Casualties were never the concern of the commanding officers; they swiftly averted their gaze, but Qiao Minghua and Zhou Maochun did not, nor did the other military surgeons.
They remained frozen, staring at the unfolding scene before them.
It wasn't that they had forgotten their duties, but rather that they were utterly useless, even sensing they might be more of a hindrance.
Look at these doctors; observe how smoothly they coordinated, like links in a flawless chain—if they were to intervene, it would only mar that perfection.
Without their involvement, the treatment was not impeded in the slightest. As the fighting raged on and the wounded flooded in, these healers maintained an unbroken, orderly flow of care.
What an astonishing, shameful feeling!
How was this possible!
The mere fact that these doctors dared to step onto the battlefield was shocking enough! Yet, they were performing even better than those surgeons!
What on earth was going on!
Where had all of this suddenly sprung from!
How had all of this come to pass!
They stood there dumbstruck, no longer knowing what to do or what to think.
The wounded were constantly being given preliminary bandaging and carried away.
One soldier had suffered a spear wound straight through his leg—a wound that, in Qiao Minghua’s hands or those of his peers, would have been abandoned. Not out of a lack of desire to save him, but simply because they lacked the means.
But with a series of sharp clicks, a doctor—clad in white, no, it could no longer be called white, but rather garments stained with blood and mud—snipped the spear shaft, swiftly applied a tourniquet, tied a strip of red cloth, and was gone in a flash.
A fresh surge of stretchers rushed in behind him, and four men lifted the soldier, sprinting toward the rear.
A single figure abruptly chased after them.
This brought the other doctors back to their senses.
“Sir…” they couldn't help but call out.
Qiao Minghua heard nothing else; he simply watched that stretcher, fixing his gaze on the wounded man.
How could they save him?
Could he truly be saved?
This was impossible! Absolutely impossible!
Everyone was moving rapidly; no one spoke, no one paused to exchange reports about the incoming wounded, yet each implicitly understood their roles, diving into different tents.
Qiao Minghua glanced over. The tent before him was marked with large red characters. Compared to the two beside it, this one held fewer casualties.
The stretcher entered. Inside lay two strange, elevated beds, both occupied by wounded men.
“Move the patient!” Qi Yue commanded.
Accompanied by a count of one, two, three, a heavily wounded soldier was carefully moved onto the stretcher by four men supporting a white sheet. Their steps never faltered as they rushed out.
Qiao Minghua stepped aside, watching the soldier whose head and face were swathed in layers of white cloth, and an odd tube inserted into his arm. The other end of the tube was connected to a porcelain bottle, held aloft by one of the orderlies as they hurried out toward a nearby structure.
A rustling sound drew Qiao Minghua’s attention back. He saw the maid who often attended Madam Qi spreading a fresh white sheet over the now-vacant bed.
The soldier wounded through the thigh was lifted onto it.
During this entire process, not a single word was exchanged. Everyone seemed to operate by unspoken agreement; every movement was perfectly synchronized.
Fluid… effortless…
The word flashed through Qiao Minghua’s mind again. He looked over. The woman hadn't approached this patient yet; she was still bent low over another soldier’s bedside, her hands busy with strange scissors and needle and thread, rapidly stitching a line across the man’s chest.
Was she the only one?
So, they wouldn't be able to save everyone after all…
Qiao Minghua’s gaze shifted to the soldier just placed on the newly vacated bed. The maid was swiftly cutting away his clothes, then picking up a peculiar tool, driving a shining needle tip into the soldier’s thigh.
Acupuncture?
But where had that yellow paste gone?
After finishing this, A'ru began flushing the wound on the soldier's thigh repeatedly with copious amounts of water and high-proof alcohol. Large clumps of white cotton quickly turned crimson and were dropped onto the floor.
An orderly swiftly scooped the soiled cotton into a bag.
Was this why this area looked so impeccably tidy, even at such a critical juncture? Were they still concerned with this?
Qiao Minghua’s eyes widened in shock.
“Move the patient!”
The woman shouted again. The four orderlies who had been standing by throughout instantly moved this heavily wounded soldier onto a stretcher, pushing him out the door, just as another stretcher entered from outside.
The woman rapidly pulled off the deerskin gloves that extended to her elbows, turned, rinsed her hands in a nearby urn, pulled a fresh pair of gloves from a rack, donned them, and stood poised before the next incoming casualty.
This series of actions was performed in one smooth motion. The placement of every item was so ingrained that there were no superfluous movements in any stage.
As Qi Yue stepped forward, the newly arrived soldier on the stretcher was placed onto the bed that had just been cleared. The maid immediately began the previous sequence: cutting garments, inserting the strange needle, cleansing the wound.
Fast! So fast it made his vision blur!
Qiao Minghua felt suffocated. His gaze snapped back to Qi Yue.
Qi Yue was carefully manipulating the wound in the soldier's thigh. Alone, she pulled and stabilized, her needle flying swiftly, sweat beading and dripping down her face. Qiao Minghua blinked once, his hands steadying the instruments, utterly motionless.
This wound was too severe! Treatment was impossible! If the spear was withdrawn, massive hemorrhage and death would follow; if left in place, slow death was certain!
This woman! Could she possibly…
Before the thought fully formed in Qiao Minghua’s mind, he watched the woman slowly withdraw the broken tip of the spear from the thigh wound. His breath hitched.
No massive bleeding…
The woman immediately began her swift suturing.
The flesh, torn and bloody, visibly closed layer by layer before his eyes.
Qiao Minghua felt his vision dim. He jerked back to consciousness, gasping deeply to prevent himself from passing out from holding his breath.
“Move the patient.”
It was those two words again.
The four orderlies who had brought the soldier in returned, and in a repeated, practiced motion, carried him out. Immediately, another patient was brought in from outside.
In this brief interval, the woman had completed the treatment for two critically wounded soldiers. Throughout the entire process, she had uttered only two words:
Move the patient!
Move the patient!
It was terrifying! Absolutely terrifying!
How could one person accomplish all this!
In normal circumstances, this efficiency might be admirable, but this was war! Outside raged the deafening sounds of battle! The city gates were on the verge of collapse! Death could strike at any second!
How—how could they maintain such composure!
Qiao Minghua scanned the surroundings. The expressions of these people were numb, as if they couldn't see, couldn't hear, and were oblivious to the current crisis. They performed repetitive actions, moving back and forth, yet this numbness was different from what he knew; the eyes of these individuals shone brightly.
No extra words, no wailing, no grief—only determined gazes as they hurried back and forth, as if nothing could stop them.
Qiao Minghua slowly backed out of the tent, observing the orderlies who seemed eternally tireless, never stopping.
How did they manage it?
How was this achievable?
Qiao Minghua felt his entire body tremble, all strength draining away. He looked around dazedly.
No one in the rushing crowd spared him a second glance; everyone seemed focused on a single objective, driven by a singular conviction.
The sky gradually darkened, and the sounds of fighting seemed to lessen, yet these people did not pause in their work.
“Rest in place, replenish energy.”
A booming voice called out. Following this command, several others shouted it too, and immediately, four or five people carrying large baskets rushed forward.
Those who had been running, whether carrying wounded or empty stretchers, stopped dead. They set down the stretchers and sank onto the ground, gasping for breath. The four or five newcomers rushed over and tossed down several leather flasks. These people snatched them up and drank deeply.
Qiao Minghua managed to grab one. He turned his head, looking back toward the tent where torchlight now burned brightly, illuminating the interior.
The woman was tilting her head back, also drinking deeply from a flask.
Qiao Minghua opened his flask and took a sip.
Salty…
What kind of water was this?
Soon after, these people dropped their flasks and resumed their relentless running.
Dawn slowly broke, and a pungent odor brought Qiao Minghua back to full awareness.
An unprecedented quiet surrounded him.
No sound of battle, no screams of agony.
This silence was terrifying. Qiao Minghua shot up from his corner near the wall and saw soldiers lying or sitting all over the street.
Heavy footsteps approached, shattering the stillness.
Two lines of orderlies marched along the street carrying strange buckets, spraying a fine mist wherever they passed.
This was the source of the acrid smell.
Understanding dawned on Qiao Minghua.
“What are you doing?” he asked loudly, unable to hold back.
“Disinfecting,” someone shouted back loudly. Then the footsteps continued past them.
Qiao Minghua took a deep breath, finally composing himself. The fighting had ended when darkness fell yesterday; the Tatars had retreated, and the soldiers’ mission was complete. But the battle for the military surgeons was far from over. The surgeons, jolted from their shock, had plunged back into treating the wounded, working until dawn. Qiao Minghua had been leaning against the wall, dozing, and had somehow fallen asleep.
The wounded soldiers…
He turned to rush back inside the structure when a sound of hysterical laughter and weeping erupted abruptly.
“This is impossible! This is impossible!”
Zhou Maochun was screaming with near-mad abandon inside the room filled with casualties, his expression a grotesque mixture of tears and laughter.
“How are they not dead! How could this many people possibly be saved!”
His words caused the semi-conscious soldiers to stir with indignant, hostile looks.
Zhou Maochun seemed oblivious, and even if he noticed, he wouldn't have cared.
“This is impossible!” he repeated frantically, his eyes wild.
Impossible!
It was merely the simplest form of treatment!
How could it yield such incredible results!
“Father.” A hoarse voice called out, momentarily piercing through Zhou Maochun’s frenzied state.
“Yue Niang, Yue Niang, are you an immortal?” Zhou Maochun lunged forward, grabbing the woman who had just risen from a soldier’s bedside and shaking her violently.
Qi Yue nearly fell over from the force.
“I am not an immortal,” she replied with a gentle laugh.
“Then how did you do it!” Zhou Maochun shouted. “This is impossible, impossible!”
Qi Yue smiled at him.
“Nothing is impossible,” she said. “Everything is possible, as long as you desire it.”
So, was that hope?
Qiao Minghua stood outside the doorway, watching the woman inside the room.
His gaze swept around the interior. The soldiers were either awake or deeply asleep, but every single one was alive.
Tears streamed down Qiao Minghua’s face.
Master, Master, did you see? There truly is hope in this world!
Master, Master, did you see? There is hope in this world, astonishingly!
Master, Master, I! Have! Seen! It!
Attaching draft first; taking child out then returning to polish! RS