Chapter 4 – A Surgery Without a Single Thing You Need

  Following surgical protocol to the best of his ability, Wu Zhou scrubbed from fingertips to elbows with water and crushed soapberries. Once done, he cupped a handful of hard liquor and meticulously rubbed it into his skin.

  As he disinfected, he sighed internally: No running water. No antimicrobial soap. No iodine, no chlorhexidine.

  Even the standard triple scrub had to be cut down to two rushed passes. If he were back in the ER, a surgical nurse would’ve chewed him out on the spot.

  And this so-called “liquor”? Judging by the smell alone, the alcohol content probably wasn’t even enough to disinfect a papercut.

  As for sterile gloves? Forget it. Whether the patient got an infection now… was up to fate.

  Oh right—no antibiotics either.

  No sulfa drugs. No penicillin. No cephalosporins, no coverage at all…

  And now he was about to go barehanded into someone’s gut. The thought of suturing intestines and closing up the abdomen with zero prophyxis? Wu Zhou felt a shiver crawl down his spine.

  This was a full-on gamble. Life or death.

  But if the intestines were damaged and he didn’t do anything? Fecal contamination. Peritonitis. Sepsis. And a dozen other fatal complications.

  In real hospitals, closing up without checking the intestines properly would get your name scrawled all over a malpractice report—and maybe pelted with rotten eggs by the entire GI surgery department.

  So… lesser evil it was.

  Wu Zhou took a deep breath and began palpating the intestines, starting from the duodenum and inching downward.

  Blood-soaked coils slid across his fingers. Slippery, warm, pulsing.

  A moment ter—

  BLARGHHH—

  The red-haired archer colpsed to his knees, hurling violently into the grass. His forehead nearly nded in his own vomit.

  The young cleric turned a deathly shade of white, lips pressed tight, cheeks puffing as he fought back the urge to throw up. Behind them came a loud thump—the water-fetching soldier had dropped his bucket and joined the chorus of retching.

  Let them puke, Wu Zhou thought dryly. Puke long enough and you’ll get used to it.

  But when he looked down at the patient again—

  His soul almost left his body.

  “You’re awake?! Hold him down—hold him down now!!”

  Hell. Intra-op awakening. No—who was he kidding? There was never any anesthesia to begin with!

  The guy had just woken up.

  While Wu Zhou was elbow-deep in his intestines.

  STAY STILL, MAN.

  Several warriors—faces smeared with tears and vomit—rushed in to restrain the patient. The injured man, now fully conscious, thrashed in terror. Despite having lost at least 500ml of blood, he fought back with wild strength. It took three men just to pin him down.

  Wu Zhou, drenched in cold sweat, held a length of jejunum in one hand and a piece of ileum in the other.

  “Don’t move! Don’t move!!”

  No anesthesia. No sedatives. God, if someone had anything remotely reliable, even a precise knock to the head might be a blessing right now…

  Just kidding. If he caused an epidural hematoma, Wu Zhou had no clue how to treat it out here anyway.

  After several rounds of calming, coaxing, and reassuring, the patient finally stopped filing.

  Wu Zhou returned to the inspection. Inch by inch, he checked every segment of intestine.

  Jejunum—clear. No tears. Thank god. Now the ileum—this section had spilled out earlier. It was the highest-risk area.

  Then he saw it.

  A 5cm tear.

  Thank heaven he caught it.

  If he’d missed it and returned the bowel to the abdomen without checking…

  Wu Zhou didn’t need imagination. He could already see the internal bleeding, the infection, the peritonitis, the sepsis, the death. In surgery, if you find it and fix it—fine. If you miss it, even by a millimeter?

  Game over.

  Normally, this would call for sutures. But right now? He had nothing.

  Well, not nothing.

  Wu Zhou carefully inverted the tiny healing potion bottle, letting a few remaining drops fall onto the wound.

  One drop. Two drops…

  Under his watchful gaze, the slender tear began to close. Like a time-pse video in slow motion, the tissue wriggled, knitted, sealed.

  One centimeter. Two centimeters…

  And then—nothing.

  The healing stopped.

  Wu Zhou plugged the cork back in, shook the bottle hard, uncorked it again—

  One st drop.

  Please… Any god who’s listening. Buddha, Daoist immortals, Holy Virgin, Odin, whoever handed out these healing potions—

  Please let this be enough.

  Or at the very least—

  Please let this drop finish the job.

  Another centimeter closed.

  Another drop…

  Done. Healed. Perfect.

  Wu Zhou finally let out a breath of relief and continued examining further down the intestine. Thankfully, the rest of the ileum, along with the cecum and colon, were all intact. As for the rectum—way too low to be affected by the trauma. No need to check.

  Irrigation. Closure. Let’s finish this.

  Oh wait—no 37°C saline solution here. Of course. He’d have to make it himself.

  “Is the water boiling yet?” he called out.

  “Not yet!”

  Figures.

  Of course it’s not.

  Wu Zhou just stood there for a second, arms raised in a helpless gesture. This was what “rock bottom” looked like.

  He supposed he should be grateful they even had this crumbling shack to boil water in—and some crude salt to work with at all.

  He inhaled. Again. A third time.

  Then, hands held in front of him like a surgeon waiting to be gowned, Wu Zhou twisted his torso awkwardly and watched the pot until the water finally came to a boil.

  Once it did, he started barking instructions, live and unscripted, like a one-man med school practicum:

  “Pour the boiled water into the cooled boiled water—not too much! Taste it—no, don’t drink it straight, pour it out first and sip. The temperature should feel neutral—not hot, not cold.”

  “Good. Now add the salt. Not too much—just a pinch about the size of your first thumb joint. Crush it and toss it in. Swirl it. Now taste again. Salty, but not bitter?”

  “Perfect. Now hand it over—let me taste.”

  “Why are we putting salt in it?” the young cleric asked at st. He’d finally stopped vomiting, though the freckles on his face looked a little faded. Still, his eyes were as curious and sparkling as ever.

  Without missing a beat, Wu Zhou shot back:

  “Because normal saline doesn’t sting.”

  “‘Normal’… what? Why doesn’t it sting?”

  Wu Zhou: “…”

  Crap. Slipped up.

  This world didn’t have a clue what normal saline was. And how was he supposed to expin why it didn’t hurt?

  What now—give a spontaneous physiology lecture? Start from osmotic pressure, go through cell membrane gradients, all the way to nociceptor stimution?

  He cleared his throat and improvised: “Saline that matches the salt level of your blood. That’s all it is. Your blood doesn’t sting when it hits your own wound, right?”

  “Oh… but… salt’s expensive!”

  Wait, what? Salt is expensive?

  Wu Zhou was stunned.

  In clinical settings back home, saline was one of the most common supplies in the entire damn hospital. You used it to flush wounds, clean tubes, irrigate body cavities—it was practically free-flowing water. One big operation could go through dozens of liters. No one even blinked.

  And now someone was telling him salt was a luxury?

  He looked around at the rough stone walls, the thatched roof, the dark little shack that barely qualified as a house.

  Yeah… okay. Salt was probably expensive here.

  “Expensive or not, we need it. Without proper saline concentration, the wound won’t heal right.”

  Use pin water and the osmotic pressure’s all wrong. You’d wipe out half the local cells, trigger ion imbance, maybe even systemic complications…

  Not that anyone here even knew what cells or ions were.

  The cleric looked thoughtful, nodding as if he sort of got it. Just then, a hoarse voice shouted from across the room:

  “Cough—Little Gret! Saline’s ready!”

  Want to read ahead?

  Chapters are already avaible on Patreon!Support the transtion and get early access here: https:///c/WuxiaNovelTranstions?redirect=true