A Hospital in Another World?

Amidst all eyes, the bald bishop strained to hook onto something. His body arched backward, head stretching forward just to get a clearer view of Garrett's every move, contorting into a peculiar "C" shape. Sir Westlow couldn't bear it, stepping forward to grab the hook and hearing Garrett shout:

"Get me some thin needles! Toothpicks will do!"

Garrett meticulously separated each muscle section on the leg of a sheep, placing toothpicks between them as markers. Then he called everyone over, pointing at the leg.

"Baron, look here. There are numerous muscles. The one on your arm—this is one of them—"

He turned the blade and made a quick flick. With a snap, the tendon broke, the muscle recoiling upwards as the silvery tendon disappeared within the muscle mass.

"Now, we have to find it again..."

Garrett tilted his head, gestured at the sheep's leg. That gesture was quite clear: "Dig it out."

Baron Knight: "..."

Flynn Knight and Sir Westlow: "..."

The bald bishop leaned in, looked up and down, sleeves rolled up, and forcibly dug into the separated muscles. After much struggle, his hands bloody, he actually found the retracted tendon, gripping it with his fingernails and pulling—

"Oops!" It slipped!

"Oops!" Slipped again!

The third time, the bald bishop, learning from his mistake, grabbed the muscle with both fingernails, veins on his wrist bulging, and with a tug—

He made a hole in the perfectly good leg of lamb.

"Hey hey hey, stop stop!"

Garrett couldn't watch anymore. "Your Eminence, we can't use brute force here. We need proper tools... Someone, get a set of forceps... No, no forceps? Fine, bring two narrow flat iron rods and more hooks!"

"Go fetch!"

The bald bishop and several knights issued orders simultaneously. The kitchen immediately bustled, and after half a cup of tea's time, the items Garrett requested were brought in. Despite the unevenness of the long iron rods and the crude bent hooks made by the knights, Garrett had to resign himself:

"This will have to do..."

He carefully parted the muscle, hooked onto it, and signaled the two knights to pull in opposite directions. From the depths, they found the torn tendon, squeezing it tight with two narrow flat iron rods, and calling Baron Knight:

"Pull! Pull backward!"

"Heave—"

Baron Knight strained, pulling the lamb's leg with a squeaky sound, inch by inch, preventing the muscle from tearing open again. As the torn tendon met its other end, Garrett immediately commanded:

"Alright! Right here, hold it steady, don't move!—Your Eminence, please cast a healing spell to join the tendon ends!"

White light descended. A group of people crowded around, witnessing the tendon that had been cut by a surgical blade miraculously fuse back together!

"So this is how it's done!"

"So much clearer this way! Old Baron, see, your tendons could be joined like this too!"

"Little Garrett, you're amazing!"

The knights exclaimed in awe. The bald bishop, seizing the opportunity, healed the sheep completely, releasing its divine hold, and the animal dashed away.

...With a slight limp.

"Garrett, why's it still limping?"

"That's why I said we need proper tools!"

"What do you need?"

The bald bishop asked solemnly. Garrett's eyes lit up.

The surgical instruments Lynn, the necromancer, had given him were better than nothing. The blades were wavy, the scissors could barely trim flowers, there was only one hook, and what about hemostatic forceps? What were those?

In terms of variety and precision, Garrett, drawing from his experiences in the 21st century, couldn't quite accept it.

But if he had to get someone to craft them, Garrett, upon considering his wallet, felt apprehensive.

Initially, he planned to save up bit by bit, but lo and behold, the temple took the initiative—

The temple was loaded!

Had a strong backing!

Take from the rich to equip the surgery! Don't be polite with the wealthy!

"A few words won't explain it." He looked expectantly at the bald bishop. "How about I go home and draw it for you?"

After about a meal's worth of time, the bald bishop, astonished, stared at a large sheet of paper covered with various surgical instruments, densely annotated.

"What's this?" 

"The handle of a surgical knife."

"This?"

"A circular blade. This is a curved blade, a triangular blade, various sizes—"

"And this?"

"Hemostatic forceps."

"Why are two of them drawn the same?"

"Oh, that's not hemostatic forceps; it's a needle holder. These are fine tissue forceps, large and small flat-nosed forceps. This is a mosquito forceps, this is a pointed mosquito forceps. This is a serrated scissors, a curved slanting scissors, a straight slanting scissors, these are large, medium, and small curves...

By the way, mosquito forceps, pointed mosquito forceps, fine tissue forceps, and hemostatic forceps are quite small; it's best to have a jeweler make them."

"This, this many?!"

The bald bishop was speechless. Garrett sighed, "These are just what's urgently needed. To have a complete set, there's still a long way to go..."

Not a single surgical procedure arrived without a cart brimming with dozens of instruments, making it impossible to start.

Absolutely no sense of security.

Baron Knight glanced at the patterns on the paper, then at his own wrist injury, gradually bowing his head. His expression shifted from bright to dull, and finally, he clenched his fist tightly.

"I..."

Garrett had been watching his expressions. This conflicted, wavering, and finally determined look was something he'd seen countless times in his past life:

Families in financial straits, deciding whether to make sacrifices, sell everything they had, hoping for a chance at healing. They always hesitated like this, pacing in emergency rooms, at payment counters, constantly in turmoil in the waiting halls.

Back then, he couldn't do much. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, dozens or hundreds of patients a day, among them were always a few in economic distress. But this time, finally, he could do something.

Garrett promptly laid a hand on Baron Knight's shoulder. Tilting his head up, he confidently addressed the bald bishop:

"Your Eminence, could you trouble yourself to make this set of instruments? Once it's done, I'll take Baron Knight to the temple to complete the treatment. I can also write up detailed notes on these diagrams and the entire treatment process—"

The bald bishop's furrowed brow gradually relaxed. He shook his head deliberately:

"Just this much?"

"Isn't this enough?" Garrett was brimming with confidence. "Your Eminence, among the followers of the War God's temple, there are many warriors, right? How many have old injuries that couldn't be healed? I don't know, but you surely do, right?"

The bald bishop nodded lightly. Indeed, among those he knew, there were about a dozen higher-level retired warriors due to old injuries—

"These

 warriors, quite a few of them have money, right? Imagine, if they knew old injuries could be treated, that they could return to the battlefield, what would they be willing to do for the temple?—Other temples can't heal them, only the War God's temple can!"

"Are you saying, only the War God's temple?" The bald bishop was moved. Garrett shrugged:

"I, for one, have no intention of teaching at the Spring Goddess's temple..."

As for the Church of the God of Nature, cough, his identity as a prophet there was a sham, and he couldn't run away from it fast enough.

The bald bishop pondered. The more he thought, the more feasible this proposition seemed. He looked at Garrett and burst into laughter:

"You rascal! Teach us how to heal, and you're already planning to earn a set of knives for free?"

"Can you say no?" Garrett chuckled. The bald bishop slapped his shoulder:

"Can I even say no?"

"Oh—don't hit me, if you break something, no one's going to operate!"

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