Chapter 9: A Proper Healer Gets This Much Respect?!

Chapter 9: A Proper Healer Gets This Much Respect?!

They’d been on patrol for a full day and a half already. Marching straight back to the city? Not realistic.

Thankfully, Garrett had inherited the original body’s memories. Just ten more li ahead—about five kilometers—was a large farmland estate. So the group hoisted the stretcher and continued on.

Before leaving the farmhouse, though, Garrett took a slight detour—just to check something.

What he saw made his heart sink.

A grave.

A shallow one. Barely two feet deep, ringed with a few haphazardly placed stones.

And now, the body once buried inside… was halfway exposed, its limbs mangled, clearly torn apart by the wild dogs.

They hadn’t brought the tools for proper burial. They couldn’t linger.

So they moved on.

After crossing a ridge, the group sat down to rest and rehydrate. Even Captain Karen managed to prop himself up from the stretcher and muttered weakly:

“Garrett… water… just a little...”

Garrett sighed internally.

Yup. Saw this coming.

Back in his old world, before and after abdominal surgeries, they’d always walk patients and family members through the do’s and don’ts—dietary restrictions, timelines, risks.

But here? No protocols. No handbooks. Just him. Alone.

He rolled up his sleeves.

“No. No food, and no water!”

“…You’re really thirsty? Still no!”

Captain Karen looked confused. “Then… when can I drink?”

Garrett: “…”

Let’s think.

Post-op patients typically resume fluids after 2–3 days, once the GI tract regains peristalsis and starts passing gas.

But intestinal paralysis is usually caused by anesthesia—or, to a lesser degree, trauma from the surgery.

This guy?

No anesthesia. Not even a whiff of it.

There was some intestinal injury, but the healing potion kicked in fast…

So how long would it take to recover gut movement?

One by one, textbooks from med school began flipping through Garrett’s mind—Surgery, Physiology, guidelines from ESPEN, ASPEN, clinical trials, case studies…

Captain Karen stared at him, eyes full of innocent hope.

All around, the other warriors leaned in, watching silently.

One second… two… three…

In the heat of early summer, a cold bead of sweat ran down Garrett’s spine.

There hasn’t been a single documented intestinal surgery without anesthesia in the last hundred years.

No case data. No precedent. No clinical reference.

What the hell was he supposed to base his call on? His knees?!

No choice. Back to primitive methods.

Gritting his teeth, Garrett dropped to one knee, hands on the ground, and leaned in.

“Uncle Karen, hold on. I need to… listen.”

He pulled back the bloodstained armor and layers of makeshift wrappings, tilted his head, and pressed his ear to the captain’s belly.

Instant regret.

The sour stench of sweat mixed with dried blood hit him like a slap. Garrett jerked back instinctively, barely avoiding passing out.

Why don’t I have a stethoscope?!

Where was his beloved 3M Littmann, the shiny red one he splurged on during residency?!

Even the hospital-issued cheap one—the fish-branded “Yuwell”—would’ve been a godsend! Sure, it had one-tenth the clarity, but at least it existed!

Hell, at this point, Garrett would take a Pringles can.

Sure, it wouldn’t get him published in The Lancet, but it might at least let him hear something.

Day one of transmigration: Garrett weeps for the thousandth time.

Such grief.

Much sorrow.

Still, he managed to squeeze out a gentle smile and reassured the patient:

“Uncle Karen, don’t worry. Once your intestines start making ‘gurgle gurgle’ noises, that’s when you can drink water.”

“…And food?”

“Absolutely not! Food is a no-go! Just bear with it a little longer, okay? Once you’re fully healed, I’ll cook something myself for you!”

Captain Karen burst out laughing.

“Little Garrett, you trying to kill me with your cooking?”

Garrett: “…”

Just because the original body was a disaster in the kitchen doesn’t mean I am!

I’ll prove it. Someday. I’ll show you all!

But today was not that day.

Garrett held his breath and leaned in to listen again.

—Nothing. No gurgles. Not even a whisper.

He straightened up and took a few deep breaths, then tried to reassure the patient:

“Still no bowel sounds yet. No water for now. Just a little longer—two, maybe three days at most. If you’re really thirsty, here…”

He pulled out a clean cloth, dipped it in water, and offered it gently.

“Just moisten your lips.”

. . . . . . . .

After a short rest, they hit the road again. The earlier battle and emergency surgery had delayed them quite a bit, and by the time they reached their intended camp at the farmstead, the sky was pitch black.

Garrett followed the group out of the woods—then paused.

“Whoa... that’s a lot of lights.”

Vali, the shield warrior leading the way, muttered under his breath.

As they got closer, it all became clear.

Out in the farm’s main courtyard, on the threshing floor, stood a luxurious carriage—completely out of place against the otherwise humble, even shabby, surroundings.

Its body was made of rich, dark walnut wood. Silver inlays shaped like daffodils decorated the sides and back, and in the center of each flower sat a brilliant sapphire, sparkling under the lantern light.

Definitely not your average traveler’s ride.

No, this wasn’t just a wealthy merchant—that emblem… They were dealing with a noble.

Garrett immediately motioned for the team to veer off-course.

The young priest-in-training, John, was a commoner like them and clearly had no intention of getting caught up in any noble’s affairs. He followed silently, not saying a word.

The farmstead was larger than expected—several buildings clustered together, forming a low, irregular compound. A wooden palisade surrounded it all, each stake sharp and tightly spaced—barely a fist-width between them. Clearly, the owner took defense seriously.

The team followed the fence line around to the back entrance. The owner of the estate came out to greet them, leading them through the back and into the kitchen. He turned out to be a former squad leader in the City Guard—and an old comrade of Captain Karen.

Seeing the captain injured made the man pale with shock.

“What happened to you?!”

“Ahh, just a scrape. Still alive—that’s what matters!”

“Well, you need to eat something! We’ve got a guest tonight, so we made lamb stew!”

“…He can’t eat? Seriously? …Fine, then the rest of you eat double!”

The kitchen bustled with preparations for dinner.

Garrett, meanwhile, lingered by the door leading into the main hall, peeking quietly inside.

The hall was long and wide—but oddly low-ceilinged, almost comically so. The packed-earth floor gleamed faintly white, clearly mixed with local lime. Toward the back, about a quarter of the floor was raised, forming a simple earthen dais. A small, square table sat atop it, covered with a plain linen cloth.

From the center of that platform, a second, longer table extended all the way to the hall’s entrance, forming a T-shape with the upper table. The lower table was clearly for servants or workers—the wood rough and unpolished, full of splinters and uneven edges.

Garrett recognized the layout instantly.

He’d seen it in old movies, documentaries—Oxford, Cambridge, those centuries-old colleges—and of course, in Harry Potter.

The main table was already past its feast.

A young cleric, no more than twenty-something, sipped wine with an air of lazy elegance. His light blue silk robes shimmered with every flicker of candlelight, and in front of him was a dizzying array of silverware and cutlery.

Beside him sat a knight, posture rigid, armor gleaming, an unsheathed greatsword resting nearby.

The long table below was a mess—plates and cups scattered everywhere. Most of the soldiers had already left, but a few rough-looking teens in homespun vests—probably farmhands—were still wolfing down food like they hadn’t eaten in days.

“Whatcha starin’ at?”

A large hand smacked Garrett’s shoulder. He turned to find big bro Raymond grinning like a bandit, peering over Garrett’s shoulder into the hall.

“Oho! Priest of the Spring Goddess, huh? You see that, kid? That’s the treatment a proper healer gets—carriage, silk robes, silver dishes, wine…”

He gave Garrett a nudge.

“Don’t rush it, Little Garrett. You’ll be there soon too.”