Chapter 386

Kraft silently thanked his past self from half a month ago, who had habitually equipped the clinic with a full set of instruments that would rarely ever be used. If ether could be stored long-term, this place could even handle minor surgeries.

But even with all the tools available, carefully unwinding the bandages still took considerable time.

After sending the bewildered cultivator back up the mountain for ether and specifically warning him to avoid jolts, Kraft began his procedure.

It was clear the field emergency treatment had been rushed—so rushed, in fact, that the entire bandaging process radiated panic.

Like a rope carelessly tossed onto a mast during a storm, the bandages spiraled haphazardly around limbs and torso, uneven in density and tension; some bit deep into the skin, leaving deep and shallow purplish-red pressure marks, while others hung loosely over the wounds, sliding and shifting constantly.

The joints were the most heavily layered, yet also the worst. The handler clearly recognized the need for joint mobility, but couldn’t recall how to apply a figure-eight bandage, so resorted to wrapping extra layers in a desperate attempt to compensate.

Due to these errors, even slight flexion caused the bandage loops to slip downward, piling up layers of cloth padding—tight spots tightened further, loose spots grew looser, the distal ends turned pale and cold from poor circulation, while the proximal ends swelled and reddened.

The natural contours of the joints inevitably exposed patches of skin, and the wounds showed signs of repeated tearing; old and fresh bloodstains overlapped into mottled reddish-brown patches.

As the scissors slid beneath the first layer of bandage, a faint, brittle crackling sound echoed—like crumpling dried paper. The sensation of peeling it away resembled half-dry, decaying leaves: a texture between soft and firm, beneath which emanated the odor of rusted metal, dulled by time, neither sharp nor intense.

With each snip of the scissors, the bandages peeled away like layers of an onion. Some clung stubbornly to the wound; slight tugging triggered sharp, peripheral spasms of pain, requiring slow moistening with diluted saline before careful lifting.

The skin, freed from its bindings, resembled damp lime, washed in a damp, grayish-white hue. Pressing with the fingertip revealed slow, stiff recoil; the barely visible blood color took two or three breaths to return.

Linear scars spiraled around the torso and outer limbs, especially severe on the arms—some reached deep into the dermis, revealing small, oval, milky-yellow granules that gleamed with an oily sheen.

What was incomprehensible was that the wound’s periphery had already clotted and crusted, yet deeper layers remained moist—not due to putrefactive necrosis from infection, but an alien kind of “freshness,” with tiny red dots still oozing, converging into fine streams.

Even more baffling was how the patient had survived days of mountain jolts and arrived alive before him.

Given the depth and extent of these wounds—though confined to superficial venules and capillaries—the sheer number and surface area of incisions guaranteed massive total blood loss, rendering conventional pressure-point hemostasis ineffective.

Only uniform, broad-pressure dressing with large gauze pads could achieve meaningful control.

With Kup and Yin Feng’s skill level, this was clearly impossible.

Of course, this wasn’t meant to blame Kup—he had done the absolute best possible within his capabilities, even remembering to clean and disinfect the wound, proving the effectiveness of his medical training.

After all, no one had ever anticipated such a scenario during instruction. Battlefields typically involved one or a few large, deep wounds; rare indeed was the case of widespread, non-fatal injuries like this.

“God be praised.” Since survival couldn’t be fully explained by first aid alone, only two possibilities remained.

Either the wound was unnatural, or God’s blessing had activated clotting factors and platelets.

Though he held some reverence for the latter, Kraft leaned toward the former: “So it’s like this?”

“No, the wound seems to be deepening.”

“Could it just be tearing from the jolts?”

“No, I checked every time I changed the dressing. The initial deepening was more pronounced; it’s only stabilized now, unrelated to the jolts.” Kup’s answer confirmed the suspicion—and perhaps explained why the wound’s depths remained fresh.

He suddenly remembered something, pulled two lead boxes from his pack, unfastened the straps, and revealed his findings: a bone arrowhead, and a smooth human sphenoid bone.

“You should’ve seen that thing—a winged serpent, or maybe a dragon?”

As he spoke and gestured, Kraft pieced together the full account of their attack by an invisible yet tangible entity, and the origin of the bizarre illness.

The lacerations caused by the flying creature’s scales shared its own peculiar nature: existing in an ambiguous state, manifesting increasingly tangible effects over time.

It wasn’t merely distorting perception—it was genuinely blurring the boundary between cognition and matter, producing a reversed temporal injury pattern: initially mild, then worsening.

The good news was, the wound itself still belonged to the material realm.

Beni watched eagerly, perhaps hoping Kraft would perform some miracle and seal the wounds instantly.

But reality fell far short of expectation.

Kraft didn’t rush to treat the wounds; instead, he touched several patches of skin with his fingertips and uttered an unfamiliar term:

“Shock.”

Before anyone asked, he explained while acting swiftly: he pulled out a cloth bundle that clinked inside, and spread its contents on a table hastily wiped with strong alcohol.

“He’s lost too much blood—his organs are nearly suffocating. We need to replace it.”

Sharp hollow needles, syringes with plungers, glass vials of various sizes, and a pile of unidentifiable silver tubes and leather rings.

“Kup, assemble this.” Kraft selected the needle and left the rest to his assistant, who had already begun washing his hands.

After feeling along the patient’s mottled, pale arms and legs, he hesitated briefly, then shifted his focus to below the collarbone, then the neck.

The needle tip adjusted through several angles, then finally rose again as his brow furrowed deeper.

“What’s wrong?” Kup, though injured on one arm, still moved deftly—linking silver tubes with leather rings into a flexible, elongated conduit connected to a glass bottle’s mouth.

“The veins are collapsed.” Finding them was hard enough, but the real problem was that any insertion risked puncturing straight through.

There was still a way—just brutal.

Kraft discarded the fine needle and, under Kup’s bewildered gaze, opened a thoracic puncture kit, pressed the sturdiest needle he could find against the front of the tibia just below the knee, and drove it down like a carpenter hammering a wedge.

With a grating “click” and a faint cry of pain, the needle sank vertically downward.

“Quick, connect the IV line—bring two bottles of saline.”

Veins may collapse, but bone marrow cavities do not—life-sustaining fluid, traveling through the body’s hardest structure, replenished its most active, softest system.