NOVEL SIMPLE Chapter-110 Siesta
By the time Ewan raised his success rate of <Siesta> spell to an acceptable level, the sun had arced over the sky. No one came to the tent during this time, no patient, no notice, no orders. Though he did sense Kidd wandering nearby from time to time, popping in and out of his Ryvia range. The ruckus and the chatters outside told him the general state of the battlefield. Since it hadn't quietened, the frontlines must still be hot, the spilled warm blood drenching the earth.
Would the fight continue through the night? Would it carry over to the next day? Which side dominated? Ewan only had questions with no one to answer them. He could infer the number of injuries from the intensity of the noise outside, from how many tents were quiet and how many clamored, but that was it. They isolated his tent and left him alone. The atmosphere of war he wished to feel through the medicine unit became a pipe dream.
All in good time, all in good time…
At least the wait gave him time to study and tempered his patience.
“Boss, are you rested now?” Kidd pushed his head inside the tent and asked.
“Did you get anyone?”
“Just a sec, I’ll bring him in a jiffy.” He dashed away and came back a minute later with a man, flustered and sweating just like the last Severynth.
“Can you help me please?” the man asked, panting and aghast.
“Boss, all the other tents with permanent members are full, no one is free for him.” Kidd couldn’t hide his grin behind the man.
“Of course,” Ewan said, ignoring Kidd, and prepared the bed for the man’s Astylind.
He used Dekoth and brought out a Wind Wolf, riddled with wounds and covered in blood. Ewan frowned—this was a bit problematic. The tools in the tent weren’t enough to deal with this kind of sieved wounds. The cause must’ve been an area of effect ice element spell, it left a lot of obstinate Ice-Anima lingering in the wounds. The blood loss could kill the wolf if he spent too long dealing with the attached Anima. He couldn’t sew the wounds shut on time either; they were just too many of them.
“Kidd, start the burner and heat up the iron rod,” Ewan said and checked the wolf for any other injuries or complications. The pulse rate was high, but the pressure on his fingertips was low; it barely pounded his touch. The wolf had lost a lot of blood and could suffer from a hemorrhagic shock if he didn’t stop it soon.
“I’m going to put it under sleep and cauterize his wounds. Do you want me to continue?” Ewan asked as the rod reddened over the hissing blue flame.
“Please, just save him.” The man begged, the light in his eyes quivering.
“I’ll try,” Ewan said. “Now, please step aside.”
Siesta!
This was his first cast of the spell on an actual target. His heart raced under the pressure and his tensed nerves twitched. But he tried to maintain a nonchalant face and finished his tracing, absorbing the Mystic-Anima from all around him then suffusing the circuit to cast the spell.
The waves from the spell toned down all movements in the targeted area, even the cheery Anima muted down. The whimpers of the Wind Wolf softened until it became mosquito quiet then flattened out into a sleepy moan.
“Will he be alright? Will it be painful?” the man asked when Ewan picked up the red-hot iron. The heat twisted the air around it and it sent faint buzz in the air that only Ewan heard—he had Toast to thank for it.
“It will be, but your Astylind won't feel it. Or do you want it to bleed to death instead?”
“No…please continue.” The man stepped aside; his gaze stuck to the slumbering wolf.
The spell that damaged the wolf had created a sieve-type wound on him, numerous but small. One after another, Ewan seared the holes and stopped the bleeding. Each touch of the iron sizzled the flesh, and the pungent stench of burnt skin and hair permeated the whole tent. Ewan had to block his sensitive nose with Ryvia.
It took him a few minutes to complete the process, and when he finally wiped his sweat, the wolf had become a charred and hairless mess. A mess, indeed, but still alive and breathing.
The next part was the common treatment all Ashevas used for healing—cast the healing spell until the hostile Anima gave up its futile struggle.
Sindra—Heal!
…
…
…
Before Ewan could send the man away, before he could go back to the chair and rest his strained soul, the commotion outside flared up, and a line of people barged into his tent carrying the injured on the stretchers. One, two, three…. He saw no end to the train and soon his tent brimmed with the wounded.
“This one’s full!” the one managing the situation yelled. “Go to the next one.” He turned towards Ewan. “I’ll send you some helpers, try and save their lives. They’ve all lost their Astylinds,” he said and went out.
Ewan scanned the patients, occupying all the beds, some groaning while some hanging from a thread, their chests barely lifting, still unwilling to slip into an eternal slumber. Some suffered from poison, some lost their limbs, some had their guts almost spilling out—the beds and the floor became a bloody mess.
“Kidd,” he said, taking out different colored armbands from the inventory cupboard. “Check each of them and tie these bands accordingly. Yellow for light injuries, red for immediate treatment needed, and black for dead. Use the violet if you’re not sure or if its poison.”
“Boss…I…” Kidd stood there, dazed, holding the armbands.
“Do as I say, don’t worry about making mistakes,” Ewan said, ruffling his hair. “It’s all on me. Get to work now.”
The atmosphere he wanted to feel, it was finally here. He saw a lot of gore, bloodshed, death, sheer carnage back in the Frosthelm festival and the survival game. But that was no war, this was. Even off the battlefield, the pressure could almost drown him if he let it. And the first lesson it taught him was the fragility of life.
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