Chapter 9 – Do Proper Healers Really Get Treated This Well?

  They had already been patrolling for a full day and a half. Turning back to the city now? Not realistic.

  Luckily, fragments of memory from the original body confirmed that just ten or so more li ahead y a rge farming estate. So the squad hoisted the stretcher and began their slow, winding march forward.

  As they left the farmhouse, Gret couldn’t help but veer slightly off the trail, curiosity gnawing at him. He circled around to the area where the wild dogs had been gnawing earlier.

  What he saw made his chest tighten.

  A grave.

  A shallow one—barely two feet deep. Stone sbs loosely framed the pit, but the body that had been buried there?

  Half of it was already exposed.

  The wild dogs had been at it for some time.

  They were pressed for time. No tools. All they could do was keep moving.

  An hour ter, they crested a low ridge and took a break to rest and rehydrate. The early summer sun beat down, and even the air seemed to buzz. Karen, still lying on the stretcher, propped himself up slightly and called out:

  “Little Gret… water, please…”

  Of course. Gret took a deep breath and braced himself.

  In his past life, before and after any abdominal surgery, patient education had been standard procedure. But here? No nurses. No handouts. No calm expnations.

  Just him. Rolling up his sleeves. Again.

  “No,” he said firmly. “You can’t eat anything right now. And you can’t drink water either.”

  “What? Not even a sip?”

  “Not even if you’re dying of thirst.”

  Karen blinked in confusion. “Then… when can I drink?”

  Gret: “…”

  By conventional standards, after abdominal surgery, the patient should wait two to three days for intestinal peristalsis to resume—once they pass gas or hear gut sounds, they can start fluids.

  But.

  Most postoperative intestinal paralysis was due to anesthesia. A smaller part was surgical trauma.

  And that surgery?

  Had no anesthesia. At all. The intestines had been damaged, yes—but they’d been hit with a literal healing potion. And healed on the spot.

  So… would that accelerate peristalsis return? Or dey it?

  Gret’s mind went into academic overdrive.

  Surgical textbooks. Physiology notes. Countless studies. Nutritional guidelines from ESPEN, ASPEN—version after version of clinical nutrition protocols fshed through his brain like a slideshow from med school hell.

  In front of him, Uncle Karen’s hopeful eyes. All around him, his teammates holding their breath.

  One second. Two. Three.

  Under the early summer sun, a single drop of cold sweat slid down Gret’s spine.

  Nobody in the st century had performed abdominal surgery without anesthesia. No precedent. No data. No clinical trials.

  No clue.

  What was he supposed to base this on? Vibes?

  No choice but to go old-school.

  Gritting his teeth, Gret knelt on one knee, hands on the ground, and leaned forward.

  “Uncle Karen, hold still. I’m going to listen…”

  He peeled back the patched armor and torn shirt, leaned in sideways, and pressed his ear to Karen’s abdomen.

  Immediately, a pungent blend of sweat, blood, and faint decay smacked him in the face.

  He flinched backward, nearly passing out from the stench.

  God… why couldn’t I have a stethoscope?

  His 3M stethoscope! The firetruck-red one he’d bought with his own money!

  Even that cheap fish-brand model they issued at work—barely 1/10th the price of the 3M and about as precise as a rock—but right now? He’d give anything to have it.

  Or heck, even a Pringles can. It wouldn’t get him published in The Lancet, but at least it’d pick up some damn sounds!

  Day one of transmigration, and Gret had already lost count of how many times he’d been on the verge of tears.

  So tragic.

  Still, he managed to keep his voice calm and reassuring:

  “Uncle Karen, don’t worry. Once your intestines start making that gurgling sound again, you’ll be able to drink a little.”

  “…What about eating?”

  “Nope! Absolutely not! Uncle Karen, please just hold out a bit longer—once you’re fully recovered, I’ll cook something good for you myself!”

  “You tryna poison me, Little Gret?” Captain Karen burst into hearty ughter.

  Gret: “…”

  Hey! Just because the original guy was a terrible cook doesn’t mean I am, okay?

  I will redeem myself one day! Just wait!

  But revenge-by-cuisine would have to wait. Gret held his breath and leaned in again, listening closely—but still heard no telltale "gurgle gurgle" of bowel movement. Straightening up, he exhaled hard and reassured the patient:

  “Uncle Karen, you still can’t drink yet. Just hang in there—should be two, maybe three days max. If your mouth’s really dry, here—soak a cloth in water and dab your lips, but that’s it.”

  After the short break, the squad hit the road again.

  Thanks to the earlier fight and the emergency surgery, they were seriously behind schedule. By the time they reached the estate where they’d be staying the night, it was already pitch dark.

  Gret followed the team out of the forest. Up ahead, the farmstead’s lights bzed through the night—way brighter than expected.

  “Huh. That’s… a lot of lights for a farm,” muttered Wally the shieldbearer.

  As they drew closer, the reason became obvious. Outside the courtyard, in the middle of the threshing ground, stood a luxurious carriage—silent and still, yet completely out of pce amidst the farm’s modest, worn-down surroundings.

  Bck walnut body. Silver trim shaped like narcissus blossoms. And at the heart of each blossom, a gleaming sapphire, catching the light like a beacon.

  This wasn’t just “rich folk” money. This was noble money.

  Gret immediately led the group into a detour.

  Even little freckle-faced John the priest-in-training, though technically clergy now, was born a commoner. He had no desire to get involved with nobility. He kept his head down and followed without a word.

  The farmstead was fairly rge—several buildings huddled together into a squat, irregur sprawl. A fence of pointed wooden stakes enclosed the area, spaced tightly enough that even a fist couldn’t slip between them.

  Whoever owned this pce clearly took security seriously.

  The group followed the fence around to the back entrance. The farm owner himself came out to greet them, looking surprised but friendly, and led them around to the kitchen. Apparently, he used to serve as a squad leader in the city guard himself and knew Captain Karen well.

  The moment he saw his old friend injured, his face darkened with concern:

  “What happened to you?”

  “Ai… well, at least you’re still breathing! That’s what matters!”

  “Good thing we’ve got guests tonight—kitchen’s got mutton stew on the fire!”

  “What? He can’t eat? …Fine, fine. The rest of you eat double, then!”

  While the kitchen bustled with preparations, Gret stood quietly just outside the doorway to the main hall and peeked inside.

  It was long and wide, but oddly low—far too short for its footprint. The packed dirt floor was pale and solid, likely a mix of lime and cy.

  At the far end, a raised earth ptform created a second level. A single table rested atop it, covered with a pin tablecloth. Another, longer but shorter table ran perpendicur from the ptform all the way to the entrance, forming a T-shaped yout.

  Gret recognized this setup.

  Old films. Documentaries. Oxford, Cambridge, even Hogwarts. Nobles and schors sat on the high table. Commoners ate below.

  The high table's feast was already finished. A young priest, maybe just over twenty, lounged there, sipping red wine with practiced ease. A polished silver goblet glinted in his fingers.

  The priest’s light blue silk robes shimmered with every movement. In front of him y a full spread of polished cutlery—forks, knives, spoons. Not a single piece out of pce.

  Seated beside him was a knight in gleaming armor, sword sheathed at his side but within easy reach.

  Down at the long table, dishes were already half-cleared. Half the escorting soldiers had dispersed. A few scruffy teens in rough linen—likely farmhands—were still wolfing down leftovers with wild abandon.

  “What’re you staring at?”

  A heavy hand cpped down on Gret’s shoulder. He turned to see Raymond grinning like a cat, leaning around him to peek into the hall.

  “Ohh, a priest of the Springwater Goddess, huh. Not bad, not bad.”

  He nodded toward the silk-robed man and chuckled:

  “See that? Now that’s what a proper healer gets—carriage, silk robes, silver dishes, wine…”

  Raymond gave him a friendly nudge.

  “Just wait, Little Gret. You’ll have all that soon enough.”