Chapter 5: Doing Overtime as a Corpse

Chapter 5: Doing Overtime as a Corpse

Saline's here?

Wu Zhou turned his head and saw a rough, calloused hand holding a wooden bowl out to him.

The warrior’s hands were thick with old calluses. Even though he’d clearly tried to wash, there was still deep black grime lodged under his nails.

His dark yellow thumb was still hooked over the edge of the bowl—with the nail sunk deep into the water…

Wu Zhou took just one glance and already felt his stomach lurch.

But here, in this dump of a place, looking for some other vessel to hold saline…

Yeah, not happening.

This thatch-roof shack had nothing but grime-blackened wooden buckets. Aside from a wooden bowl like this, what else could he possibly use?

Wu Zhou bowed his head and took a sip of the salt water.

Tasting the concentration, he felt a surge of silent despair.

Welcome to the wilderness—where sterile saline doesn’t come in IV bags.

You had to boil water, mix it with pre-boiled cooled water, and then add salt.

And he had to mentally calculate the right salt ratio on the spot!

He smacked his lips, gauged the saltiness again, checked the temperature—it was roughly right, maybe a touch too diluted, but temperature-wise, close enough.

Was it off by half a degree? Was the concentration off by 10%?

Too bad. He can’t afford to be picky.

Salt, more salt, then a bit more salt. To be safe, Wu Zhou had them add it three times before he was satisfied with the concentration.

Then he directed the big, clumsy hands of the warriors to wipe the mouth of the water pouch with liquor, hoist it up, and pour carefully:

From the upper abdomen to the lower, little by little, thoroughly flushing the entire cavity.

After one pass, he gently cupped the intestines and shouted:

“Help me lift him! One on the shoulders, one on the legs, one on the back!”

The broad-shouldered redhead supported the wounded man's shoulders.

The young man who had originally knelt at the patient's side, holding the intestines, now lifted the legs.

The little freckled priest—who had been lying twisted on the opposite side of the patient, one hand pressing the brachial artery and the other the posterior tibial—finally got permission from Wu Zhou to let go.

After the whole surgery—inspection, cleaning, and everything—the bleeding from the patient’s left arm and leg had mostly stopped.

The little guy’s pressing duties were over, and he switched to supporting the patient’s back.

“One, two, three—lift! Tilt him toward me!”

Swooosh!

The saline that had just been used to flush the abdominal cavity poured out in a cascade.

Wu Zhou was ready to cry again.

No suction, no drainage tubes—nothing.

What, was he supposed to suck it out using wheat straws or reed stems?

Just imagining those warriors with their giant yellow teeth trying to suck and spit into the wound was enough to make Wu Zhou decide—hell no.

With no other option, he went with the most brutal, most primitive method:

Flush the cavity, lift the person up, let gravity do the rest.

After the water drained, Wu Zhou carefully, thoroughly checked one last time.

He got lucky—no more bleeding anywhere.

Or in the terms he was used to: no active bleeding detected.

He finally exhaled in relief, straightened up a bit, and reached out to the side:

“Suture!”

—No one responded.

No forceps. No suture kits.

No smiling scrub nurse handing him a needle driver with a soft "Here you go, Doctor Wu"…

Wu Zhou: “…”

T_T

He really should’ve been used to this by now.

This wasn’t a hospital.

It wasn’t an OR.

There was no first assistant, no second, no circulating or scrub nurses—no trained team around him.

He shouted “Suture!” and nobody even knew what the hell he meant.

“Give. Me. A. Needle. And. Thread!”

“Ah? —Oh!”

The little freckled priest sprang up and began rustling around in his inner pocket.

Wu Zhou’s eyes lit up.

He had assumed that the shabby house, broken as it was, would probably still have needle and thread stashed somewhere.

But to his surprise, the little freckle-face had brought some himself?

Not bad.

Priests ranked above commoners—maybe the stuff he carried would be better than average?

—Wait a minute.

What the hell is this crap?!

That needle—was that a sewing needle?

No, wait—that length, that thickness—

It’s a blanket needle, isn’t it?!

And it’s curved!

Curved!!

Bent for sewing clothes!

And this thread—this thread!

I’m not even asking for antibacterial sutures or barbed self-knotting thread anymore, but this?

A chunk of coarse hemp string, rough and knotted, not even remotely smooth—

What the hell am I supposed to do with this?!

—Forget it.

You can’t expect much in a dump like this…

Wu Zhou tried to comfort himself as he threaded the needle and began suturing the abdominal wall at the fastest speed he could manage.

As he worked, veins throbbed wildly on his forehead.

No absorbable sutures. No silk thread.

Just the coarsest hemp string—and the needle he had to use was a straight sewing needle.

A straight one!

No needle holder, no curved surgical needle.

He had to grip a household sewing needle with his fingers and stab it into flesh—

That pain… only someone who’s done it would understand.

Holding his breath, concentrating fully, he stitched layer by layer with forced patience:

The peritoneum, the superficial fascia, the skin and subcutaneous tissue…

Three-layer suturing, not skipping a single step.

After tying the last knot, he collapsed backward like a deflated balloon and fell straight onto the floor.

“Bandage him up…”

Not even a single person offered to wipe his sweat.

So tragic.

No one helped wipe his sweat during the operation.

But once the surgery was over, at least someone came to check on him.

As soon as Wu Zhou lay down, five or six hands reached out to help.

The warriors who had been running around on his orders without daring to breathe now swarmed forward, all talking at once:

“Little Garrett, you're amazing!”

“Little Garrett, when did you learn how to do that?”

“Little Garrett—”

Wu Zhou: …???

His exhausted mind spun a few times before finally dredging up a buried memory.

Right. They were calling him.

His name was Garrett.

Garrett Nordmark. A new recruit in the city guard…

Today, he had gone on patrol with his squad, tasked with escorting a priest—the little freckled one, named John—back to his hometown for a family visit.

The person he had just performed surgery on was the squad captain, Uncle Karen, who had always taken care of him.

When Karen got injured, the one kneeling and cradling his guts was his nephew Raymond, a spearman.

The broad-shouldered redhead was Tom.

And the shield warrior Vali, who had earlier been sent to boil water, rounded out the group.

Together, they made up the whole squad.

So… I’ve transmigrated?

So after all that overtime in the ER… I really did become a corpse in the end?

Sigh…

I survived residency, survived attending physician years, and in the end, collapsed right at the Deputy Chief level!

Wu Zhou silently wiped a tear for himself.

He looked around at the gently rolling hills and the vivid green grass.

At the quaint thatch-roofed huts.

At the high-nosed, deep-eyed teammates with distinctly European features.

Then he lowered his gaze, and mourned silently for one second.

“From now on… I’m Garrett.”

When Garrett looked up again, he found a whole row of warriors—and the priest—all staring at him with intense curiosity.

Clearly, everyone was stunned.

How had he just casually opened up someone’s belly and saved their life like that?

Garrett: ………

How the hell do I explain this?

Could he say it was thanks to 12 years of compulsory schooling + 7 years of combined undergraduate and medical school + over a decade of hands-on clinical practice?

If he really said that out loud…

Wouldn’t he get burned at the stake?!

There was even a priest on-site, who had seen everything.

The moment he went back and reported this to the Church, there’d be no hiding anything.

Garrett, shaking and crying.jpg

He had mentally leapt from the Inquisition to the stake, and was halfway through imagining the top ten medieval tortures, when a worried voice interrupted his spiral—and saved him from imminent doom:

“Little Garrett… can the captain survive?”