assisted reduction was far more ideal than other options, especially with this inexplicably timely practical example to guide them.

When Corwin was brought into the room again with a subtle sense of unease, he saw that the dark glass vial had once more accumulated that slightly sweet yet pungent liquid.

Kraft poured the liquid into a new flask, inserted a glass tube, and handed it to the priest along with the water trough; the solemn expression somewhat convinced Corwin that he wasn't planning to end his life.

"Without a nebulizer, try using lukewarm water, the kind where you can barely feel the heat. Stare at this thing; don't let it vanish too quickly, just enough to make him fall asleep."

Then stop in time. The reduction doesn't take long; controlling it for a few minutes is enough. Judging by the dose this fellow accidentally ingested, the amount in the bottle is currently at a safe level.

Supine position, shoulder abducted, elbow flexed. Traction along the longitudinal axis of the forearm toward the distal end, with counter-traction pulling the elbow upward.

Kraft silently recited the text, staring intently at the round-bellied glass bottle in the priest's hand, perceiving almost no change on the liquid surface. In reality, ether, with a boiling point below body temperature, was vaporizing every moment; colorless gas traveled through the tube and was inhaled by Corwin.

It was much more troublesome than the black liquid; the rate had to be precisely controlled to limit inhalation, and due to tool limitations, they could only rely on intuition. Simultaneously, they observed the patient's reaction, vigilant for adverse effects.

Corwin closed his eyes; his breathing, previously chaotic from arm pain, gradually calmed, and the rise and fall of his chest returned to a constant, steady, regular rhythm.

Attempting to pull the forearm caused no reaction; Kraft raised his hand to signal the priest to lift the ether bottle from the water and temporarily halt the release. It was cumbersome, difficult to control, and risky, but it was a method within the realm of the knowable.

Next came the traction; described in short sentences, yet requiring great strength to pull the forearm straight against the muscle groups.

Balancing brute force and precision, like wielding a greatsword to cut paper snowflakes. Internal movement competitions would see few daring to challenge orthopedics in a tug-of-war.

Only under such powerful and steady traction could rotation, shortening, angulation, and a series of displacements be accurately corrected, realigning the broken ends. With Kraft's strength, even without assistance, it was somewhat strenuous.

During the intervals of exertion, he took a moment to confirm Corwin's chest expansion was normal, ensuring the intercostal respiratory muscles wouldn't suddenly go on strike, all succumbing to the dream of ether at some moment.

Once the structure was basically in place, the final step arrived: pressing hard with fingers between the two bones. Without anesthesia, the pain of this step would likely feel like a carriage wheel rolling over.

This cruel action would separate the interosseous membrane between the two bones, completing the effect of pulling the fracture ends into full reduction for him.

"Take that bottle away."

Apply double splints for fixation, tie the bandage firmly with a dead knot; the reduction procedure was complete.

A thousand li of travel, the price of life, all used to embed the cornerstone of surgery into an era that did not belong to it in just ten minutes.