Nineteenth Century Medical Guide

Chapter 489, Section 485: The Warrior
This was not a formal bullfighting performance, and the venue was temporary.

The wooden walls used in the enclosure mostly came from dilapidated wooden houses, the sand was dug from the seashell beach, and the seats in the stands were not of uniform size. There were all sorts of things, such as benches, stools, blankets, and cushions. They just used whatever they had.

Of the entire stadium, only the main grandstand and the barriers to avoid the bulls were newly built, and their quality was questionable.

Under these circumstances, the so-called free first aid rooms are barely better than decorations.

It was set up in the basement of a church next to the square, just around the corner from the square. The church also put in some effort to clear out its former storage room to accommodate the performance.

The church is quite old; the stone exterior is worn, but it's still relatively clean.

Kavi and Bergett followed Ian inside, stepping onto the aisle lined with dark wooden benches. The air was filled with the smell of wax mixed with the aged wood, and even the sunlight streaming through the glass seemed sacred and solemn.

Hearing the noise, someone walked over from a distance; it was the priest who had just delivered the holy oil to Anders.

He held a snow-white plate in his hand, his eyes only on the food: "Secretary, why are you here again? I've already told you we can't handle this, you should take him to the hospital."

After saying that, he lowered his head and put a large piece of spider crab meat pie into his mouth. When he looked up again, he realized there were other people around and was slightly taken aback: "Uh, I haven't eaten all day, you guys don't mind, do you?"

Ian naturally didn't say anything, but simply asked, "How is he now?"

“You came here fifteen minutes ago and asked the same question.” The priest quickly chewed two bites and swallowed the pie. “He said he was okay, but I could tell the place where he was hit was very painful.”

“I brought a doctor with me.” Ian didn’t elaborate much, “A doctor from France.”

"French?" The priest asked curiously, his chubby face immediately spreading out. "Do the French like bullfighting? That's quite rare."

“I’m Austrian, and I worked in France for a while,” Cavilla replied. “Where is Mr. Matador?”

"He's still lying inside."

The priest placed the plate on the pulpit, casually wiped his hands, then picked up a Bible and put it in his pocket before leading people to the entrance to the basement in the back hall.

He knew that the medical standards here were far inferior to those in France; a graduate from any medical school in France would be far more qualified than the doctors here. But based on his years of nursing experience, he still felt uneasy: "To be honest, even if a doctor came, it wouldn't make a difference; this place is far too rudimentary."

"I am measured."

As the four of them descended the stone steps, a musty smell wafted up. An oil lamp was placed beside the bed, and the Spurs Hand's face and the beach sand stuck to his face were clearly visible.

Ian felt very apologetic and rushed to his bedside as soon as he came down the stairs: "Mr. Spurs, how are you feeling now? Is it still in a lot of pain?"

"Compared to last year's injury, this is nothing."

The Spurs player was just a member of the bullfighting team, not a high-ranking player, but when the mayor's secretary visited again, he still chose to sit up despite the pain. Ian didn't stop him, letting Carvy pass, and stood aside secretly pulling out a handkerchief to cover his nose: "I've asked a doctor to take a look at you."

The Spurs player, who dealt with cattle and horses all day, inevitably had a strange odor, which he simply couldn't bring himself to do. Besides, in his eyes, he, as a secretary, had far too many responsibilities; health issues should be left to professionals.
But to Ian's surprise, Kavi didn't let him lie back down: "Only chest pain?"

"And my back hurts, probably from the fall."

"Can you get out of bed?"

"Yes, it is possible."

Seeing his hesitation, Kavi asked, "Is it hard to breathe?"

"Well, sort of."

Bergter placed the instrument case at the foot of the bed, opened it, took out the stethoscope, and handed it to him. Kavi put it on, placed the stethoscope head against his left chest, and said, "Take a deep breath."

Two minutes later, the diagnosis was basically confirmed. He asked, "Shortness of breath after the injury, pain in the left chest, slightly decreased breath sounds in the left lung, pneumothorax is possible. What's your name?"

"Raphael Ugo".

“It’s easy to remember.” Kavi helped him unbutton his shirt. “Take off your clothes and lie down. I need to do some other tests.”

"What test?"

The moment Ugo saw the stethoscope, he knew the other party was no ordinary person. Although he was still asking questions, his body had already taken off his shirt on its own.

Kavi's mere touch on his chest was enough to send cold sweats down his face. He instinctively grabbed Kavi's arm, trying to push him away.

"Don't move, it'll hurt more if you move." Bergert pried his hand open. "Just bear with it for now, it'll pass."

"I feel a grating sensation near the sternum on the front; the 7, 8, and 9 vertebrae are probably all broken. As for the back, I can't be sure; the transverse processes of the spine might also be fractured." To prevent further displacement of the fractures, Kavi quickly withdrew his hand and felt for his radial artery. "Vital signs seem fine. Didn't you bring a blood pressure monitor?"

Bergert shook his head: "In another large brown leather trunk."

"Go back first and tell Casper and Jonah to take all the boxes to the hospital to be on standby."

Does his pneumothorax need treatment?

"We can hold on for now. Anyway, I'll be getting on the carriage soon. You go and prepare your things."

Where are the good hospitals?

Ian quickly pointed in a direction: "Go down the main road in the opposite direction from the beach. When you see an iron bridge to the east, don't go up the bridge. Just keep walking along the main road and turn right when you see the road."

Kavi bent down to examine the abdomen, casually asking, "Is this the biggest hospital around here?"

“It’s a hospital that specializes in treating external injuries,” Ian replied.

"Surgical hospital?"

"This shouldn't be it."

"That's a regular clinic."

"The doctors there specialize in treating falls and are very professional."

After confirming that Ugo's abdomen was temporarily fine, Kavi looked up at Ian and said, "A rib fracture can be serious or minor. I've already paid for the house call, so you don't want any other accidents to happen, do you?"

Ian hesitated for a moment: "Then let's go to St. Mattia Foundation Hospital. It's the same bridge; after crossing it, walk northeast for a bit and you'll see it." "Okay."

After seeing Bergett off, Ian finally asked, but in French: "Is he not doing well?"

"It looks alright now, but the location of the injury is a bit complicated, and the condition may change."

Seeing that Ugo looked well, and after repeatedly listening to his heartbeat and finding no problems, Kavi said to Ian, "Don't worry, Secretary, he's fine for now. Let him rest here for a while, and we'll take him there together when Mr. Anders arrives. It's more reliable for external injuries to be treated in the hospital."

“Okay.” Ian put away his handkerchief. “I’ll contact the carriage.”

Upon hearing Anders' name, Ugo tensed up: "Mr. Anders? Mr. Anders is coming here too? Why? Is he injured as well?"

Just as Kavi was about to respond, he heard shouts outside and could clearly feel the basement shaking: "Looks like it's almost over."

On the other side of the square, the bullfight had entered a fierce, mutually destructive phase.

Gallardo fell in a very sorry state, and his horse had no chance to resist. After being knocked over, its tender belly was repeatedly stabbed by the bull's horns. By the time it took off running, it was too late; several bloody holes appeared in its belly.

At this moment, strange shouts finally rang out from the audience, sounds that seemed to come from those who were satisfied with the pleasure of slaughter, and also the death knell for that horse.

“It’s no use. Enduring it for another day or two will only add to its suffering.” Anders was heartbroken, but the show wasn’t over. While the others distracted the Bulls, he called over another Spurs player. “Give it a quick death. You know what to do.”

The Spurs' coach knelt before his horse, stroking its neck and mane, his eyes fixed on Gallardo, who was slumped against the fence: "It's all his fault! It's him!"

"Do your job well; losers don't deserve to stay on the field."

"Yes"

A moment later, a servant of the bullring brought a knife that was different from the curved sword. The blade was slightly shorter, with a narrow, pointed tip. The spurman covered the horse's eyes with a black cloth and plunged the knife into the back of its neck, ending its suffering.

"Damn it. Take this guy who broke the bullfighting rules away!" Anders, hands on his back, coughed lightly twice. "We lost badly today; we need to get more compensation after this."

Gallardo's extremely amateurish riding thrust failed; at least until he truly mastered the technique of piercing a bull's heart with a sword, his attack was unlikely to succeed. Unfortunately, one horse was injured and another died, and even Anders suffered a significant injury, making this bizarre bullfight a truly tragic one.

But as others left the game, Anders picked up his rapier again, and the Bulls once again set their sights on their target.

The bullfighter, over forty years old, maintained his elegant posture as always, and his curved sword remained unbroken; bullfighting seemed to be back on track.

To celebrate his recovery, horns sounded again from the band, and thousands of eyes were once again focused on him.

The bull had lost a lot of blood, its entire back turning crimson, but the force of its impact hadn't diminished much; it still had strength. It was too early to finish it off with a single blow. The audience wouldn't like such a hasty ending, and an ignominious conclusion wouldn't satisfy Anders. A few more rounds of maneuvering were necessary.

He concealed the sword behind a red cloth, the injury to his lower back forcing him to turn to the side to ease the pain. But this odd stance, coupled with his left hand on his hip and his raised chin, actually made him appear exceptionally elegant and confident.

Unfurling the red cloth, the Bulls charged once more, drawing thunderous applause from the crowd.

Anders' movements were much smaller than before; his small steps backward and arm swings minimized the pain. However, this also reduced the distance between him and the red cloth, and naturally, the distance between him and the bull's horns.

Each time, the bull's horns grazed his thigh, making the scene even more thrilling and exciting.

After three rounds, he had a basic grasp of the bull's attack patterns and range. He then turned around and alternately took the red cloth with his left and right hands to continuously tease the bull. This not only increased the entertainment value but also sped up the pace, allowing him to exhaust the bull's stamina.

Of course, this is also Anders' way of compensating the audience, since one failure requires several more brilliant performances to make up for it.

Just as he was about to finish this part and move on to the final step, the bull's horn that had been protruding into the red cloth suddenly twisted at a strange angle and stabbed towards his thigh.

Just as the two Spurs players had said, the Bulls' attack style was very inconsistent, and they would change their course from time to time. Anders' attention had just begun to wander when the unexpected happened.

He knew he couldn't dodge it. Even if his leg dodged, his body would remain in the same place due to the pain in his lower back, making things even more dangerous. At that moment, his years of bullfighting experience made him subconsciously take a small step forward, letting the bull's horns tuck between his legs.

"It got bumped again!"

"Oh my god, this is the second time!!!"

"Oh no, he's going to fall, he's going to die. Wait, he seems okay?"

Anders was propelled into the air by the bull's horns. Unable to exert force from his lower back, he could only press his torso against the bull's head. He gripped the other horn tightly with his arms, and through several pushes and the circular motion under his armpits, he flipped over in mid-air and successfully cleared the bull's head.

After successfully landing on his feet, he quickly let go of his arms, curled up in pain, and rolled forward twice more before escaping the bull's attack range.

Being gored by a bull's horn is certainly not a glorious thing, but skillfully dissipating the impact still earned him a round of applause.

"How are you? Are you alright?"

"fine!"

He kept saying he was fine, but Anders could feel his body falling apart, with pain constantly flooding his brain. He dug his fingers into the sand and struggled to sit up: "Quick, help me up."

His assistants knew he wouldn't give up as long as he had a breath left, so they could only help him up again: "Mr. Anders, let's end this performance."

"We're losing out big time. This isn't Madrid; there's no need to gamble our lives here."

"I'm not gambling, I'll win."

Anders recalled what had just happened; if he hadn't reacted quickly enough, he might have lost his leg. Even if he had dodged the leg, he had taken a huge risk; a slight misstep could have resulted in his head being crushed into a nutmeg like a bull's hoof.

Now, Anders only had eyes for the bull; even Gallardo seemed less important: "To be butted over is like a coward taking a sword to end its life. If that counts as a victory, then what have I won? Humiliation?"

"."

Anders straightened his crooked gold vest, smoothed the gold tassels hanging on his chest, and said with a choked voice, "I won't be able to sleep tonight until I've completely subdued it here."

“You’re overthinking it. I think we should just kill it, Mr. Anders. The sword is an important part of bullfighting.”

"Yes, Gallardo wasted too much time; the performance should have ended long ago. And for the sake of the bullfighting team, and for your health."

"roll!!"

Anders was ignoring all this nonsense. He picked up the sword from the ground, wiped the sand off the blade with his sleeve, and then reattached the red cloth to the sword. Only now, the cloth was closer, some parts even overlapping his legs: "Come on!!!"