Nineteenth Century Medical Guide

Chapter 486, Section 482: An Accidental Move

Seville, the capital of Andalusia, is the birthplace of Spanish bullfighting.

The Maestranza bullring in the city, built in 1749, is the oldest bullring in Spain, boasting the only royal and aristocratic boxes in the country. The stands can accommodate 5,000 people, and the post-performance evaluation process is extremely rigorous.

Perhaps the best bullfights aren't in Seville, the largest bullring isn't in Seville, and the fiercest bulls aren't in Seville, but the best bullfighters certainly come from Seville. Because the 5,000-seat stands are constantly searching for the bullfighters' mistakes.
Anders is from Seville, and the bullfighting team also came from Seville's training base.

His skill is undeniable; he would be a top player even in Madrid. The rest of the team are less technically gifted and can only be considered second-rate.

These second-rate bullfighters should have been more than capable of handling the bulls trained in small towns; they'd been doing this for years, treating their performances like a vacation. But alas, they were caught off guard. The bullfighters failed to anticipate the bull's movements, and both he and his horse collapsed to the ground.

The spurs' hand was pinned down by the horse, while the horse's belly was pierced by the bull's horn.

The solid blow didn't satisfy the Bulls; the pain in their shoulder actually became an adrenaline rush, proving they'd found the right target this time.

It pulled the blood-stained horn from the horse's belly, took a few steps back, and resembled a fully drawn crossbow, preparing for a second attack.

Gasps erupted from the stands, and the other matadors who had remained in the passageway behind the barrier all rushed out. Instantly, red cloths were waving everywhere in the square, and the bull, once again lured away, seemed to have forgotten its target and charged around wildly.

Taking advantage of this opportunity, the two burly men who had been guarding the gate bolt rushed into the square and helped Spurs up.

He had two heavy hoof prints on his body, making his black coat look dull. His wide-brimmed hat, decorated with ostrich feathers, lay to one side, crumpled and worn from being trampled by cow hooves.

When he first stood up, he was unsteady on his feet and needed help from others. Gradually, he regained some strength, pushed the others aside, and picked up his hat by himself, walking unsteadily.

Seville bullfighters do not allow others to help them, at least not when leaving the ring.

The poor warhorse was bleeding profusely from its belly. Several staff members entered the area but didn't have time to check the wound. They first used wooden poles to support it and found that it could still walk with difficulty. They then guided it slowly away from the square with its reins.

Everyone witnessed the Bulls' sharp spin attack, and the Spurs' players simply couldn't dodge it in time; they didn't make any major mistakes, and even after being injured, they maintained their passion and fighting spirit.

This is forgivable and deserves respect, just as Olni treated Gallardo.

But in Anders' eyes, the Spurs' horse being gutted was a disgraceful accident. It was a blow to both the audience and the matadors, and this chapter needed to be moved on as soon as possible.

The exit and entry occurred almost simultaneously, with the second Spurs player entering the court.

Like his companions, he tried to dodge the bull's horns by using his horse's agile maneuvers. But after experiencing the same change of direction again, his mindset completely changed.

This was no ordinary bull; it might be even more terrifying than the black bull from three years ago. It overturned the Romero family's genius bullfighter, sending him to Madrid's central hospital. He was forced to rest in bed for a whole year before resuming training, and now, returning to the bullring, his strength is significantly diminished.

“Mr. Anders, it’s amazing.”

“I can see it very clearly; it is indeed different from other bulls. It is energetic, has a strong desire to attack, and moves swiftly and fiercely, but its movement pattern is very cunning. It is an excellent opponent.”

How is Hardy?

“He’ll be fine. The hospital here is excellent, don’t worry.” Anders personally handed him the javelin. “No need to hide anymore, hurry up and finish the bayonet.”

The Spurs player followed Anders' advice and skipped the next two rounds of bull-dodging. He gripped his javelin tightly, assumed his stance, and before the bull could even realize where its target had gone, he charged into the square, thrusting his javelin into the bull's back, and then safely retreated.

The audience in the bullring was exceptionally tolerant.

They allow bullfighters to make mistakes, to be nervous, panicked, and to swear for no reason. As long as he is a passionate person, always exuding an indomitable aura, the audience is willing to forgive anything.

But the scene before us lacked the passion that bullfighting should have; all that remained was a brawl, accompanied by constant boos from the audience.

"You're here to duel the Bulls, not to ambush them!"

"A sneak attack is shameful!!!"

"Is this how Seville bullfights are done?"

Some began to vent their anger on the two Spurs players, while others started criticizing their skills and the horses' abilities. Still others remained silent, hiding under fans and sun hats, their faces showing boredom.

Actually, you can't blame the Spurs players; it was all Anders' arrangement.

As the leader of the bullfighting team, he made this decision out of desperation. They came to the seaside town to perform to earn money, but they hadn't made much, and both he and his horse were injured. He couldn't afford to take any more risks.

The script for the first act is terrible. Instead of having a supporting character salvage the situation, he should hastily wrap it up and start the second act as soon as possible.

According to the script, the second act still lacks a main character, but it has enough exciting plot to grab the audience's attention.

“It’s your turn, Mr. Gallardo.” The swordsman who had lent him the red cloth earlier patted him on the shoulder with a smile. “The Spurs have been battling it for more than ten minutes, and two javelins have pierced its shoulders. It’s exhausted.”

Compared to when he first came off the field, Gallardo's heartbeat had stabilized considerably, and his strength had recovered somewhat after drinking some water. However, the image of puncturing the horse's belly was still vivid in his mind, and the fear he had forcibly suppressed resurfaced, completely beyond his control.

"Could you give me a change of clothes?" Gallardo gently lifted a corner of his shirt. "This shirt is too thin. At least the ones you're wearing can block some of the impact."

For this performance, the bullfighters wore short-sleeved jackets with black velvet trim, adorned with glittering sequins and gold embroidery, which indeed resembled armor.

But it only looks like one. There are far too many cow horns running through this coat, and it offers almost no protection for the limbs. To put it bluntly, it's just a slightly thicker decorative item, something that's dispensable and only provides a little psychological comfort when worn.

"No problem, as long as you're still willing to play."

The swordsman knew that only Gallardo's appearance could restore the audience's confidence, so he simply took off his shirt and handed it over: "Mr. Anders said that if we can last two more rounds, we can get his praise and avoid the fine. And our praise is the same as the audience's praise, understand?"

Gallardo, having been a bullfighting spectator for so many years, naturally knew what they wanted to see: "Got it."

He put on his black coat, took the red cloth, and re-entered the square. Dust swirled around him, the clamor of the crowd filled his ears, and the glaring sunlight beat down on him. Gallardo stood blankly on the sand, letting the coarse sand seep into his boots.

He didn't have time to think about anything else; Black Bull had already noticed him.

The bull lowered its head, its horns stretched forward, and it exhaled heavily from its nostrils. Its eyes gradually locked onto the "foreign object."

"The poor little shoemaker has to come out and fight again."

"That wasn't fighting, that was running away!"

"Actually, it would be fine to just go back to repairing shoes and earn money slowly. There's no need to work so hard."

Gallardo lacked bullfighting skills and the gait to handle bulls; his only asset was his running ability. But running alone wasn't enough to satisfy the audience; nobody wanted to watch a boring chase. He needed to run with flair.

The bull, with two javelins stuck in its body, grew increasingly impatient. Suddenly, it kicked off the sand with its hind legs and charged straight at Gallardo. The spectators in the front row could even feel the ground trembling slightly.

The instinct for survival compelled Gallardo to take a step, but another emotion—the desire to complete the performance—suppressed his legs.

We can't run now, we have to wait.
As the bull's horns drew closer, Gallardo swallowed the "help" that almost escaped his throat. When the bull reached its peak speed, he suddenly dodged and ran forward with all his might, only to slip and fall flat on his face, his mouth full of sand.

The bull horn narrowly missed him, and the dark shadow rushed past Gallardo's body with a whoosh, crashing solidly into the thick wooden fence with a loud thud!
Wood chips flew everywhere, and the entire fence shook.

Gallardo struggled to his feet, stumbling and trying to hide in the shadows of the fence, hoping the bull might have missed him. But the bull turned around, instantly pinpointed his location, and prepared to charge again!

This time it's faster and angrier!
Gallardo wanted to learn from the bullfighters and use a red cape to entangle with the bull; even if he didn't have the skill, it was still better than running around aimlessly.

just
"Where's the cloth? Where did the cloth go?"

Having served as a mounted police officer for many years, Gallardo had indeed encountered danger a few times, but never had he felt as desperate as he did today. He felt like a rat being chased by a cat, about to be crushed and carried away at any moment.

He looked at his sand-covered hands, and finally caught a glimpse of the red cloth on the ground out of the corner of his eye. Not far from the red cloth were the bull's hooves.

Looking at the bull again, it was already poised to pounce.

His claim of regaining his strength was just wishful thinking; he'd only stumbled a moment ago and was already panting again. Gallardo simply lacked the confidence to repeatedly dodge the bull's attacks; one mistake could mean certain death.

We must get the red cloth!

The bull began to charge, and Gallardo began to flee around the square. The man and the bull traversed an arc until they reached the red cloth. With the bull's horns right behind him, Gallardo bent down and almost pounced, grabbing the cloth in one swift motion.

Then he covered his head with his hands, straightened his legs, and twisted himself into a rope to reduce the chance of being stepped on. From then on, he could only leave it to God; all he could do was pray.

The prayers were successful; at least initially the bull didn't trample him, and coincidentally, it trapped him under its belly with its four legs.

The crowd began to cheer, though there were also shouts of abuse. Whatever they were yelling, the atmosphere in the arena was definitely heated up. They had completely forgotten about the Spurs' sneak attack earlier and now only wanted to see if Gallardo would be brutally killed by the bull or manage to escape.

The black bull was standing directly above Gallardo, within arm's reach, and he could see the flowing cow blood and the mucus spurting from its nostrils.

Perhaps his prayers were too short-lived, because as he tried to curl up and roll out, his waist was unfortunately stepped on.

He didn't feel much pain, only a sudden sinking sensation, but a desperate roll helped him escape. He then pushed himself up with his hands and ran towards the nearest barrier passage.

In everyone's eyes, this was an extremely dangerous move.

After being trampled, Gallardo was too exhausted to run, but his large movements attracted the bull's attention, and in an instant, the bull's horns were behind him.

This time, there was no dodging, nor the speed to hold off the bull. Seeing that he was still some distance from the barrier and had no way to avoid it, Gallardo acted entirely on instinct, wildly flinging the piece of cloth in his hand at the charging bull's face!
There was no skill involved, it was all luck.

The red cloth was spread out, like a flower in full bloom before withering, covering the bull's horns and its eyes.

The bull hadn't expected this move; the sudden blackout startled its nerves. It slammed on its brakes, but the immense momentum caused its body to slide forward involuntarily, its hooves scraping against Gallardo's feet as they scrambled across the sand, the kicked-up sand stinging his legs.

The bull temporarily lost its sense of direction, frantically shaking its head, trying to get rid of the obstructive cloth.

Gallardo finally made it back to safety and escaped death once again.

The once quiet stands erupted in cheers. The men in the audience, seated around Kavi, applauded his courage and the final, elaborate veiled gesture, while the housewives and young girls expressed a hint of pity.

Even the other three, who initially had no interest in bullfighting, were stirred up. Their initial slight dislike for Gallardo vanished during the life-or-death chase.

But there is one exception.

"Mr. Orni, are you feeling unwell?" Kavi asked with concern.

"Hmm? No. Why do you ask that, Mr. Kavi?"

"I was just having a professional fit, I didn't mean anything by it," Kavi said simply, and then continued, "He gave such a wonderful performance, everyone was applauding him, but you didn't look too happy."

Orni seemed to understand what he meant, and quickly loosened his clenched fist and relaxed his eyebrows: "I was just worried for Gallardo. Those few moves were really dangerous. Luckily, he dodged them. If he had been gored by the bull's horns, I really don't know what I would have done."

"So that's it."

Olney smiled and shook his head: "Maybe it's a difference in perspective. I'm his friend, and anyone would feel uncomfortable having their friend put into a bullring to do such a dangerous performance."

"I was being presumptuous, but wasn't this his own choice?"

Kavi also looked down at the audience, and through the winding passage, he could barely make out Gallardo's expression: "This is not the expression of someone who has just escaped death."