Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 34 Treatment
The cell was the same one, but the environment had been slightly improved.

The guards brought in a lot of straw and hay, which they used to cover the uneven mortar floor.

The cell doors were no longer locked, and the warrant officers were free to use the guards' toilets instead of having to relieve themselves in their cells.

Major General Antonio's message emboldened the warrant officers. As he said, the customs was now in a dilemma and dared not do anything to these army officers. They even had to try their best to meet the warrant officers' demands.

Inside the cell, Winters and his fellow prisoners were watching with great interest as a renowned doctor brought in by the customs service treated Major Moritz.

"Don't all push over here!" The old doctor glared at the warrant officers and snapped, "With so many people around, it's pitch black, we can't see anything. Make way! Let some air in!"

The old doctor wore a monk-style robe, but the material was the finest silk. He had a handsome goatee, and his tone of voice, which was very much like that of a high-ranking military officer, was very authoritative. He was clearly a man of great ability.

Upon hearing this, the warrant officers immediately stepped back a few paces to make room, and all sat down on the ground to avoid blocking the light. However, they still couldn't suppress their curiosity and craned their necks to watch.

The warrant officers reserved the best-ventilated and best-lit spot in the cell for Major Moritz, who sat on the only straw mattress in the entire cell. But regardless, this was just a cell, not a sanatorium, and the doctor was clearly very dissatisfied with the conditions.

The renowned doctor from Aquamarine City, who was reportedly hired by the Anti-Smuggling Bureau at great expense, placed his right hand on Major Moritz's wrist, lightly stroked his beard with his left hand, and lowered his eyelids, seemingly lost in thought.

"What are you doing?" Winters gently nudged Bard's leg and asked in a low voice.

Bard squinted and thought for a moment: "Maybe it's taking a pulse? Diagnosing people by feeling their pulse. I've read about this diagnostic method in a book before, I think it was in the Canon of Medicine?" Bard shook his head: "I can't remember."

"Medicine kit!" The old doctor's eyes flashed, and he transformed from a puppet back into a living person, clearly having reached a conclusion: "Bring the medicine kit."

His assistant, who had come with him, hurriedly took down the wooden medicine box slung across his shoulder and respectfully handed it to the old doctor with both hands.

The warrant officers' emotions were instantly stirred up, and the atmosphere in the cell began to become restless.

They were so bored. A group of lively and active young men were sitting idly in a cage, with no entertainment to pass the time. Now, even a wooden stick could keep them entertained for half a day.

The doctor removed a key that hung around his neck with a thin string and clicked open the golden lock on the wooden box. Though small, the box contained a hidden world inside; as the lid was lifted, the entire box slowly unfolded like flower petals.

The warrant officers sitting on the ground watching all exclaimed in admiration.

A barely perceptible smug smile appeared on the old doctor's lips. In this city of Hailan, whether they were powerful officials or wealthy merchants, everyone who saw his meticulously crafted medicine box couldn't help but marvel.

Winters watched as the renowned doctor opened his exquisite medicine chest and then took out... a knife from one of the small compartments.

Wait, a knife?

Winters' excited smile froze as he watched in horror as the old doctor grabbed the major's hand with his left hand and raised a knife in his right, ready to slash the major's wrist.

Several gasps of surprise rang out from the cell.

"Wait!" Winters shouted urgently, jumping up and rushing to the major's side. He grabbed the old doctor's wrist, twisted it forcefully, and snatched the knife away, demanding in a stern voice, "What are you doing?"

The doctor's assistant panicked when he saw the teacher being hit and tried to fight Winters, but he was dragged down and subdued by Winters' colleague as soon as he raised his arm.

The doctor was nearly scared to death by Winters. He was already in his fifties or sixties, and his old arms and legs couldn't withstand such a blow. Winters almost broke his wrist. He asked tremblingly, "You, you, what are you going to do?"

Winters was both angry and amused. He gestured to the doctor with the knife in his hand and asked, "What are you going to do with this?"

The old man regained his composure slightly. He composed himself and said angrily, "You're the ones who asked me to treat this gentleman."

"Yes, that's right, but why did you take out a knife?"
The doctor was trembling with anger at Winters' constant references to knives. He sneered and retorted, "Do I need to explain to you that I'm treating this gentleman?"

“If you’re willing to explain, I’d be happy to listen,” Winters retorted calmly.

"Hahaha." The doctor was amused by Winters's words: "Have you ever read the 'Muro Medical Book'?"

"I haven't read it."

Have you read the "Clady's Maxims"?

"I haven't read it."

Have you read "On Water, Air, Fire, and Earth"? Have you read "On Trauma"? Have you read "Heidegger's Notebooks"?

"nothing."

"Do you understand the humoral theory?"

"don't know."

The old doctor flew into a rage: "Then what do you want to do? You don't understand anything, and you expect me to explain it to you?"

Winters was also furious: "You're holding a knife and trying to cut the major's wrist, I absolutely won't allow it!"

"What do you know?" the old doctor pointed at Winters' nose and scolded, "This gentleman drank too much salt water after drowning, causing his body fluid imbalance. Poisonous blood has accumulated in his liver. The liver and right arm are internally and externally related, so we need to release the poisonous blood from his right arm!"

"I've only ever heard of soldiers dying from blood loss on the battlefield, I've never heard of bloodletting saving a life!"

"Nonsense! Where did you learn your medical skills from to dare to be so presumptuous in front of me?" The old man glared and puffed out his beard.

Winters replied coldly, "The Army Officer Academy!"

"Isn't the Army Officer Academy supposed to teach how to kill? Does it have the right to teach medicine?"

"Military academies don't teach medicine, but I learned a little in health class that if a wound is bleeding, you should find a way to stop it. But no one ever taught me to intentionally bleed when there is no external injury!"

Can external bleeding and internal poisoning be considered the same thing?

“I don’t care! The major is very weak right now, and I absolutely cannot agree to you bleeding him. Is bloodletting the only treatment you have?” Winters was too lazy to argue with the doctor and firmly refused to allow bloodletting on the major. All of Winters’ medical knowledge came from the military academy’s hygiene courses, which in turn were based on practical experience gained during the Sovereign War.

The old man was so angry with Winters that he almost had a stroke. He roared indignantly, "If you won't let me bleed him, I won't treat him either! If this gentleman's condition worsens, that's your responsibility! Don't come looking for me!"

After saying that, he snatched his knife back from Winters, threw it into his medicine box, slammed the box shut, and stormed off.

His assistant glanced resentfully around the cell and followed the old man away dejectedly.

Winters was a little guilty after he had driven the doctor away, but he believed he had done nothing wrong this time.

He and his classmates, who were sitting on the ground watching him, said helplessly, "Can bloodletting really be called a treatment method? That would really kill the major."

"Good!" Andrei shouted, clapping his hands vigorously. "I've had my eye on this pretentious old man for a long time!" The others clapped along with him, and scattered applause filled the cell.

Winters nodded gratefully to Andrei, now finding a certain endearing quality in Andrei's character. This guy had no sense of right and wrong, or rather, his sense of right and wrong could be summed up in five words: defend your own people. Your own people are always right, and the enemy is always wrong. The major couldn't hear anything now; he only saw the doctor and Winters seemingly arguing, the doctor's assistant being pinned to the ground by the other warrant officers, and then the doctor storming off.

He picked up a quill pen, wrote a line on a piece of paper, and handed it to Winters: What happened?

Winters gave a wry smile and wrote on the paper: "The doctor just said that the toxins in your blood are accumulating in your liver and that he wanted to bleed you from your arm. I refused, and then he left."

The major read it, nodded, and wrote on the paper: "It's normal. People don't accept our medical experience; they think we're just a bunch of executioners. But we're just summarizing patterns from practice. Thank you. You were right not to let him use bloodletting."

Winters was relieved to receive the major's understanding. In fact, what he feared most was that the major himself supported bloodletting therapy, otherwise his rush to stop the doctor would have turned into a farce.

Winters suddenly remembered that the major hadn't eaten properly yet, so he wrote: Would you like something to eat?
The major shook his head; he had little appetite. These days, the major spent most of his time sleeping. Eager for news, he picked up his pen and wrote: "Any new developments at Customs?"
Winters replied: Not yet, but his attitude has softened considerably.

Looking at Major Moritz's slightly sunken cheeks, Winters suddenly recalled the scene on the dock where he shouted for the major to aim at the other man's head, but the major still aimed at the other man's breastplate instead. Thinking about it now, it was really funny.

Winters then laughed and wrote on the paper: "If you had aimed for those assassins' heads, we'd be getting medals from customs right now."

When the silver coin shot by the major with his arrow technique collided with the armor, Winters heard a sickening metallic creak, and the assassin was even forced to retreat to offset the impact.

This power is no less than that of an arrow shot from a bow with a draw weight of over 100 pounds. If the assassin, who wasn't wearing a helmet, was hit in the head, he would be certain to die.

Major Moritz wrote with a wry smile: "My hand was shaking, so I couldn't aim properly and that's why I aimed for the torso."

Winters didn't understand what the major meant at first glance, but when he recalled the major's state before he disembarked, he immediately understood.

With Winters' current understanding of magic, the Arrow Spell is about accelerating an object as much as possible within one's spell range. Essentially, it's about throwing darts with a "third hand," and accuracy depends entirely on "feel."

The major used a silver coin, which he always played with, as the material for casting the Arrow Spell. Winters speculated that the reason the major kept playing with the coin was probably to maintain the feel of the Arrow Spell.

However, during his final days aboard the Skua, the major suffered from alcohol withdrawal symptoms, causing his hands to tremble uncontrollably. He couldn't even perform the coin trick anymore, let alone expect any accuracy from his arrow-throwing technique.

General Antoine Laurent believed that spellcasters should not use any addictive substances, as these substances would destroy their precious magical abilities.

Winters had previously blindly followed the general's teachings to refuse alcohol and smoking, but now Major Moritz's magical abilities were greatly diminished due to alcoholism, which taught Winters a real lesson.

Winters really wanted to persuade Major Moritz to quit drinking completely, as he dreamed of becoming a powerful spellcaster like the major.

It's incredibly ironic that a spellcaster with such high magical skill is addicted to alcohol, as if someone were trampling on Winters' most cherished possession.

But he knew that speaking too intimately with someone you didn't know well was a big no-no. The major's drinking was his personal choice, and he had neither the right nor the standing to say things like, "I'm doing this for your own good."

Seeing that Major Moritz was starting to get tired, Winters helped the major lie down and watched him fall back into a deep sleep.

------

At the same time that Major Moritz drifted off to sleep, it was still at the Customs House, still in Heard's office, still with the same few people, and still with the same somber atmosphere.

The customs officials were still engrossed in smoking, and this time, Hurd also joined the ranks of those creating smog.

The current situation is that everyone in customs, from top to bottom, knows that these army probationary officers are innocent and must be sent away, but no one dares to bring it up first.

Whoever proposes this solution, the customs leadership will immediately seize the opportunity and readily accept it, sending away this group of army pests with fanfare.

But whoever proposes this solution will be labeled as a sycophant to the Army and an insult to the dignity of Customs. This label will be repeatedly mentioned in future internal attacks, and the person labeled with it will be trampled on a thousand times.

The directors thought that Hurd was waiting for his subordinates to step forward and share the burden of their leader, and that Hurd was waiting for him to demonstrate his leadership qualities and take the blame for his subordinates.

Meanwhile, two chief battalions of the Venetta Army's standing corps were outside the city, ready to move out and seize the people at the throne's command.

It was the head of the anti-smuggling department who spoke first: "We still can't afford to break ties with the army over such a trivial matter."

A show of weakness does not mean that he is a capitulationist at heart.

"What are you afraid of? Let them come! Who are they trying to scare with cannons? Do they think we don't have cannons?" the Inspector General of Customs roared, ready to fight.

People who raise their voices high are not necessarily true hardliners.

"If you can't make up your mind, then the minority should submit to the majority, and how about an anonymous collective vote by directors and above?"

Oh? There's another guy here trying to muddy the waters and sideline the Chief Executive.

Hurd sat behind his desk, calmly enjoying his tobacco.

He is now fifty-eight years old, which can be considered his twilight years.

His mind was no longer sharp, his body was no longer agile, his temples were already gray, and age spots were beginning to appear on his cheeks.

But he was perfectly clear-headed. Sitting in the Customs Commissioner's chair, he could see right through everyone's ulterior motives.

So what if a few army warrant officers are arrested by mistake? It's just that they see they're about to retire, so even trivial matters can cause chaos.

He had already made up his mind. Now he just wanted to quietly finish his pipe and take a look at the true quality of his men.

The next Chief Executive of Customs will, barring any unforeseen circumstances, be selected from among the current directors by a 15-member committee responsible for finance.

Heard had to ensure that the customs service of the Republic of Venetia, a place he had devoted his entire life to, was handed over to the right people.

"I'll handle it." This was a voice rarely heard during director-general meetings, calm and composed.

Hart gently knocked the ash out of the bowl.

Winters acted as a "medical malpractice troll," but this is by no means an encouragement for readers to compete with doctors in professional knowledge in the real world. It's just that in Winters's alternate world, barbers who have treated wounded soldiers are closer to the truth than some doctors, because practice is the sole criterion for testing truth.

Furthermore, it may be hard to believe, but before modern medicine was developed, physicians in ancient Europe also used herbal remedies and pulse diagnosis techniques.

Needless to say, most of the herbs were used and recorded by monks in monasteries.

As for pulse diagnosis, the first chapter of Benvenuto Cellini's autobiography in the 16th century mentions that his father knew some Latin and medicine, and would take his pulse when he was ill, and also judge his emotions through pulse diagnosis.

However, I do not know whether this technology was introduced to the Latin world from the Arab world or whether it was a diagnostic method that the people of the Latin world had used since ancient times.

P.S. Thanks to the "Broken Hand Flow Master" and "Social Justice Old Wang" for the recommendation votes, and thanks to Old Wang for the donation. I'm truly happy to have people reading my story.

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(End of this chapter)