The Witcher: Astartes Of The Bear School

Chapter 45: Surgery

"Allen! Where are you? Something's happened! Go get the package I left at your house! Hurry!" Lan maneuvered the small boat, which almost crashed into the dock at Oreton.

The villagers, gathered in a circle, stared in shock at the fishing boat belonging to Bernie. The bottom of the boat was stained crimson from the blood of two people.

A few village women, anxious to speak about Ms. Donna, hesitated when they saw Bernie's pale face. It was clear they had something important to say, but they couldn't decide what was more urgent—their news or Bernie's condition.

Lan was alone, with only his own strength to rely on. Dragging Bernie onto the dock, Lan didn't even notice the crowd watching him, which was unusual in normal times.

"Oh God! Bernie, I'm on it! I'm on it!" Old Allen, already looking distressed, now wore a look of terror. His old legs moved quickly, and within half a minute, he returned with a leather bag.

"Find a few people and light torches to stand around me," Lan said, rummaging through the bag.

Old Allen, unsure if this was some magical ritual, was too flustered to question it and immediately complied. He gathered a few people with torches to form a circle.

The bolt of the crossbow was completely embedded in Bernie's stomach, and in Old Allen's experience, this was as good as a moving corpse. But Lan was a witcher! Maybe there was hope?

Lan pulled out a set of small, delicate surgical tools from the bag. These tools, commissioned from Ivan, were meant for Lan himself.

"Bring the torches closer," Lan said, removing his spiked leather gloves and steel wrist guards. The torches had nothing to do with magic; they were to kill most of the bacteria in the air with heat, similar to working with an alcohol burner. Lan needed to perform surgery on Bernie immediately, even without a proper surgical environment.

Bernie's lips were already pale. Lan took out a brown bottle from the bag. Redanian herbal, commonly used as a base for witcher potions, was a potent spirit. While pure distilled dwarven spirits would have been better, there was no time for that. Lan poured the expensive wine over his hands, wrists, the delicate tools, and Bernie's wound.

"Mentos, correct my double vision," Lan said, his actions methodical. Once he began the surgical steps, Lan forced himself to calm down from his anxious state. His brain, under the stress of a 70% skill infusion, reacted with visual afterimages, a normal response.

Mentos quickly completed its task. The blurred, overlapping vision was artificially corrected, and though the headache persisted, Lan's eyes and hands were now incredibly steady.

Old Allen and the crowd watched, their confidence bolstered by Lan's orderly actions. The village elder, worried about Bernie, cast a sympathetic glance at Ms. Donna, who sat slumped on the ground. He wanted to speak to the busy Lan but was stopped by Ms. Donna, who gently shook her head as she held his arm. The village elder could only sigh and remain silent for now.

Lan's hands were steady, a fact that anyone who had seen his swordsmanship would attest to. And Lan, who had hunted dozens of drowners, was well-acquainted with the feel of a blade cutting through flesh. He manipulated the delicate tools, cutting through skin, fat, muscle, and parting the organs, layer by layer, until he reached the depth where the bolt was embedded.

No one dared to speak, and many instinctively held their breath.

Lan finally breathed a sigh of relief when the surgical tool made contact with the crossbow bolt, the sensation of metal against metal.

There was no foul smell of shit, indicating the bolt had not punctured Bernie's intestines. If the intestines had been damaged, shit entering the abdominal cavity would have meant Bernie faced the greatest enemy of ancient surgery—infection. The survival rate for ancient surgery without infection was about 30%.

Now, regardless, Bernie's survival rate was higher than most injured people of this era.

Lan carefully removed the bolt without causing further damage and cleaned the wound with the potent herbal wine. The cause of the bleeding was a severed vein in the abdominal cavity, which Lan promptly sutured. In the final stages of suturing, as the alcohol-soaked needle and thread closed the wound, Lan finally exhaled.

It was as if this breath was a signal, and the previously silent, tense crowd began to murmur. Old Allen cautiously took a couple of steps towards Lan, and seeing that the young man didn't stop him, he knew things were probably alright.

Lan, who had been bending slightly to finish the last few stitches, straightened up. "The bleeding has stopped. If Bernie doesn't develop a fever today or tomorrow, he just needs to rest," Lan said, thinking Old Allen wanted to know the situation.

This old man had lived in Velen his whole life and, in terms of local knowledge, he knew everything about Velen life. A fishing boat returning with its owner shot by a crossbow—this couldn't be an accident, could it? Velen was indeed a harsh environment, but it wasn't this terrifying, especially not in peacetime. 

So, after explaining Bernie's condition, Lan was about to tell Old Allen about today's events. The young man thought this would be the village elder's primary concern.

But as the young man, with his slightly bent back and relaxed demeanor, looked at Old Allen's expression, he immediately reconsidered his judgment. The old man's face showed not curiosity but lingering anxiety and fear.

At this moment, Lan's keen observation, freed from the tension and focus, came back online. It was unusual for the fishing village to have so many people gathered at the dock during working hours.

Old Allen approached Lan with a cautious look. Lan's amber cat-like eyes scanned the area and naturally fell on Ms. Donna, who sat slumped with a small piece of cloth in her hand. A terrible guess began to creep into Lan's mind.

"It's not your fault, Lan," Old Allen finally said after hesitating for a long time. "We... we all share the responsibility."

The young man's cat-like eyes looked at him, the vertical pupils almost shrinking to a slit in an instant. This wasn't about Bernie being shot; Lan sensed that immediately.

"Old Allen, what do you mean?"

The slightly bent back straightened again, and the breath Lan had let out was held once more. The old man tightly gripped his pipe.

"Young White went missing this morning while gathering herbs outside the village."

***

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