Chapter 365: Before the Procedure

“To be honest, I still don’t understand what purpose this structural variation serves,” Kraft muttered, hugging a wooden log.

No one else was here—only Kup, threading a needle through a sheep’s head, familiarizing himself with the feel of scalp suturing.

He wisely made no comment, and had no time to.

Suturing was indeed taught, but until leaving Dunling, his practice had remained stuck on overnight pigskin. The Priyel Region offered no chance to practice; just maintaining his touch was a victory.

The weather changes without warning—no one anticipated a situation this soon, one even Kraft couldn’t handle alone, forcing the only two people with basic knowledge to be thrust into action.

Knowing your assigned role isn’t hard—that’s one thing. Psychological pressure is another.

By tomorrow, the sheep’s head in your hands will be replaced by Dominic’s skull, and the lead surgeon may not even have the energy to guard you—anyone would lie awake all night.

“Don’t stress. I think you’re suturing well—just make it more even. If you keep this up, tomorrow will go smoothly.”

A fleeting, needle-sharp danger prickled through the air, raising the hairs at the back of his neck.

Kup watched as the axe was raised high, swung thrice, then came down cleanly, splitting the log in two. The cross-section revealed a hollow, etch-like cavity, as if carved out midair by an impossibly sharp blade.

“I’m the one who should be nervous,” Kraft said, holding the two halves of the log, measuring the cavity’s size and angle. He struck two more blows, reducing it to small chips, and tossed them into the fireplace.

The fire, fed with excessive fuel, scorched his cheeks. Kup had lost count of how many logs this was, yet the precision still fell short of expectations.

“No, you cut half a ring too much of the grain,” Kraft said, leaning back in his chair, breathing deeply as if suppressing some unbearable discomfort—making others even more anxious.

An abnormal state from the lead surgeon is bad news for both patient and assistant.

“Isn’t this a bit reckless?” Kup finished his final stitch, tightened the suture, and tied a secure knot front and back. “You’ve never before used ‘this thing’ directly in surgery.”

As an assistant, he knew past procedures had occasionally involved special interventions—but never had non-natural forces been applied so blatantly.

As the saying goes: once the devil sticks a foot through the door, he takes up residence in your soul.

The key significance of some acts lies not in their right or wrong, but in setting a precedent—an ominous marker.

“Necessity knows no law. Do you remember the sedative substance dumped into the well in Wenden Port?”

“How could I forget? That thing nearly killed me.”

“Back then, we diluted the raw liquid for surgical anesthesia,” Kraft said, picking up a new log and closing his eyes again.

Kup felt suffocated—whether from some invisible, intangible presence filling the room, or from the shock of learning the true origin of the earliest anesthetic.

Perhaps he had never truly left that world—from Wenden Port to the south, from start to now, the gaze from the other side had followed him like a shadow.

“You know, if the raw liquid hadn’t been dumped into the well and shown its wide-ranging consequences, we might still be considering replacing ether inhalation with it in high-risk surgeries—it’s simply too perfect.”

“If we control surgical volume and population density in the affected area, the theoretical risk of problems is very low.”

“This case is much the same—we’re using this cutting method only as a temporary emergency measure. Eventually, as experience and technical conditions mature, it will be replaced, though we’ll likely never achieve a similar effect again.”

As he spoke, Kraft rose again and split another log, murmuring in satisfaction—this time, the positioning was precise. Practice made perfect.

“Of course, your concern is valid. Using non-natural forces is like lighting a fire in a forest at night—the more you do it, the higher the chance something will come.”

“But the outcome depends on who holds the flame: a child with no weapons, or a fully armed knight. If it’s the latter, ordinary wolves and jackals don’t matter.”

“We’re no longer helpless children—but the forest we wander isn’t haunted by just wolves and jackals. If only we had an army.”

“But an army makes far more noise,” Kup said. No one understood the terror of facing unknowable darkness better than he did—let alone becoming its focal point.

He had always opposed actively using that side’s power—but Kraft’s exceptions always came with sufficient justification. Kup couldn’t argue against a master with his own irrational fears.

“May you succeed.”

“May we succeed,” Kraft nodded. “Don’t throw away the sutured sheep’s head. Can’t eat it—save it for the culture medium to make gelatin.”

His hands trembled slightly—revealing he wasn’t as calm as he appeared. Even this minor use of “magic” carried a heavy burden.

“Come, let’s go over tomorrow’s procedure one last time.”

Kup took a deep breath. “Begin preparations before morning prayer. I’ll lead the team to clean the second-floor scripture-copying room, converted into the operating suite. The patient arrives, we confirm fasting time, then initiate inhalation anesthesia.”

“We expect anesthesia to be complete by the end of morning prayer. Notify you to enter, then we’ll jointly disinfect the skin and lay the drapes—pay special attention to covering the patient’s eyes. After that, I’ll just hold the ether bottle.”

“Lighting must avoid all open flames—only use silver mirrors for reflection. The base is already fixed, positioned far from the operating table. Yi Feng is adapting to the device—it’s heavy, but nothing for her.”

He paused, realizing the sheep’s head was still in his hands. He set it aside and continued reciting the routine he knew by heart: “You’ll incise the forehead skin and skull. Benny may observe from a distance—we hope our success gives him confidence.”

“Then proceed deeper. I’ll monitor the patient’s condition and administer supplemental anesthesia as needed. Before using the special method to observe and cut, you’ll warn me to prepare.”

“Good. Continue,” Kraft moved his chair away from the fire—perhaps the heat was too intense; sweat seemed to be beading on his back.

“Start timing once we enter the cranium. The hourglass flips twice to mark halfway, four times to signal we must finish soon. If you notice my condition deteriorating, speak up immediately—otherwise, stay silent.”

“If all goes well, you’ll finish before breakfast. Then I’ll re-sterilize my hands and take over suturing.”

“Mr. Benny is permitted to observe from a distance throughout the procedure—we hope your success gives him the courage to sign his child’s surgical consent form.”

“Exactly right,” Kraft exhaled slightly, then posed a sharp question: “What if I make a mistake—or even faint?”

“Then I’ll secure the scene, close the incision neatly, announce to others that the patient has been called by the Lord, manage Feld and Benny’s emotions, just as we did after past failed treatments. Then prepare confession, sacraments, and burial.”

“Correct,” Kraft uttered the final word, collapsing into his chair, the aged mortise joints groaning under his weight.

His lips, slightly pale, murmured something—like a monk’s whispered prayer.

Kup removed the sutures from the sheep’s head and tossed it into the pot boiling over the fire. He quietly closed the door and left.

Before stepping out, he saw Kraft raise his hand, gripping an invisible blade, bringing it down upon imaginary skin.

(End of Chapter)