Zhuge Rin was no different.

The sight of his mountainous frame staggering, even for a fleeting second, spoke volumes. For a man of his martial cultivation, it would have been infinitely easier to simply bathe the world in blood, to slaughter armies with a single wave of Sword Aura. Destruction was simple; salvation was the burden.

We are essentially trying to scoop up spilled water with our bare hands—only, it isn’t water, but life itself.

Yesterday alone, the White Qilin Medical Pavilion had treated a hundred and fifty-one souls. They fought to minimize the aftereffects, to stitch together what was torn, but the outcome remained a gamble.

In 2019 South Korea, there were 521 emergency rooms, each averaging fifty patients a day. To treat triple that number here, without the aid of modern machinery or statistical medicine, was madness. This era lacked the very concept of mechanized healthcare. To replicate it, Cheon-hee would have to reinvent civilization from the ground up, starting with copper coils and clawing his way toward the transistor.

Here, a pulse must be found by human fingers, not monitors. Automated defibrillators—common fixtures on Earth—were replaced by physicians channeling the Lightning Qi of the Five-Elemental Divine Art. It was the same principle: electricity jolting the heart. But here, the battery was a human being who risked Qi Deviation if they pushed too hard.

The taste of East-West fusion, Cheon-hee thought with a bitter internal chuckle. And performing such lunacy to save lives is my job.

Even with other pavilions sharing the burden, they were drowning. Transferring stabilized patients to regional centers was a fantasy; the front lines were a cage. Nearby, a nervous soldier whispered to a medic.

“Is it true? Three hundred thousand Suksin are marching south?”

“What do you fear?” a wounded general barked from his cot, cutting in. “We match them man for man. His Imperial Majesty shields the Empire.”

The general spoke with the confidence of ignorance. But Cheon-hee, who knew the history of the Mongol conquests on Earth, prayed that the Suksin Khan was not a shadow of Genghis.

This is hell.

Yet, amidst the carnage, the framework for his medical thesis was taking shape. It seemed absurd to write while knee-deep in gore, but this was the essence of human progress. Since the dawn of writing, humanity has built rivers of knowledge that flow into oceans. He documented this nightmare so that the next military medic might stand on his shoulders, spared the trials he endured, perhaps saving just one more soldier to send home.

***

Five days bled away.

Physicians from every pavilion worked until their fingers cramped, yet it was not enough. They weren’t curing them; they were merely delaying death. In a triage tent where amputation was the standard, a full recovery was an opulent luxury. Men who seemed stable at dusk would crash by midnight. The human body is not a machine that obeys commands; it is a chaotic system.

That is why I need statistics.

Channeling the spirit of Florence Nightingale, Jin Cheon-hee analyzed the chaos. He lacked her political acumen, but he could wield the weapon of data. Between mouthfuls of rice, he flipped through bamboo slips covered in scribbles.

“Two thousand treated in five days,” Cheon-hee murmured.

“With four hundred physicians, that averages to five patients each,” a colleague replied. “But given the mortality rates in certain tents, the average is meaningless.”

“At least basic suturing has spread to the general physicians.”

But critical cases still fell to the White Qilin. The Dark Palace Medical Pavilion had sent support, but their elites were conspicuously absent.

Bloodborne Elder Eccentric… are you truly this petty?

She likely refused to part with the senior physicians she treated as extensions of her own limbs. It was pure selfishness, but preaching morality to a Mad Scientist—a Demonic Head who created three-eyed abominations—was as useful as shouting at a wall.

“Unless our numbers triple,” Zhuge Rin said grimly, “we will break under the next wave.”

“How much will it increase?”

“Five, perhaps ten thousand at once. And the dead will outnumber them.”

Cheon-hee fell silent. Reading about the million-strong armies of the Red Cliffs was one thing; standing in the butcher shop was another. Who stops to consider the wounded when reading history? The only silver lining was that the Empire’s strategists seemed to be adapting to the nomadic tactics. A small mercy.

Seeing Cheon-hee gnawing on a nut bar with a dark expression, Zhuge Rin spoke softly.

“Cheon-hee. Do not try to carry every death on your back.”

“…I know.”

“Your head knows. Your heart does not. You harbor a strange guilt, but this burden is not for a mere medic.”

“Then whose is it?”

“It belongs to us all. The Empire knew the tribes were moving. Had they sown discord or subjugated them early, this would not be happening.”

“…Uh, that’s… very…”

“It is not about good or evil, Hee-ya. It is the physics of power.”

Could diplomacy have saved them? Cheon-hee would never know.

“The Suksin alliance seeks to establish a true kingdom,” Zhuge Rin explained. “For that, they need fertile earth and warm ports. They require the Empire’s land. Peaceful co-existence was a corpse before the war even began.”

“So they intend permanent expansion.”

“Correct. Therefore, peaceful methods like political marriage were likely impossible in the end.”

Jin Cheon-hee fell into deep thought before answering. “You know much, Master.”

“Hahaha! Am I not the last Head of the Zhuge Clan? To defeat the enemy, one must know them. They are nomads. They may wish to burn our cities simply to turn them into pastures.”

“They have no interest in farming?”

“If they had a wise strategist, they would learn. But even if they take the land, the war will not end.”

Cheon-hee felt a chill. It mirrored the history of Earth. The Mongols did not stop at the borders; they burned cities and slaughtered refugees. The internet back home used to joke that Genghis Khan was the ultimate environmentalist for reducing the human carbon footprint. It was a witty observation in a history book. It was less witty when “Environmentalist Number Two” was currently raining arrows on your head.

I just want to go home.

Dropped into the Murim world only to live an extreme doctor’s life, now facing an extinction event.

“Why do you think the Great Wall was built?” Zhuge Rin asked.

It was a shield against cavalry. But if the Suksin brought siege engines and Heaven-Shaking Thunder—gunpowder—the walls were coffins.

“How does this end?” Cheon-hee asked.

“With one side broken. But either way, the rivers will run red.”

In the original novel, the Empire’s north was devastated. Prince Eun died, leaving Prince Geum to fight a lonely war. On Earth, the Song Dynasty held out for forty-five years. How long would this world last? The protagonist of this world, Yeo Ha-ryoon, had ascended to Immortality without ever stepping foot on this battlefield.

Useless.

The Chronicles of the Heavenly Demon never mentioned logistics or taxes, because a Heavenly Demon doesn’t pay taxes.

“I want to become strong,” Jin Cheon-hee whispered, his sigh lost in the wind.