Chapter 3: The Last Healing Potion

Chapter 3: The Last Healing Potion

Cheers erupted from the young priest, followed by a cascade of relieved sighs all around Wu Zhou.

The young man kneeling on the other side, holding the wounded man's intestines in his hands, immediately bowed his head. Raising his hands a little higher, he murmured reverently:

"War God above!"

"War God above!" echoed the broad-shouldered redhead who was still pressing down on the patient’s arm. He leaned over and added sincerely:

"Little Garrett, you're amazing!"

But Wu Zhou felt no joy whatsoever.

His entire focus was locked on the sensation in his fingertips.

The porta hepatis was fragile—too little pressure, and the bleeding wouldn’t stop; too much, and if it tore, that would trigger catastrophic hemorrhage. The exact pressure needed wasn’t something you could calculate. It was all experience and gut instinct.

And even if the bleeding had been temporarily stopped, that was just the first step—a mere beginning on a long, arduous journey. There was so much more to do.

Then came the sound of hurried footsteps behind him.

The soldier Wu Zhou had sent to boil water arrived with a bucket, muttering a quick "War God above" as he passed, before asking hesitantly:

"Little Garrett… does this mean he’s going to be okay now?"

Going to be okay?

In your dreams.

Wu Zhou’s brow furrowed into a hard line.

Under normal temperatures, you can’t block blood flow to the liver for more than 30 minutes. Any longer, and the organ starts to die.

Which meant—he had 30 minutes to save this man’s life.

But he had nothing.

No blood transfusion.

No surgical gauze, gelatin sponges, or hemostatic powder.

No sutures.

Not even a single vascular clamp.

A wave of crushing anxiety and fear surged up—part Wu Zhou's, part belonging to this body’s original owner.

He raised his head and locked eyes with the young priest across from him.

His own eyes were already bloodshot without him realizing.

“You!” he almost screamed, voice raw.

“Cast a healing spell—on my hand! On this piece of liver! Now!”

The priest jolted. His already flushed face went pale in an instant, the freckles fading to near transparency, making him look pitiful beyond words. His voice trembled, nearly sobbing:

“I—I can’t anymore… I’ve run out of healing spells…”

“Then what do you have?!”

“J-just one potion… a low-grade healing potion…”

—What the hell?!

What kind of joke was that?

A low-grade healing potion?!

This wasn’t what he needed!!!

Wu Zhou could feel himself overflowing with sarcasm and curses.

If someone at his hospital—say, the chief surgeon or the OR head nurse—had said that to him during surgery, he would’ve flamed them so hard they’d leave a scorch mark on the wall.

Brother, I’m stitching up a liver here! Can we be a bit more serious?!

Was this so-called potion GMP-certified? Did it have a valid approval number? Was it expired?!

He wanted surgical tools, he wanted sutures, he wanted lidocaine for anesthesia—

At the very least, give him some iodine to disinfect!

He hadn’t even washed his hands before reaching into a man’s abdominal cavity! Because of the urgency, and the wilderness, and the complete lack of supplies!

And now the only thing he gets… is a low-grade healing potion?!

But just then, a strange flood of memory surged through his mind.

Flashes of images raced past his eyes—A tiny glass vial held in a hand, golden liquid gently swirling inside, wounds knitting shut and vanishing before his eyes…

Wu Zhou took a deep breath.

Right hand still clamped on the hepatic vessels, he held out his left palm, voice steady and commanding:

“Give it to me.”

Maybe it was his tone.

Maybe it was the hopelessness in everyone else’s eyes.

Whatever the reason, the young priest hesitated only briefly. He let go of the patient’s right arm—saw that the bleeding had stopped—then began fumbling through his pockets.

After a short search, he pulled out a small vial and passed it to Wu Zhou.

The vial was only an inch and a half tall, about the width of a thumb. Its glass shimmered crystal clear.

Wu Zhou muttered to himself, “Shouldn’t this kind of thing be in a brown glass bottle?” as he bit out the soft cork, flipped the bottle, and poured it directly onto the torn surface of the liver.

And then—the healing began.

A miraculous, almost magical regeneration process unfolded once more.

The ruptured liver gently began to twitch.

Granulation tissue grew.

The cracks closed.

The omentum crept over it…

Within just a few breaths, what lay before Wu Zhou’s eyes was a fully intact, flawless liver.

Wu Zhou cautiously loosened his fingers.

The vessels under his fingertips pulsed gently.

The surface of the liver changed visibly—

From pale to rosy red.

Perfect!

The vascular connection was holding.

Blood flow was normal.

The liver was alive.

“Woooow…”

A tiny gasp of wonder escaped.

In the middle of everything, Wu Zhou looked up just enough to see the young priest stretching his neck out, eyes and mouth wide open, shaped like three big round O’s.

He was gawking, utterly stunned.

“You can… save people like that?”

“Nope.”

Wu Zhou answered lazily.

The priest looked half-crushed, half-accusing, but Wu Zhou explained calmly:

“Pouring healing potion on a wound takes a blink of an eye. But identifying the bleeding source, knowing how to open up the abdomen and expose the injury—”

With every sentence, the priest’s head drooped lower.

Even the freckles on his face seemed to dim.

Finally, as Wu Zhou drew out the last syllable on purpose, the boy mumbled dejectedly:

“…I get it. You have to study for years.”

—Damn right you do.

Five or seven years of school, then standardized residency training, then internship, board certification, and who knows what else.

Wu Zhou said no more.

He turned his focus back to the patient.

The man was out of danger—but next came the intestines and other injuries!

He glanced at the potion bottle in his hand.

The tiny vial was nearly empty, barely a few drops left swirling at the bottom. Less than a quarter of the original amount.

The faint golden fluid shimmered, pulsed, like it was breathing.

The effect was undeniably incredible.

But using the last few drops to heal the rest of the injuries?

In two words:

Keep dreaming.

Time to get back to handling intestines, properly.

Wu Zhou slowly withdrew his right hand from under the patient’s liver.

He stepped back two paces, glanced around, and began barking orders:

“Got any soap? —What? Only soap nuts? Fine, give them here, I’ll go wash up!”

“Got boiled water? —Just this bag? Not enough! Boil more—quick! Oh, and toss in the needle and thread while you’re at it!”

“Got strong liquor? —You do?! Amazing! Gimme that!”

The broad-shouldered redhead and the blond soldier who’d been running around fetching hot water earlier both sprang into action, dashing off the moment he spoke.

The young priest, eyes still wide and darting left and right, asked curiously:

“Why are you washing your hands again?”

“—Because that was an emergency, you goof! Any slower and the guy would’ve died!“

In a life-or-death moment, nothing else matters.

Still, if this had been a hospital, at the very least, he would’ve grabbed a handful of povidone-iodine first.

But now that the worst bleeding had been stopped, and he was moving on to handling the intestines—not properly cleaning his hands would go against everything he believed as a surgeon.

Using the bucket of hot water brought over by the broad-shouldered redhead, Wu Zhou scrubbed his hands with the soap nuts.

As he washed, he tried very hard not to look at the filth around the bucket's rim.

Calling it “filth” was being kind—

The inside of the bucket was black, top to bottom. Who knew how long it had gone without cleaning?

Honestly, maybe it had never been cleaned since it was made.

As for how much dirtier this water was than city tap water, or how many microbes were swimming in it…

Wu Zhou did not want to think about it.