Nineteenth Century Medical Guide

Chapter 488, Question 484: Who is the protagonist?

The man who patted Kavi on the shoulder was a short, thin young man in his early twenties, dressed in a thick suit and top hat. He took it off when Kavi turned around: "Ian Slick, just call me Ian."

"What's with you?"

It was Casper who spoke first, followed by Jonah who turned to look at them. The two of them were like watchdogs that had spotted strangers approaching; their eyes were natural, but their body language was full of vigilance.

It's not entirely their fault; the other person's French was just so poor. To cover it up, they deliberately sped up their speech, which only made it sound even more awkward when mixed with Spanish. If they hadn't been dealing with Spaniards these past few days, they definitely wouldn't have understood a word.

Ian glanced at the two men briefly, then looked at the sketches in his notebook, ignoring their questions: "I am the mayor's secretary, Dr. Kavi. I need your help."

Jonah didn't react much to the tone and attitude, but Casper was different; he was about to lash out when Kave stopped him.

Following Olney, another person knows his identity.

Although it was all Bergotte's fault for his big mouth, Kavi didn't try to hide his identity as a doctor. But whether it was because he had dealt with the men in black too much or because he had spent too much time with Casper, he didn't like the feeling of being seen through.

"You two know each other?" Kavi asked Orni.

“Oh, we grew up together, we’re old friends.” Olney knew his old friend all too well. “He mentioned you when I met him this morning.”

He deliberately used honorifics when addressing Kavi, hoping to attract the attention of his old friend, but all to no avail.

“Dr. Kavey, as you just saw, a bullfighter is injured and can barely walk.” Ian said calmly, putting his hat back on. “The medical resources here are very limited. I hope you can lend a hand. You wouldn’t just stand by and do nothing, would you?”

As he spoke, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, opened it, and began counting the banknotes inside: "Don't worry, there will be a consultation fee for house calls, as long as it's possible."

Things are different now. Kavi is no longer the down-on-his-luck kid he was when he first arrived in Vienna, and besides, his house calls are not driven by money.

The man's words were somewhat forceful, but considering his status, Kavi didn't want to argue further.

Since he had no interest in bullfighting and was just killing time, he prepared to get up, decline the consultation fee, and go check on the bullfighter. But then he saw the young man named Ian casually pull out a few bills and hand them to him: "This should be enough, right? If he can be cured, I have more."

Kavi looked at the banknotes and changed his mind: "I charge 5000 francs for one house call in Paris."

"Huh? So many?" Ian immediately lost his composure, his face turning grim. "Are all French doctors this heartless?"

By saying this, Kavey was essentially rejecting the offer. It was Begot, watching Gallardo's runs in the bullring, who couldn't resist adding fuel to the fire: "5000 is the bottom line. Even if someone with no status offered that price, they couldn't hire him!!!"

Gallardo snatched the curved sword with a swift twist and led the Bulls toward Anders.

He was too fast, and the bull was right behind him. Anders tried to dodge, but his body couldn't keep up with his reaction, and he was hit hard by the bull's horns.

The bull, having endured the entire game with frustration, suddenly felt the weight of the horn and, straining its neck, headed Anders several more times in mid-air. It only stopped when Anders crashed heavily to the ground, a pile of trembling red cloths appearing before his eyes.

The stands outside the stadium erupted like boiling oil after a pot of cold water had been poured over it, bursting into enthusiastic cheers, or rather, more primal roars.

It was for Gallardo's quick thinking, for the bull's extremely dangerous power, and for the blood splattered by the matador.

Anders nearly fell headfirst onto the sand. Although he managed to protect his head and neck in time, he was still trampled on the thigh by a cow's hoof. To make matters worse, his right eye seemed to have been hit, and his vision was now obscured by a large cloud of blood.

"Mr. Anders, how are you? Can you still stand up?"

"That guy is too insidious! This is murder, premeditated murder, not bullfighting at all!!!"

The two sword bearers dared not delay and quickly pulled him away, no matter what, they had to get him out of the bull's sight first.

Anders was badly injured; his injured leg wouldn't obey him, and he couldn't stand up for a while. He had also lost half of his vision, and there was a constant buzzing in his ears. Mixed with the noise of the surrounding environment, he couldn't hear anything clearly: "Where's Gallardo? Where's that madman?"

"He's smiling and thanking us for the gift right now; he must think he's really amazing!"

"It seems quite a few spectators like his approach. This lousy place clearly doesn't understand bullfighting. If this continues, the money they're paying won't even cover the medical expenses. It's such a rip-off. Mr. Anders, your eyes... your eyes are badly injured. Can you see anything?"

Anders' right eyelid was swollen and bloodshot, barely able to open it a crack before immediately closing it again. He then squeezed the thigh muscle that had just been stepped on: "Help me up quickly."

"How about we take a break, or let someone else take over?"

"Don't joke around! I'm a matador, what matador gets carried out of the bullring?"

Anders gently touched his right eye; his hand was stained with blood, but his eyeball was still in its socket, so it wasn't a big problem. He then tried bending over and shaking his leg; his muscles ached terribly, like his skin had been scalded by boiling water. Fortunately, the most dangerous phase had passed, and he could still use his limbs.

It can continue.

Seeing that he had fully recovered, the cheers from the crowd resumed, even more enthusiastic than before.

Anders didn't look at the stands. Whatever the reason, a matador struck by the bull's horns had no face to look at the stands. Now, all he had to do was, while his body still allowed, control the bull, exhaust its strength, and then cleanly and decisively finish it off.

As for Gallardo...
"You've won. You've won your freedom. Now go home."

Gallardo glanced at him with a smile and shook his head.

"The sword, give me the sword." Anders stared intently at the curved sword in his hand. "I admire your courage and talent, but you are not a bullfighter, you are not qualified to hold it."

"It's in my hands now."

Gallardo didn't care about anything else; the applause and cheers had already won the man over. "Mr. Anders, I admire you, but you're injured now. I think it's better for me to handle it. You should go and rest. Oh, by the way, I'm really sorry about earlier."

Having worked in the bull trade for over a decade, Anders has been injured by bulls 15 times, almost once a year. Even being trampled and rubbed on the sand by bull hooves is nothing compared to the humiliation he suffers now.

"I'll say it again, give me the sword." "Heh~"

Gallardo looked him up and down and couldn't help but chuckle when he saw that he could only walk with a limp on one leg.

He raised his curved sword high, amidst cheers: "In the end, we're all putting on a show, only now the roles have reversed. Look, everyone thinks it's my turn to end this performance, isn't it!?"

"Yes! Take it down! We've given permission!!"

We believe in you!!!

With his injury, Anders could only watch as Gallardo charged toward the plaza entrance, shoving aside the second spurs who had attacked the Bulls earlier, and amidst the cheers of the crowd, he grabbed the reins, leaped onto his horse, and charged back into the plaza.

The Spurs player was already surprised by the unexpected turn of events and overwhelmed by Gallardo's momentum. Now, having lost his footing, he could only stand on the sidelines and roar, "What are you trying to do?"

“It’s mine now, a fine horse indeed. Don’t worry, I’m a mounted policeman, I’ll treat it well.” Gallardo stroked the horse’s mane, then pointed his sword at the bull. “Now I’ll take care of this bull!”

The audience erupted in cheers once again!
"You're insane! That's Mr. Anders' prey!"

"He was gored by a bull, let's carry him away."

Gallardo rode a strong and agile warhorse, just like the previous injured horse, handpicked by the bullfighting team. Under the Spurs' skillful control, they could use their agility to counter the bull's strength, showcasing a true confrontation between bull and horse.

As soon as he got behind the wheel, he could clearly feel that the inferior horses he usually rode were too ordinary, even rubbish.

With such a fine horse at his disposal, coupled with his confidence in his horsemanship, Gallardo felt increasingly certain of victory. How could a mounted policeman, who spent his days chasing bandits across mountains and valleys, possibly lose to soft sand and a dying bull?

Recalling his disheveled appearance when he first entered the square, Gallardo now felt a sense of relief.

Bathed in the afternoon sun, galloping across the bullring, using their own strength to win the cheers and applause of the audience, to win everything that belongs to them.
Now all he had to do was rush forward, clear the bull's horns, and plunge the blade into the bull's heart from top to bottom.

This is exactly what I wanted!
All that time spent patrolling the mountains, accepting bribes, robbing, stealing, and dealing with bandits and smugglers to negotiate terms—to hell with all of that!
All I need to do is finish this pathetic massacre, and I'll be the hero of the entire city!
bang~
In the blink of an eye, a dull thud echoed through the arena. Gallardo had regained control of his horse's turn, but the horse was a fraction of a second too slow, and its hind leg took a solid hit.

The sword tip, having been injured, veered off course and struck a steel spike embedded in the bull's neck, then bounced back.

"What kind of broken sword?"

Before he could react, the bull had already charged. It was too late to pull the reins away and dodge the attack. The warhorse, with its injured hind leg, couldn't avoid the blow and was struck in the side, then twice, then three times.
The horse fell heavily to the ground, its limbs twitching, and Gallardo was thrown to the side.

Anders rubbed his aching thigh hard with the sole of his hand, watching all of this unfold. He immediately ordered his assistants to enter the arena and lure the bull away.

Gallardo collapsed onto the sand, covered in dust, his clothes soaked with sweat yet chilled by the wind. The accumulated fatigue finally broke through his limits, bursting forth like a wild beast breaking free of its enclosure.

He felt like his body was falling apart, and he could only barely move his limbs. He didn't even have the strength to stand up.

Looking back at the audience, the spectators who had been shouting enthusiastically just moments before only sighed in disappointment, their earlier passion completely gone. They impatiently fanned themselves, munched on snacks, ignoring Gallardo's mistake as garbage, patiently waiting for the more exciting performance to begin.

While the other fighters lured the bull away, Anders slowly walked up to him: "Thank God for your good physique, and thank him for your good luck. Go home now, you don't deserve to stand here."

Having said that, he picked up the sword and red cloth that had fallen to the side, straightened his chest, and walked toward the bull.

In fact, besides the spectators who enjoyed the spectacle, there were also people in the stands who were deeply concerned about this turn of events.

Ian was one of them.

If the previous Spurs hand injury was just a bit of a hassle for him, then Anders' injury and the unexpected accident involving that poor horse were enough to prick his nerves and send his blood pressure soaring.

Logically speaking, if a bullfighter has an accident during a bullfight, he should pay for the treatment himself.

They have substantial incomes and most have some savings; medical expenses are only a part of their daily expenses. If they suffer serious injuries and their expenses become too high, exceeding their savings, they can seek assistance from their peers or participate in fundraising.

In any case, the life or death of the bullfighter is none of the business of the bullring.

After all, the bullfighters receive a hefty appearance fee for each match, which includes medical expenses. Furthermore, on-site first aid is provided free of charge; however, whether the treatment is successful depends entirely on luck.

But San Sebastián is just an ordinary small port city, with few bullfights and it is not a famous bullfighting city.

This bullfighting event, held just before winter, was one of the few major events in this small town, attracting a lot of funding. The local bull ranch owner, who is also the father of Gallardo's dream girl, contributed the most, hoping to get involved in bullfighting and sell his bulls in Madrid.

This Seville bullfighting team was also brought in through connections and is very famous in the industry.

If the event is successful, then building the city's first official bullfighting arena and making bullfighting a regular occurrence can be put on the agenda.

But if news breaks that a bullfighter suffers a serious injury or death due to a lack of funds to cover medical expenses, the investment will be wasted. It will also become more difficult to hold bullfighting events in the future, as who would travel such a long mountain road to risk their life for a little extra income?

It can be said that the injuries of these people are closely related to the mayor's career, and therefore naturally closely related to Ian.

He knew the medical standards here all too well; many people's thinking was still stuck in the Renaissance era. The Spurs player had just been brought into the musty-smelling emergency room when the priest there waved his hands repeatedly, saying he couldn't be cured. What followed was the much-anticipated scene of him being transported away by horse-drawn carriage.

They bumped their way to the hospital, and by then, the last half of their lives was almost over.

Watching the horse being dragged away, and with Anders still wanting to go up and kill the bull, Ian knew he didn't have time. Regardless of who this doctor was, he had no choice but to try anything.

He removed his top hat again and bowed deeply. "Dr. Kavi, on behalf of the mayor, I extend a formal invitation to you. I hope you can help, even just by standing aside and examining the injury. I will find a way to pay the 5000 francs consultation fee."

I'm back from my trip, so I should be able to update regularly for a while now...