Chapter 6: I Can Use Healing Magic? —Wait, I Haven’t Removed the Sutures Yet AAAAAHHH!

Chapter 6: I Can Use Healing Magic? —Wait, I Haven’t Removed the Sutures Yet AAAAAHHH!

Will he survive?

Garrett froze.

Then, more memories belonging to the original body surged into his mind like a tidal wave:

—“He” knelt in front of a man’s corpse, sobbing. Uncle Karen knelt beside him, wrapping a firm arm around his shoulders:

“Don’t be afraid, Little Garrett! Uncle will take care of you. I won’t let anyone bully you!”

—“He” swung a short wooden sword with all his strength. Uncle Karen stood across from him, holding a sword and barking sternly:

“Your stance is wrong! Again!”

—“He” curled up in a tiny hut, gnawing on a hard, barely-edible piece of black bread.

Uncle Karen pushed the door open and dragged him outside:

“Little Garrett! Come to Uncle’s house! Your Aunt Eileen made meat stew!”

That was Uncle Karen—the man who had looked after him ever since his father died in battle…

Garrett looked at Uncle Karen’s pale face.

For a moment, he couldn’t find the words.

Instinctively, he clasped his hands together in front of his chest—half in prayer, half in the posture doctors use before a procedure to avoid re-contaminating their hands.

“…I don’t know,” he said softly.

“I don’t know…”

The surgery was done.

Uncle Karen, the wounded man, was temporarily out of immediate danger.

But that didn’t mean he was in the clear.

There were far too many post-op risks ahead.

The wound had been hastily sewn shut with coarse hemp thread.

No antibiotics, no transfusions.

He hadn’t even washed his hands before reaching in to pinch off the hepatic artery…

Aside from the liver, which had miraculously self-repaired, the entire operation—in Wu Zhou’s view—was barely a minor procedure.

Back at their hospital, except for the critical step of stopping the liver hemorrhage, everything else could’ve been easily handled by any attending physician.

And post-op?

No need for the ICU.

Just a few days of in-patient monitoring, with antibiotics holding the line, would’ve been fine.

But here, infection and blood loss alone could kill him.

And even if he survived those, there was still the threat of intestinal adhesions, bowel torsion, nausea, vomiting, hiccups, bloating, urinary retention…

Any one of those could prove fatal—depending on sheer luck.

And him?

He couldn’t do anything.

No antibiotics.

No drainage tubes.

No X-rays, no ultrasound, no CT.

No lab tests.

Not a single targeted drug.

If Uncle Karen developed complications, Wu Zhou—as a doctor—would be completely powerless.

Seeing his long silence, the others began to look more and more grim.

Raymond—the squad’s spearman and Uncle Karen’s nephew—looked especially anxious.

He stepped forward and grabbed Wu Zhou by the shoulder:

“You don’t know? Little Garrett, you mean you have no way to help him?”

That tone—pleading and desperate—was exactly like the worried family members Wu Zhou had faced countless times in the ER.

Garrett slowly shook his head.

“If I could… I’d want him to get better as soon as possible—”

He didn’t even finish the sentence.

A clean, white light suddenly burst from his clasped hands, shooting straight down onto the wounded man’s abdomen.

Bathed in that holy light, the wound—just recently stitched shut with crude hemp thread and normally needing ten full days to heal—began to squirm and knit itself together at visible speed.

“WAAAAAAHHHH—!!”

A chorus of gasps filled the air.

Little freckled priest John was the loudest of all:

“Healing magic! That’s healing magic! Garrett, you can use healing spells?!”

Garrett: !!!

Noooooo!!

Heal slower!! I’m begging you—just a little slower!

I HAVEN’T REMOVED THE SUTURES YET AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

He didn’t have time to be shocked—or even happy that the patient had been saved—because the moment the healing spell's white glow flared up, Garrett lunged forward like a pouncing tiger.

Right hand, short blade slashing—plucking out the coarse threads one by one.

Left hand yanking—pull, pull, pull, pull—

Unpick the sutures! Remove the sutures!

Do it while the wound is just starting to heal, while the healing magic is still active—do it fast!

If you just leave the thread embedded there, it could cause an infection!

Faster! Faster!

Rip those stitches out while the wound’s still soft!

Not only will the patient suffer less, but with the healing spell not fully dissipated, he might even get a bit of bonus healing out of it…

Garrett held his breath, steadying his focus, channeling the fastest hand speed of his life.

Right hand flicking the blade to cut; left thumb and forefinger pinching the ends—his hands moved in perfect sync, so fast they nearly left afterimages above the patient’s abdomen.

Emergency medicine had always been a race against the Grim Reaper.

Suturing spleens, livers, blood vessels—it was always needle after needle in a blur, with APM (Actions Per Minute) pushing 764.

But he never imagined that one day, something as simple as removing stitches would also demand this level of speed.

Tenth stitch!

Right side of the rectus abdominis—suturing site cleared!

Eighteenth stitch!

Upper right abdomen—cleared!

Twenty-seventh!—Twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth, thirtieth!

Done!

The white glow slowly faded.

Two surgical incisions—one vertical, one diagonal—vanished cleanly, as if they’d never existed.

More than that, the patient actually opened his eyes, slowly trying to sit up—

“Captain!”

“Captain, you’re healed!”

A few soldiers rushed forward, cheering.

Garrett snapped out of his daze and lunged forward again, arms flung wide to stop them dead:

“Don’t touch him!—Lie down! Stay lying down!”

‘Oh hell! Sure, the skin’s healed, but who knows if the inside has?!’

‘I sewed three layers into that abdominal wall! The innermost fascia and the peritoneum—no idea if they’ve regenerated properly!’

‘If he props himself up too hard and the wounds reopen—!’

‘And let’s not even mention the damaged rectus muscle or the torn greater omentum I didn’t even stitch—there were injuries everywhere!’

‘Whether they’ve healed or not, I have no idea—and we’re in the middle of nowhere, can’t exactly roll him in for an MRI—’

Even if it weren’t nowhere, there’s no MRI to begin with—because he transmigrated! He’d been reincarnated into another world!

Pinned down by Garrett, Captain Karen didn’t resist at all and flopped straight back down.

He stayed lying, but lifted his head stubbornly to stare Garrett straight in the eye—his gaze full of shock.

“Little Garrett… you… you?”

Garrett’s heart skipped a beat.

Put yourself in his shoes—if someone you practically raised suddenly started slicing open bellies and sewing flesh together with needles and thread—you’d freak out too!

But… how was he supposed to explain this?!

Play dumb?

Pretend nothing happened?

This was Uncle Karen—the man who’d looked after him like his own child ever since his father’s death.

He deserved at least some kind of explanation to ease his mind!

Garrett’s head was spinning like a hard drive whirring at 7200 rpm—Information searching, data sorting—And suddenly, a bold, glowing, red-flagged idea rose to the top of his thoughts:

That white light…

The one that healed the wounds…

It looked exactly like the spell that little priest John had used before!

That was… Healing Magic!

Healing magic = divine magic = backed by a god = the gods told him to do this!

Perfect logic. Flawless!

Garrett blurted it out without hesitation:

“Uncle Karen, don’t worry! I—I received a divine revelation!”