The night's fire faded, and with confirmation that the Dongnu army had indeed retreated, a collective sigh of relief swept over everyone. Holding the gate against the Dongnu ingress was no small feat; it was a massive accomplishment.
The atmosphere in the building brightened considerably, voices dropping to murmurs as tension from the previous day finally eased. “What are the casualties?” Chang Yuncheng asked.
This question silenced the room once more. “Over six hundred wounded, more than two hundred killed in action,” an officer quickly reported.
This figure was hastily tallied overnight; it might not be perfectly accurate, but the final count would surely only be higher. Such severe losses in a single day made Chang Yuncheng exhale softly, while others maintained a facade of calm.
Every post-battle tally of casualties was routine for these officers, so familiar it had bred a certain numbness; the numbers were just numbers. This wasn't due to heartlessness, but necessity.
On the battlefield, life and death flashed by in an instant. Treating severe wounds or permanent disability after the fact was often beyond control—reality was simply this cruel, relentless, and unforgiving.
If they didn't numb themselves, how could they carry on? “Let’s go see the wounded,” Chang Yuncheng announced.
The others looked momentarily surprised, but quickly rose to follow. “The soldiers fought bravely; we must visit and offer comfort,” others chimed in agreement.
As Chang Yuncheng and his entourage patrolled the streets, they noticed several large cauldrons set up along the main road, water boiling within them. Under the eaves of the houses sat or stood lightly wounded soldiers, while doctors in white coats, carrying medicine chests, attended to them, changing dressings.
The officials accompanying Chang Yuncheng grew increasingly astonished with every step. There was none of the usual chaotic wailing scene following a battle.
Although many people crowded the street, it wasn't disorderly. A strange medicinal scent permeated the air, significantly masking the acrid smell of blood.
Most crucially, everywhere they looked, the area seemed… oddly clean? Cleanliness—this word felt jarring in a place crowded with battle casualties.
“Is the water in those pots for cooking?” someone couldn't help but ask. “No, it’s for sterilization,” Chang Yuncheng replied.
Sterilization? The officers exchanged glances, then shared a moment of dawning understanding.
A military general raised from the nobility—the heir apparent—was clearly more knowledgeable than they were. They paused their steps, watching a soldier with an arm injury being treated near a wall.
“Can you bear the pain?” the doctor inquired. Since anesthetic was limited and prioritized for severe cases, minor injuries were often treated without it.
The soldier nodded, grabbing his own saber and biting down hard on the hilt. The doctor then took a wad of cotton from his satchel and poured a liquid from a porcelain bottle over it until the cotton was thoroughly soaked.
Standing close, they immediately recognized the strong scent of alcohol. These men were familiar with spirits and could easily tell.
They watched the doctor scrub the soldier’s wound repeatedly with the soaked cotton, noting the large amount of cotton—and that liquor—used. Soon, the doctor stopped washing and the assembled officers let out a silent breath of relief.
That should be enough. But then, the doctor reached for another bottle… It wasn't over?
The officers’ eyes widened. They watched as the doctor sprinkled powder from the bottle onto the soldier’s wound, then took strips of cloth to wrap it layer upon layer.
The officers sighed in relief again. Good heavens, that was meticulous… Just as they relaxed, they saw the doctor pick up yet another bottle… Still not finished!
“These are oral pills, twice a day,” the doctor instructed. The soldier took them with a trembling hand.
Medicine to ingest, too? No one had ever been treated this way for superficial injuries.
In the past, a simple rinse and bandage was considered good practice. And medicine to swallow?
“Someone will change your dressing in three days,” the doctor added, finally standing up and moving briskly toward the next soldier. My gods.
Noticing the officers standing frozen, Chang Yuncheng grew impatient. His gaze darted along the houses, searching out of habit—that woman was always somewhere nearby… “External Injury One… External Injury Two… External Injury Three… Critical One…” An officer glanced toward a nearby house, curiously reading the conspicuous wooden plaque hanging out front, bearing characters in white on a red background.
What is this? Chang Yuncheng was already walking toward the house marked ‘Critical.’ The baffled officers hurried to follow.
“Critical One, prepare supplies.” Two people inside were calling out orders, a large medicine chest set before them. Hearing the call, three busy doctors inside emerged.
“Critical One has thirty-eight patients, thirty-eight units of penicillin, eighteen bottles of saline,” the first speaker stated, checking a piece of paper before handing it over. “Please verify.” One doctor took the paper, while the other two quickly counted the medicines in the chest.
They nodded shortly after, and the doctor who took the paper signed it. “Thank you for your hard work.” Both sides bowed in acknowledgment before parting to attend to their tasks.
These doctors had been brought by Chang Yuncheng. While the local officers didn't recognize their faces, they recognized their uniforms—they were completely different from their own army surgeons.
It was already generous of them to send military support; bringing doctors too made the local commanders feel deeply ashamed. “Three people looking after thirty-eight patients?” the officer standing at the doorway asked, his expression stern.
“Isn’t this nonsense?” “Yes! Where are our thirty military surgeons?
What have they been doing?” someone else demanded immediately. An officer with a short temper even started cursing, something along the lines of them risking their lives fighting while these useless cowards did nothing.
Chang Yuncheng frowned, remaining silent, but the doctor who delivered the medicine was displeased. “Keep the noise down here.
Your military surgeons are busy with the light injuries; they aren't needed here,” one said curtly. That remark silenced the cursing officers instantly.
Not needed… That one sentence stung harder than all their previous curses combined. “Where is Madam Qi?” Chang Yuncheng asked, having said nothing until now.
Two doctors quickly bowed respectfully. “My Lord, Master Qi is finishing one last surgery; it will be done shortly,” they replied.
Chang Yuncheng frowned again, looking toward three large tents set up in the middle of the street not far away. It had been a day and a night already; this woman… He strode quickly toward them.
The officers, confused, followed suit. Before reaching the tents, they heard a sudden commotion.
“Master, Master!” “Yue Niang!” “Let me carry her down!” Hearing those two voices, Chang Yuncheng felt his heartbeat stutter; he bolted forward in one powerful rush. Someone inside the tent rushed out carrying a stretcher.
“How is she?” Chang Yuncheng shouted loudly, his eyes fixed on the pale, dry-lipped woman on the stretcher, as he gripped Qi Yue’s hand. No one followed them out of the tent.
Liu Pucheng had already taken over Qi Yue’s place, bent low over the sutures, while Zhang Tong and A Ru were tending to the patient’s other injuries, their expressions resolute, showing no panic. “Extreme fatigue.
Start the saline drip,” Liu Pucheng stated. “Use the Cohesion Decoction.” The other officers caught up, looking on with some curiosity.
“So why bring women to the battlefield?” “Exactly, isn’t she just causing trouble?” Someone couldn't help but comment. Before they could finish their remarks, Chang Yuncheng had already followed the stretcher into an adjacent house.
“Hey? General?” they called out in surprise.
“Where are you going?” Turning to look around, they found no answer, only gazes filled with mounting anger. These doctors, relying on the authority of the Military General’s camp, were becoming presumptuous!
“She’s out! She’s out!” An excited voice rang out from a distance.
Everyone turned in surprise to see an old man practically skipping and leaping toward them, followed by two or three others. “Yue Niang, Yue Niang, she’s out!” Zhou Maochun shouted, his voice trembling.
Out? What was out?
The officers frowned, bewildered by the disheveled old man and the woman. The General’s entourage was certainly a strange bunch.
The people following the old man arrived shortly, breathless. This man was familiar to the officers.
“Doctor Qiao, what are you doing? With so many wounded soldiers, why are you running around?” one officer asked sternly.
Qiao Minghua’s face was flushed with excitement, and his cheeks bore traces of what looked like sweat or tears. The officers preferred to assume it was sweat.
“Sir, she’s out!” Qiao Minghua also cried out, his voice hoarse and shaking. “What’s out?” the officer demanded with a grim face.
They seem utterly mad! “Sir, the count is in for the six hundred and thirty-seven wounded—these wounded, these wounded…” Qiao Minghua began, trembling too violently with emotion to complete the sentence.
Zhou Maochun shoved him aside and shook the paper he held. “Six hundred and thirty-seven wounded!
Three hundred and ninety-two light injuries—all will recover fully! And for the rest of the severe cases, half of them can be saved!” he yelled out loud.
At these words, everyone froze, even Liu Pucheng and the others engrossed in surgery inside the tent looked up, as if they hadn't quite understood what was said. “What do you mean?” one officer asked blankly.
Zhou Maochun hopped directly in front of him, eyes wide, face reddening. “What do I mean?
What do I mean? Damn it!
Six hundred and thirty-seven men! Six hundred and thirty-seven wounded!
Three hundred and ninety-two will fully recover! The rest of the severe cases—half can be saved!
Half can recover! Five hundred souls!
Five hundred lives can be salvaged! Five hundred lives the King of Hell cannot claim!
Five hundred! Lives!
Do you understand what that means, you bastard?” He waved the paper wildly, spittle flying. The officer, sprayed full in the face, didn't notice; he was stunned into silence by the outburst.
Five hundred… lives… What is a person? What is a life?
How many years does it take from the first cry to stumbling steps to developing awareness? How much food must be consumed?
What is a person? What is a life?
How many years does it take for an ordinary man to become a soldier capable of wielding a blade or a spear? How many drills?
How much dedication and effort? What is a life?
It takes over a decade of sustenance, a decade of worldly tempering, a decade of weathering storms just to forge one human being! To count as one life!
This life, refined through ten years of trials under heaven and earth, could vanish in the blink of an eye on the battlefield. Heaven and earth are merciless, treating all things as straw dogs.
But now, this straw dog, which could have been so easily crushed, had escaped! It walked away bloody from the Dongnu blades and spears, from the carnage of battle, from the very doorstep of Hades—and lived!
A soldier who has died once is a true soldier! What does it mean?
It means they are about to gain five hundred fierce warriors! No, these five hundred warriors are no longer just five hundred; their combat effectiveness will surely exceed that of five hundred!
What does it mean? It means… “I struck gold…” the officer muttered, then his face twisted, as if catching Zhou Maochun’s fervor, and he violently raised his hand and waved it fiercely.
I’ve made my fortune! RS