The routine of the White Qilin Medical Pavilion remained immutable, regardless of the location.

First and foremost, in the spirit of Florence Nightingale, their god was sanitation. History had sanitized Nightingale herself, packaging her as an “Angel of Mercy” or the “Lady with the Lamp,” complete with hagiographies detailing how she tenderly held the hands of wounded soldiers.

But holding hands does not cure disease.

In an era devoid of the concept of bacteriology, holding a sick patient’s hand could very well be the final vector that delivered septic shock. It might have brought a fleeting comfort to the mind, true, but the real Nightingale would have been far more likely to scrub a soldier’s hands raw with harsh spirits than to caress them. She would have wielded statistics and politics as twin weapons, fighting tooth and nail to save every last life she could.

Following her pragmatic example, the first task the White Qilin Medical Pavilion undertook was digging latrines and searing the surrounding earth with Fire Vitality Qi. From the field cots where the patients would lie to the area designated as the operating theater, they sterilized everything with ruthless efficiency.

“We’ve received a complaint from the Hwaju Medical Pavilion,” a physician reported, his expression troubled. “They claim the scent of alcohol drifting from our field tents is too overpowering.”

Jin Cheon-hee did not even look up from his work. “It can’t be helped. Ignore them and carry on.”

A “complaint” was merely a polite euphemism for a grievance. As they continued to establish their field hospital, a soldier approached them with another message, looking more awkward than the last.

“They say the smell of spirits is so pungent that they cannot discern the scent of their own medicinal herbs.”

If you can’t even distinguish that, you should quit being a physician, Cheon-hee thought uncharitably.

As if plucking the thought from his disciple’s mind, Zhuge Rin voiced the sentiment aloud.

“If they are incapable of discerning even that much, how did they ever earn the title of physician?”

The soldier, taken aback by the bluntness, scurried away. He must have reported the exchange verbatim, for this time a junior physician from the Hwaju Medical Pavilion marched over personally, his face set in a mask of forced politeness.

“I would hope that our respective medical pavilions can treat one another with mutual respect.”

“Respect does not require us to forego the use of sterilization,” Zhuge Rin retorted coolly, his blue eyes sharp. “Furthermore, for you to come here personally over such a trivial matter seems, by all accounts, to be nothing more than petty fault-finding.”

Stung by the master’s rebuke, the junior physician’s face turned beet red. He spun on his heel and stormed off without another word.

“Master,” Jin Cheon-hee asked quietly once the man was gone, “was it really wise to be so blunt?”

“During the Dragon and Phoenix Assembly and at the Bidong, we were in direct command of the field clinics and all physicians followed our principles, Hui-ya. Here, however, the highest command belongs to the Imperial Physicians. And they are already too exhausted to spare us any attention.”

Because they’re being worked to the bone, Cheon-hee finished the thought.

Ordinarily, the Imperial staff would have come to offer greetings while the tents were being pitched. The fact that they hadn’t shown their faces wasn’t a breach of etiquette; it meant they simply had no time to breathe. All the physicians who weren’t affiliated with a Gangho sect had been requisitioned by the imperial command, and they were currently being ground down into dust. That silence spoke volumes.

“Once our tents are ready, patients will flood in and we will have no energy to spare for politics,” Zhuge Rin continued.

“In that case,” Cheon-hee mused, glancing toward the neighboring camp, “the stamina of the Hwaju Medical Pavilion is truly remarkable. To come here and cause a scene amidst this chaos requires a special kind of idleness.”

He looked over and saw an endless line of patients already forming at their neighbor’s camp.

“We have a long history of friction with them,” the White Qilin Divine Physician said placidly. “It is only natural that they would resent us.”

Since the White Qilin Medical Pavilion had begun its rapid expansion, the Hwaju Medical Pavilion had suffered one defeat after another. In any region they had not already firmly controlled, they were losing ground year by year. Their resentment was understandable.

But is that my problem?

The modern doctor in Jin Cheon-hee was already stressed to the breaking point just thinking about the Hwaju Medical Pavilion’s abysmal hygiene standards. If he could, he would grab one of their physicians by the collar and pour a bottle of medical-grade alcohol right down his throat.

“Still, to speak so… explicitly.”

His master smiled faintly. “If they have a problem, they can summon the Lord of the Hwaju Medical Pavilion, Hee-ya. But he isn’t here, is he?”

He was right. The Lord wasn’t here. In the end, they could do nothing to stop the White Qilin Medical Pavilion from establishing its base like a steamroller. If they had a problem, they would have to call their leader. But the lord of a medical hall was an incredibly busy man; he was hardly likely to come to the front lines.

In truth, his own master—who had insisted on going to war rather than sending his precious disciple alone—was the real anomaly here. A doting fool of a teacher.

As if sensing Cheon-hee’s internal monologue, his master’s blue eyes met his.

“Still, the Deputy of the Hwaju Medical Pavilion probably doesn’t spend his days breaking his own arm and soaking his body in Profound-Realm poisons, now does he, Hee-ya?”

“…”

The jab hit too close to home for him to have a comeback.

***

Before long, the setup of their camp was complete. Immediately, the patients began to pour in.

How I wish these people were customers for the Martial Training City.

That place, too, had drawn martial artists from all corners before it was even completed. The sight of everyone working together amicably to become Peak-Realm masters had been beautiful. And, crucially, no one got hurt. Here, however, gravely wounded men were carried in on stretchers or piggybacked by their comrades, forming a grim, silent line that stretched into the distance.

Cheon-hee exhaled a heavy breath.

The smell of blood, sweat, gunpowder, iron, and rotting flesh hung thick in the air. It was unmistakably the scent of war.

“Everyone, assume emergency posture immediately! However, it is crucial that we maintain our own stamina and energy, so move according to the plan!”

“Yes, Young Pavilion Master!” the physicians shouted in unison.

And so, the treatment began.

The vast majority of patients were suffering from incised wounds. Surprisingly, there were not many burn victims. The term “incised wound” was a broad category that included everything from abrasions and contusions to various injuries caused by blades. It was further divided based on the cause of injury: stab wounds, slashing wounds, and bite wounds, to name a few. A slashing wound, for instance, typically referred to an injury caused by a heavy bladed weapon, like an axe or a glaive, where the mass of the weapon combined with its sharpness to crush and sever simultaneously.

Even a simple cut was divided into numerous subcategories, each requiring a slightly different method of treatment.

On Earth, he would have just lumped them all together as lacerations. Of course, things might be different if every household were equipped with a longsword, a Heavenly Dragon Glaive, and a mace. But since the Joseon Dynasty, the standard weapon in a Korean household was a kitchen knife. For some reason, men with tattoos occasionally came into the ER with sashimi knife wounds, but even they didn’t fight with bastard swords or spears.

Here in the Murim, however, people were constantly stabbing each other with an endless variety of blades and martial techniques, resulting in every imaginable type of trauma.

The first priorities were hemostasis and analgesia. On Earth, he would have used chemical anesthetics; here, he used pressure points.

Tap, tap!

He stopped the bleeding with quick strikes.

“This is an emergency, so I will be striking the unconsciousness point.”

He struck the honhyeol, and the man immediately slumped, falling into a coma-like state. Normally, one would administer medicine and check the patient’s condition beforehand, but if they had that kind of time, it wouldn’t be a field hospital.

“Striking the paralysis point.”

Once the mahyeol was struck, all sensation was lost. The problem was twofold. First, if the patient moved too much or their internal energy fluctuated, the pressure point’s effect would wear off. Second, if he didn’t finish the treatment and wake him up quickly, the patient could suffer from total, permanent paralysis. That was why, before surgery, anesthesia was usually a process that started the day before, after carefully considering the patient’s condition and constitution.

But that’s just how life is.

How many patients walked in with the exact symptoms a surgeon wished for? Right at this moment, the Suksin and their allies were mass-producing patients in real time.

Wow! The patients are respawning!

He was so happy he could cry. This was a surgeon’s paradise, a true, twisted paradise.

“Young Pavilion Master, you’ve already finished the procedure…” one of the assistants marveled.

“I’m fast, right? As expected of me.” He flashed a grin to reassure the nursing physicians and senior doctors, though sweat beaded on his brow. “You can handle the closing now.”

Time to get the next patient.

His master and the other senior physicians had also rushed off to perform their own treatments. The normal, orderly rotations they utilized at the Pavilion were impossible here. The art of field medicine boiled down to three things: triage, triage, and triage. It might sound strange, but classification was the absolute top priority.

During his time at a military hospital in his past life, he’d read a twenty-year-old paper stating that the average patient stay at a field hospital was about sixty minutes, while at a rear hospital it was eighty-one minutes. The emergency medical system was ultimately divided into three stages: on-site, transport, and hospital. Normally, after first aid, the patient would move to the hospital treatment stage, but that was a luxury they didn’t have here. They had to complete everything—including surgery—within that sixty-minute window.

Managing that with limited resources was a taste of hell. Thus, amidst the flood of patients, one had to make an accurate initial diagnosis and allocate time accordingly.

Yoo Ho was a genius at triage, but he isn’t here.

His private slave wasn’t here.

Thankfully, we have plenty of supplies.

That, at least, wasn’t a concern. And this world did have a concept of emergency medicine. Throughout history, emergency medicine had always evolved alongside warfare, and in the Gangho, large and small-scale wars were a constant. On Earth, its modern origins could be traced back to the Napoleonic era, with a military surgeon’s report that deploying more medical personnel and carriages drastically reduced patient mortality rates. Modern emergency medicine was born right then and there, amidst the smoke of cannons.

Here in the sword-forest of the Gangho, the basic method was to seal the pressure points and then run like hell to a clinic. Since most of the patients here were common soldiers, they usually couldn’t manage the pressure points and just came running while pressing down on the wound with dirty hands.

And so, he found himself staring at a shaft protruding from a man’s thigh.

“I’m going to pull this arrow out in one go. It’ll hurt less that way. I’ll count to three.”

“Yes.”

“Three.”

Squelch—Snap!

“Kuaaaargh!”

“Hmm, a good sound. Vitality is high.”

“Aaaaaagh! Damn it, you f—king… son of a… sh—… F—k…!!”

When people were in pain, all sorts of colorful vocabulary spilled from their mouths. Now, to seal the pressure points again and disinfect the wound. The more he thought about it, the more he appreciated their abundant supplies.

***

In this damn battlefield where patients were endlessly respawning, he moved his hands, and moved them, and moved them again. If his hands slowed, the graves would multiply. What parent wanted to see the coffin of their grown son? And in this season, the bodies would rot during transport, so they were often cremated for convenience, with only the ashes returned—or sometimes, not even the body could be sent back.

If I collapse, that is exactly what will happen.

Pacing was critical, so Jin Cheon-hee bit down hard on a honey-nut bar he had concocted, a high-calorie, high-sugar snack inspired by the energy bars of his modern world.

In the next tent over, the Hwaju Medical Pavilion seemed to have noticed that patients went into the White Qilin camp, but not many bodies were coming out. They kept sending their junior physicians over as spies, and Cheon-hee was amazed they had the mental fortitude to worry about corporate espionage in this situation.

I can’t fall apart.

He didn’t have the energy to guess what strategies were being used on the front line, but seeing as a massive wave of patients had been brought in at dawn, it meant they had either conducted a night raid or been the victims of one.

And I can’t waver.

The faces staring up at him were those of ordinary young men. Faces that should be waking up in the morning to plow fields and tend to rice paddies. Faces whose parents were praying every dawn for them to be returned with all their limbs intact. He couldn’t send a boy like that back as a cold corpse.

But so many had already died. Some succumbed to blood loss before any treatment could be attempted. Others were saved, only to die on the operating table, their bodies unable to endure the shock.

There was no time to mourn the dead before him. Every single physician was struggling, fighting a desperate war of their own to save just one more of the lives placed in their trembling hands.