Chapter 2: Barehanded Liver Gate Clamp

Chapter 2: Barehanded Liver Gate Clamp

“Little Garrett…?”

The young man looked up at Wu Zhou in a daze.

Wu Zhou ignored him completely and dove straight to the wounded man’s side. His eyes swept the area in one quick glance—

No table.

No stretcher.

Not even a remotely elevated platform that could pass for an operating surface…

Screw it. Desperate times call for desperate measures!

Wu Zhou clenched his jaw. In surgery, everything below the waist was considered a contaminated zone. Kneeling on the ground to operate was a major violation of sterile protocol.

But here? In this hellhole of a battlefield? Forget sterile zones—the first priority is saving the patient’s life!

As he observed, he started barking orders:

“You! Over here—press here on his arm! Press hard, no letting up—yes, there! And his leg, where I’m pressing—good, tighter! You! Hold this spot! You—get his clothes off!”

“They won’t come off!”

“Then rip them! Cut them open if you have to!”

The full authority of a senior ER attending surged off Wu Zhou like an aura of command—and no one could resist it.

Three or four people scrambled to follow his orders: some pressing down to stop the bleeding, some stripping clothes, one boiling water. The water-boiler darted in and out of a small hut like a madman, too busy even to exchange words with his comrades.

Even the young priest was roped in, hands pressed awkwardly on the patient’s arteries—left on the brachial artery, right on the posterior tibial artery. The positions were so bizarre the boy was sprawled out on the ground, twisted into a weird contortionist shape…

Nobody had time to question whether Wu Zhou actually knew what he was doing. In moments of desperation, all it takes is one person with confidence and authority—and people will instinctively follow.

Just like drowning men grabbing at anything that floats—even a blade of grass feels like salvation.

Wu Zhou locked his eyes on the injured man. His mouth gave commands, but his body was already moving—dropping to his knees, right hand pressing gently against the patient’s neck. He slowed his own breathing, counting the pulse:

Heartbeat’s still good. Under 100… no, wait—getting faster. That’s bad. Could be massive internal bleeding!

The carotid pulse was weakening. Face pale. Skin clammy. Breathing shallow and rapid…

A storm of diagnostic signs flashed through Wu Zhou’s mind. All bad news.

Blood pressure? No clue. No sphygmomanometer in sight, let alone a mercury one.

He’d have to eyeball it.

Thankfully, Wu Zhou had years of ER experience—countless field visits in the back of a 120 (ambulance). He could practically smell critical trauma just by looking.

And this guy? He was screaming hypovolemic shock.

The man’s leather armor was already stripped off and tossed aside. His shirt had been torn open, revealing a horrifying wound across the abdomen.

A long gash—easily 20 centimeters—ran diagonally from the upper right to the lower left quadrant.

Blood gushed out in dark spurts.

Wu Zhou took one look and every hair on his body stood up.

Holy shit. This amount of bleeding—either an artery’s burst, or the liver, spleen, or kidney’s been ripped open!

His hand moved instinctively to his waist. A flicker of steel flashed in the sun—the dagger practically leapt into his palm.

He didn’t even think. His eyes locked onto the wound as he raised the blade.

Thank God. This guy had visible abs—six-pack and all. That meant one thing: the anatomy was just like back on Earth.

Right below the skin was the rectus abdominis muscle, wrapped in its sheath. The safest entry point was along the edge of that sheath—cutting there minimized nerve and vessel damage…

Please, oh please—let the anatomy in this divine-magic-ridden world still follow human norms!

Wu Zhou held his breath, focused, and sliced along the edge of the wound, down the right side of the rectus abdominis.

No time to play it safe. No assistants. No retractors. No careful blunt dissection.

He drove the blade straight through the anterior sheath, muscle, and posterior sheath—all in one go.

A 10cm incision tore open under his knife.

Dark, almost black blood surged out like a flood.

"What are you doing!"

The young priest, who had been ordered to press down on the bleeding by Wu Zhou, screamed at the top of his lungs—his voice nearly cracking with panic.

Not only did he scream, he also lunged forward on pure instinct, arms outstretched as he shielded the wounded man’s abdomen with his whole body. His expression was one of tragic resolve, as if every freckle on his face was shouting:

"If you want to hurt him, you’ll have to go through me first!"

Wu Zhou: “……”

Tch. This is exactly why they don’t let family members into the OR.

The moment they see a doctor slicing and cutting someone open, they lose it and charge in like madmen.

He didn’t even have time to properly curse—just a flash of sarcasm in his head. Wu Zhou gripped his dagger tighter in his right hand, then shoved the priest backward with his left, sending him toppling off balance. He roared:

“Who told you to let go?! Press on the wound! If you don’t, he’s gonna bleed out and die!”

“But you—”

“I’m saving him! He’s bleeding inside! I need to stop that bleeding! MOVE!!”

“…Oh…”

Defeated, the little priest slunk back to his original spot, folding his body back into that awkward pose, craning his neck to peek at the patient’s belly.

Wu Zhou glanced over—his pressure points and posture looked passable—so he shifted his focus back to the surgical field.

He turned his dagger sideways, using the spine of the blade to gently nudge aside the abdominal muscles, parting them for a better view.

“What’s that?”

The priest on the other side asked. Wu Zhou didn’t even look up as he kept exploring the abdominal cavity.

“The liver.”

“Oh… that’s the liver, huh…”

The young priest mumbled as he tried harder to see. Wu Zhou didn’t even bother scolding him anymore. The sterile field had already been a lost cause the moment this whole mess started.

As long as the guy didn’t spit into the wound, whatever—he could watch all he liked.

Right now, the liver was the priority.

Wu Zhou spotted it immediately. Thank God, the organs were in the same place. The anatomy hadn’t changed. This magic-infused world still had humans that made anatomical sense. No mysterious glands for spellcasting. No floating kidneys of doom.

Left lobe, right lobe…

“Ahhh! So much blood!”

“Shut up!”

Wu Zhou scowled.

There—the central area of the right lobe of the liver—a jagged tear, slicing straight down. From the heart of that tear, bright red arterial blood was gushing nonstop!

His earlier guess had been dead-on. The abdominal cavity was indeed filling with blood—and the liver was the culprit.

A deep parenchymal liver laceration, by the look of it… He didn’t dare probe too far, but by eye, it was at least 1cm deep. With that level of active bleeding—

This was absolutely a Grade III injury.

Not the worst possible grade, but still…

“P-please save him…”

The young priest was falling apart, trembling and stammering, voice nearly breaking:

“P-please… just save him…”

Of course I’m going to save him!

Wu Zhou was screaming inside.

This kind of injury? In the ER, with proper tools and staff? Totally manageable.

But out here, in the middle of nowhere, without a single piece of equipment? This was hell.

His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would crack his ribs.

He bent lower, pulling aside the abdominal wall with his left hand, reaching into the cavity with his right.

He lifted the liver, nudged the stomach aside, shifted the intestines…

“Wh-what are you doing…?”

The priest’s voice was shaking so hard it sounded like he might faint—but he still kept watching.

Wu Zhou decided the boy had earned a bit of an explanation:

“Checking if any other organs are bleeding. Hmm… No bleeding from the gallbladder, spleen looks okay. Kidney… it’s more toward the back, not likely, but let me check… Good. No active bleeding there either. Thank God.”

“A-and then…?”

Then?

Then comes the real nightmare.

In over a decade of medical practice, Wu Zhou had only done this twice, out of sheer desperation.

And even at his entire provincial hospital, you could count the doctors who dared attempt this kind of maneuver on one hand.

Buddha, the Three Pure Ones, the Holy Mother, literally any divine entity—please, please let this guy’s anatomy be normal. No surprises. No magical organs. No anatomical screw-ups.

He took a deep breath and, with the utmost care, pinched the portal triad—the hepatic artery, portal vein, and bile duct—between his fingers.

“Whoa! The bleeding—look! It’s stopping!”

The priest cheered.

The arterial gush from the liver slowed instantly—first to a stream, then to a trickle, then a faint ooze.

The bleeding had been visibly controlled.