I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 354 Comparison
The smell of gunpowder and blood still lingered in my throat, and each heavy breath brought on a burning pain in my left rib area.

Old Aleister was being jostled around in a daze, the heavy footsteps of the stretcher bearers and the faint echoes of distant artillery fire ringing out in his ears.

He could feel the warm blood seeping from his ribs through the hastily applied, sweat-soaked first-aid bandages, taking away his strength and body heat.

"Hold on, sergeant, we're almost there!"

A young voice sounded in my ear, filled with anxiety.

Old Aleister tried to smile, but only let out a painful gasp, followed by an overwhelming and intense fear that he could not suppress.

He experienced the wars of the pre-Republic era, when... back then, being wounded meant dancing cheek-to-cheek with death.

Memories surged up like turbid river water: a dim, dirty tent, straw stained with filth on the ground, flies buzzing around festering wounds.

The air in the wounded soldiers' camp was thick with the stench of despair, the stench of sweat, and the stench of cheap alcohol.

The cries of the wounded soldiers were incessant day and night, like a dull saw cutting into one's nerves, making it impossible to fall into a peaceful coma.

The medics in the wounded soldiers' camp were more like butchers than doctors, wielding rusty saws and red-hot branding irons, with strong liquor as their only "anesthesia."

Old Aleister had seen far too many people die not from their injuries, but from the excruciating pain, or from uncontrollable infections and high fevers after their rudimentary "operations."

Amputated limbs were carelessly tossed into the sewage ditch outside the military tents like rotten wood, then turned black, died, and rotted, revealing stark white bones and maggots wriggling in the decaying flesh... You only need one glance to immediately realize that this is hell.

"We're here... quick, over here!"

A series of urgent shouts and the sound of heavy curtains being pulled back interrupted old Aleister's painful memories. He struggled to lift his head and look around, but the filthy, noisy, death-filled environment he had imagined did not appear.

A strong but not pungent smell, carrying the scent of disinfectant alcohol and bleach, wafted over, replacing the smell of gunpowder and blood.

Old Aleister was gently lifted on a stretcher and placed on a bed covered with a clean white sheet that seemed quite soft. The light was bright but not glaring, coming from several strange "lamp" lamps hanging overhead that emitted a soft white glow.

All around were huge, equally white tents, spacious and clean, with no dirt or swarms of flies on the ground, and white carpets that looked expensive.

What shocked old Aleister the most was the quietness here.

Inside his tent, there were no heart-wrenching screams or desperate groans, only low conversations and the occasional soft ticking or buzzing from a few strange white boxes.

The doctors, dressed in identical white robes and wearing strange masks and hats, moved steadily and quickly through the military tent, examining the wounded on the other beds.

Some of the wounded soldiers lying in bed were resting with their eyes closed, while others were talking quietly with their comrades beside them. Although their faces showed pain, they also showed exhaustion and a kind of... indescribable sense of relief.

No one writhed in agony, nor did anyone utter a dying cry. This was a world apart from the wounded soldiers' camp he remembered—a world of heaven and hell.

"Sergeant, just bear with it, it'll be over soon."

A voice suddenly rang out from the left, gentle and clear.

Old Aleister turned his head and saw a young, dark-haired man standing by his bedside, his eyes focused, wearing a transparent eye patch and mask, revealing only his calm eyes.

He deftly untied the simple, blood-soaked bandage wrapped around old Aleister's ribs.

"It was a penetrating wound, but thankfully it didn't damage any vital organs. However, I lost a lot of blood and need debridement, suturing, and a blood transfusion."

It will hurt a little, just bear with it, I'll give you anesthesia right away.

The doctor spoke quickly, yet with a strangely comforting quality.

Before old Aleister fully understood what "anesthetic" and "blood transfusion" meant, he felt a light prick in his arm and a cool liquid was injected.

Almost instantly, the excruciating pain that had tormented him all the way and nearly made him faint subsided rapidly, like the receding tide, leaving only a numb, dull sensation and a slight pulling feeling.

Old Aleister stared wide-eyed in disbelief. Even treating a small wound was excruciatingly painful, enough to make someone faint!
What shocked him even more was yet to come.

He saw the doctor take out a pair of exquisitely crafted tweezers and a needle that gleamed with a metallic glint, and move them so fast that he could barely see them, as he worked on his wound.

Another woman in a white robe handed him various tools and bottles he had never seen before. There was no red-hot soldering iron, no rusty saw. The whole process was quiet, efficient, and incredibly precise.

Old Aleister even saw a transparent bottle standing by the bed, filled with a dark red liquid, with a thin tube connected to the bottle, the other end of which was inserted into a vein in his other arm.

The liquid was slowly flowing into his body; was this a "blood transfusion"?
How could they possibly transfuse someone else's blood into themselves?

This is simply... amazing.

Old Aleister didn't know what words to use to describe what he had seen.

"Okay, the cleaning and suturing are complete. The wound is very clean. You're very lucky; there are no lead bullet fragments left in the wound, so the risk of infection is very low."

The blood transfusion replenished your blood loss. Get plenty of rest, take your antibiotics as prescribed, and you'll recover quickly.

The young doctor's voice carried a hint of relief as he finished his work. He gestured to the nurse to cover old Aleister with a clean, thin blanket and then injected another clear liquid into his arm.

Then the doctor and the nurse walked away, and during this time, old Aleister vaguely heard their conversation.

"...Another one...How many is it today?"

"Fifteenth one, is the video recorded?"

"It's recorded. I can download it offline later and show it to my tutor... I should be able to pass this first aid assignment."

Old Aleister didn't understand what these words meant. He simply lay peacefully on the clean, soft bed, feeling only a slight discomfort in his ribs, rather than excruciating pain.

He looked at the pristine white ceiling, listened to the reassuring tranquility of the surrounding wounded soldiers' camp, and smelled the fresh scent of disinfectant.

He, a veteran who had experienced the hellish battlefield medical treatment during the Republic era, was somewhat dazed at this moment, and even... wanted to cry.

There were no wails, no stench, no flies, no rusty knives. Only clean, quiet, and efficient treatment, and that miraculous "anesthetic" that dispelled all the excruciating pain.

Old Aleister remembered the name and made plans in his mind to find a way to get some anesthetic after leaving the wounded soldiers' camp, so that he could get some pain relief from any injuries in the future.

This is good stuff.

If old Aleister had had such good stuff, his brothers who went to war with him wouldn't have died from the pain.

"This this……"

His voice was hoarse, his throat choked with emotion, and it finally turned into a long, sigh filled with endless regret. "May Demeter bless His Highness Chris..."

Old Aleister closed his eyes, and his nerves, which had been tense all day, finally relaxed completely.

In this camp filled with white, tranquility, and hope, he felt an unprecedented sense of security.

He knew that he was likely to survive, and that he wouldn't suffer the same fate as his unfortunate comrades who had rotted away in pain and decay.

……

Just as old Aleister was feeling the relief brought by the anesthetic and the warmth from the blood transfusion in the clean, quiet Bagnia field hospital filled with the smell of disinfectant,

Just a few miles away in the city of Golden Harvest, the wounded soldiers of the Minisian army were experiencing a hell as deep as, or even more horrific than, the one he remembered.

The largest sea god church in Golden Harvest City is no longer a place of prayer; it has been forcibly requisitioned by the king and turned into a defiled place.

Beneath the tall, solemn dome, a nauseating mixture of odors permeated the air: the pungent smell of blood, the stench of excrement, the sweet, fishy odor of rotting wounds, the acrid smell of cheap liquor, and the decaying scent of approaching death that even burning herbs could not mask.

The church's doors and windows were sealed, making its interior dark... According to the doctor's theory, the enclosed space helped protect the patient from the unseen demons outside.

There were no electric lights in the church, only flickering oil lamps and candles casting dim, swaying shadows that made the faces of the people lying in the blood and grime look like ghosts.

The ground was covered with dirty straw, stained with blood and vomit, and in many places it had been trampled to a pulp, mixed with mud and pus.

Inside the church, swarms of flies, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, buzzed and greedily gnawed at exposed wounds and filth.

The cries of agony rose and fell, heart-wrenching and agonizing, like an endless symphony of suffering.

Some people writhed wildly in excruciating pain, crashing against the cold base of the Neptune statue; some were delirious, muttering to themselves or letting out incomprehensible screams; and many more simply let out low, desperate groans, staring blankly at the cobweb-covered dome, waiting for their final release.

Milutinovic, a young Minisian spearman, lay on the cold, sticky stone ground, with only a small piece of blood-stained burlap beneath him.

His left leg below the knee was mangled and bloody from a close-range Tiger Crouching Cannon shot, with white bone fragments piercing his skin and exposed to the polluted air.

Now, every breath Milutinovic takes brings excruciating pain, making his vision blur and his thin military uniform soaked with cold sweat.

Not far from him, a soldier lay on the ground with a bayonet piercing his abdomen. Part of his intestines were spilling out of the wound, which was then haphazardly stuffed back in and tightly covered with a dirty rag, but dark red blood was still seeping out.

The wounded soldier's breathing was like a broken bellows, each inhale accompanied by a terrible "hoarse" sound, and his eyes were beginning to glaze over.

"Doctor, please...doctor!"

Milu shouted with all his might, his voice hoarse and dry, his gaze falling on the few long tables temporarily set up in the center of the sanctuary... those were the "operating tables".

A military doctor, or perhaps a sea god priest, wearing a blood-stained robe whose original color was no longer discernible, was sweating profusely as he held down a struggling soldier.

The soldier's right arm was almost severed at the shoulder by a heavy battle axe, with only a bit of skin and flesh connecting it.

The medic's assistant was a pale-faced boy who looked no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. He trembled as he poured a large glass of cheap, pungent liquor into the wounded soldier's mouth as the only "anesthesia."

"Hold him down!"

The medic roared, his voice hoarse and exhausted. He picked up a saw covered in dark brown grime, its blade already somewhat warped... It looked more like a carpenter's tool than a medical instrument.

The wounded soldier seemed to sense something was wrong, letting out inhuman screams and struggling frantically to escape, but several strong stretcher bearers held his body down firmly.

lol...

The sound of the saw cutting into flesh and bone was still clearly audible against the backdrop of wailing in the sanctuary, sending chills down one's spine.

Blood splattered onto the medic's face and robe as the wounded soldier struggled, but he paid no heed. The soldier's screams turned into suffocating gasps as he moved, until finally he fell silent, unconscious from the excruciating pain and blood loss.

"Next!"

The medic threw the severed limbs into a nearby wooden barrel filled with broken limbs, just like garbage, splashing up dark red blood.

He didn't even glance at the wounded soldier whose fate was unknown. He wiped the mixture of blood and sweat from his face with his sleeve, his voice filled with numbness.

Here, there are no anesthetics, no blood transfusions, and not even clean gauze.

The so-called "medicines" consisted only of some strongly smelled herbal pastes of unknown ingredients and strong liquor; the main method of stopping bleeding was by applying a hot iron.

The medic's assistant pulled a red-hot iron rod from the charcoal brazier and walked toward a soldier whose leg artery had been severed and was bleeding profusely.

The soldier stared in terror, shrinking back in vain, uttering desperate pleas.

"No...no...please, ah!!!"

Zila...

The horrifying smell of charred flesh filled the air instantly, accompanied by heart-wrenching, chilling screams.

The soldier convulsed violently a few times before losing consciousness completely. The bleeding did stop temporarily, but infection was almost inevitable for the charred wound.

As Milu watched all this, he was overwhelmed by immense fear and despair.

He knew that he might be next, and his leg... would it be sawed off like that too?
Then he was thrown into that foul-smelling wooden barrel?
Or, could you directly use that red-hot branding iron to burn the bloodied and mangled knee?
Milu thought of his comrade with the abdominal injury, and his protruding intestines... Would he also slowly rot away like that and die in endless pain?
Thinking of this, Milu's tears mingled with cold sweat and grime, and he recalled the Bagnians who were like steel monsters on the battlefield, and their orderly retreat.

Where will their wounded soldiers go? Will they receive proper medical care?
I've heard that although their prince is a tyrant, he's a very kind person to his soldiers, and the wounded might receive treatment from professional doctors...

The jealousy, envy, and regret that this thought brought forth gnawed at his heart like venomous snakes.

Milu lay on the cold, filthy ground, listening to the wails around him that echoed like hell, smelling the ominous, sweet, and metallic odor emanating from his wounds, and feeling his life force drain away with each agonizing spasm.

There is no hope here, only pain, decay, and waiting for death.

Milu closed his eyes, no longer praying to the doctor, but only praying to the sea god to let him be free sooner, or... to make death less painful.

He finally understood why the other veterans refused help, preferring to bleed to death on the battlefield... If Milu knew the current situation, he wouldn't want to stay in this hell on earth for even a moment longer.

Prince Chris's dawn did not reach the Sea God Church in Golden Harvest City; there, only the forgotten, endless suffering of the old era remained.

(End of this chapter)