A Hospital in Another World?

Never underestimate a mage, no matter how low their rank.

This is a principle taught to every mage who has undergone formal education. The power of a mage comes from their wisdom and creativity; even low-ranking mages or apprentices might possess unique secrets. A trick from an apprentice might stump even a grand mage.

If Garrett knew this rule, he might translate it as: Elementary school math problems, with specific methods required, might stump college students.

Archmage Edgar circled the cave. A series of detection spells revealed nothing; evidently, his colleague had covered his tracks well. After some thought, he left the cave to set up a mage’s shelter elsewhere for the night.

—This cave was developed by the followers of the God of Nature, its magical environment more attuned to nature and life. For a necromancer, although it wasn’t uncomfortable, it could slightly hinder their performance. In the event of an enemy’s arrival, this slight difference could mean life or death.

Having been battle-hardened, Edgar could not overlook this detail. Although his intuition suggested that his colleague was unlikely to return and attack, a mage should never risk their life on "should" or "maybe."

Archmage Edgar rested up, ready to try a different approach the next day. However, the battle at the infectious disease hospital where Garrett was located was far from over.

—In eight operating rooms, casters gradually ceased their work. Even high-ranking healers, levels 7, 8, or even above 10, ready to deal with splashing blood and clinging to fading lives for five to six hours, had exhausted their mental and physical strengths.

"I can’t anymore," Bishop Sullivan was the first to bow out. His healing magic was already down to 20%, and after supporting a few more rounds of treatment, he felt dizzy and unstable. He stopped and sat down in the resting area outside, where soon, a somewhat familiar cleric sat beside him.

The third, the fourth, more and more people exited, the teams in the operating rooms breaking and reforming. Eventually, all eight rooms emptied, save for OR one, where sounds still echoed.

"Bring in the patient."

"Cleansing spell."

"Here, cast a healing spell."

"Another one."

"Saline rinse."

"Good, suction."

"Abdomen can be closed now. Continue with the healing spell, thank you."

"Take the patient down. Next."

"Another one."

"…How long have they been at it?" next to Bishop Sullivan, a level 5 priest peeked inside, astonished. "I’m not surprised about the Archbishop and the High Priest, but if I’m not mistaken, that young mage is only level 3, right?"

"Correct, level 3." The bishop’s voice held little surprise. He knew Garrett since the day the young mage had operated on a crew member until deep into the night. Afterwards, Garrett had been busy explaining the procedure and writing notes, practically working through the night.

If he could do so much for a single crew member, how could Garrett stop with so many patients in front of him?

"But… his spells must have run out by now?"

Indeed, Garrett had exhausted his spells.

He was just a level 3 mage, with limited mental energy. Even though his mental strength was more resilient than most and he conserved energy by using only low-level magic like Mage Hand or magical tricks, the vast number of patients had long depleted his mana.

Before five operations, he had stopped casting spells, relying solely on his hands for treatment.

"Here, hold this tray."

"Cast a healing spell."

"Hand me the vascular clamp… You’re using Mage Hand to clamp the vessel? Alright, just be careful not to apply too much force and damage the vessel wall…"

"This one’s done… Take the patient down, you two take a break, I’ll go wash my hands…"

Garrett offered a tired smile, dragging his feet to the sink. The chief deity of the Temple of War couldn’t bear to watch:

"Garrett, that’s enough for today."

By convention among casters, the moment a mage’s spell slots are depleted marks the end of the battle. Of course, he understood Garrett’s perseverance: on the battlefield, War Priests who ran out of spell slots might still rush to the front lines with a flail or tend to comrades’ wounds.

But such detailed, complicated operations?

The mental strain was too much!

For a caster to push themselves this hard was to joke with their foundation and future!

"Your Grace, I can still hold on," Garrett replied hoarsely. His face was pale, his hair wet and clinging to his forehead. After washing his hands, he splashed cold water on his face, rubbing his cheeks to bring some color back. He put his mask and surgical cap back on, receiving a Bubble Spell from a watching mage:

"Garrett, you’ve run out of spells, take

a break!"

"But there are still patients waiting." Garrett looked back at the corridor. Seventeen or eighteen stretchers stood there, meaning seventeen or eighteen patients, seventeen or eighteen lives—

These he couldn’t just ignore!

"Don’t worry! I can manage this part without healing spells, without any supernatural abilities. I can handle treating this group of people."

Garrett turned and walked back inside. Without Mage Hand, without Cleansing spells, he still had his own hands and freshly sterilized surgical instruments. In his previous life, he and his colleagues, his mentors, had saved countless patients without healing spells; there was no reason he couldn’t do the same now!

Garrett’s steps were slow, even stumbling at first, but they steadied as he proceeded. Entering the OR, he lifted the scalpel and made a steady cut.

"A born healer," Bishop Sullivan sighed. When he first became a War Priest and went to the battlefield, he too had desperately dragged back wounded soldiers, staying up nights to clean and bandage wounds. But later, with regular meditation, ensuring enough sleep, maintaining the bishop’s status and image...

How long had it been since he had worked so desperately to treat patients?

He thought of helping, but as he leaned on the armrest, his head spun. Darkness crossed his vision, Bishop Sullivan instinctively closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he realized it wasn’t due to exhaustion: a black-robed mage silently floated past.

Garrett opened the patient’s abdominal skin. As he continued to make the incision, familiar footsteps approached slowly from behind:

"Let me do it."

Garrett turned. A familiar golden skeleton—resembling one from Andrew Lynn’s collection—stood beside him, with one of Edgar’s disciples smiling behind it:

"Take a break, let me—At least, I can help with the incision."

"And I can help with rinsing and closing." Another cleric in a pale blue robe stood at the door. Before Garrett could thank them, a third caster arrived at the doorway of OR one, pausing to nod at him:

"The most troublesome part may have to be you; I can’t keep my concentration. But, we can take care of the rest, saving you some time."

One action inspired another, one spirit lifted another. Necromancers, priests, clerics rose one by one, heading to their assigned ORs. Calls echoed back and forth:

"Bring in the patient!"

"Bring in the patient!"

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