A divine healer, a general, a young marquis! Who can rival them!

Yang Hu established a firm foothold in the Western Camp.

The wounded soldier with a rotten leg, who had been sentenced to death, came back to life. This miraculous recovery spread throughout the entire wounded soldiers' camp. The wounded soldiers, who had been numb and waiting for death, rekindled their hope and struggled to have the young doctor, Dr. Yang, examine them. Even the arrogant physician Liu, who had been proud all his life, humbled himself and often came over to ask for advice on how to clean and drain the pus from the wound.

"Dr. Yang, what should I do about this wound?"

"Dr. Yang, this brother has developed a high fever. Has it become infected again?"

Within just a few days, everything in the camp, big and small, began to revolve around Yang Hu. This was unprecedented in the army, where seniority was the primary factor.

Qin Ying, disguised as a medicine boy, watched coldly, knowing full well that in the army, what mattered was never rank, but ability; what Yang Hu had established was a kind of prestige that commanded obedience. Having led troops herself, she understood all too well the weight of that prestige. On the battlefield, what made others obey your commands without hesitation was never the rank on your shoulders, but the lives you had genuinely saved time and time again.

But this peace and stability didn't last long.

That night, Yang Hu had just settled down to rest when a series of urgent and piercing bugle calls suddenly rang out outside the camp. The bugle calls were urgent and chaotic, the most dangerous signal from the border. Immediately afterward, deafening shouts of battle and the neighing of warhorses rolled in from the direction of the city walls.

"The barbarians have launched a night attack on the eastern outpost!"

Before long, wounded soldiers poured into the wounded soldiers' camp like a tidal wave, carried, supported, and carried on people's backs. Cries of pain, shouts of agony, and hurried footsteps mingled together, turning the entire wounded soldiers' camp into a chaotic mess.

One after another, men were stabbed, shot with arrows, and burned by oil; some were missing limbs. The thick stench of blood instantly filled the air, mingled with the acrid smell of burning flesh, making one dizzy. Screams, groans, and cries for help rang out in a deafening chorus, chilling to the bone. The few army doctors and Physician Liu were thrown into disarray by the chaos. There were too many wounded soldiers and too few doctors; utter chaos was imminent.

"Listen to me!"

At the critical moment, Yang Hu shouted loudly, silencing the commotion in the camp.

He made a quick decision and divided the wounded soldiers who rushed in into three groups: "Those who can still walk and shout on their own, wait on the left; those who are bleeding from vital organs and are about to die, bring them here and save them first! Those who have already stopped breathing... take them outside."

This is triage. It means using limited manpower on those who most need saving. This is an ironclad rule learned through bloodshed on the battlefield in later generations. Yang Hu simply adopted it without explaining it to anyone.

The lightly wounded soldiers gritted their teeth and endured the pain, retreating to the left; those with vital injuries were hurriedly carried to Yang Hu. In an instant, the chaotic wounded soldiers' camp had a leader.

This method was unheard of in the army, but in the chaos of blood and fire, it was like an invisible hand that instantly brought order to the chaotic wounded soldiers' camp.

Team Leader Zhou paused for a moment, then raised his voice and began giving orders according to Yang Hu's instructions. Even Physician Liu subconsciously followed the commands. At that moment, the young doctor's words carried more weight than anyone else's.

Without thinking twice, Yang Hu rolled up his sleeves and rushed to the first seriously wounded soldier whose vital organs were bleeding.

That night, he was no longer the leisurely Dr. Yang who sat in his clinic, but a tireless machine, swiftly moving, making decisions, and treating amidst pools of blood and screams. Every decision concerned a life; every pair of hands was fighting against death.

The soldier had a gash in his abdomen, his intestines almost spilling out. The doctors in the city would have just sprinkled some wound medicine, shook their heads, and sighed, letting him suffer in agony. But Yang Hu calmly pressed on the wound, quickly cleaning, repositioning, and stitching it up, each stitch steady and without the slightest sign of panic.

One after another. For those wounded by arrows in the shoulder, he ascertained the direction and depth of the arrowhead, avoiding tendons and blood vessels, and steadily removed it; for those burned by kerosene, he used a special ointment to protect the wound, relieving pain and preventing decay. These wounds, which were helpless in the eyes of the army doctors, suddenly became manageable and curable in his hands.

Qin Ying, disguised as a medicine boy, stayed by his side without leaving for a moment, handing him weapons, branding knives, and assisting him. Her hands, which had once held swords and spears, were now as steady as a rock, without the slightest lapse in concentration. In this battlefield of blood and fire, she was more effective than any old army doctor. As she watched Yang Hu run back and forth in the pools of blood, pulling back brothers who should have died that night from the brink of death, the indescribable emotions in her heart surged even more intensely.

After an unknown amount of time, the east began to lighten with the first hint of dawn. The sounds of battle from the city walls gradually subsided.

This fierce battle has finally come to an end.

In the wounded soldiers' camp, eight or nine out of ten seriously wounded soldiers miraculously survived. Many brothers who were certain to die survived the night and opened their eyes. This was something that had never happened before in the West Camp. Usually, after a night raid, the wounded soldiers carried out to be buried would pile up in a heap.

Yang Hu dragged his weary body out of the tent. He picked up a steel knife with a blunt blade at his feet, then looked at the rotten arrow shafts that had been shot down from the city wall, and the complaints of the wounded soldiers about "defending the city on an empty stomach."

His gaze gradually turned cold.

Why do knives become dull? Why do arrows rot? Why is there a shortage of food?

It was that hidden hand deep within the camp that emptied the military rations and equipment, bag by bag and cart by cart, and fed them to the barbarians beyond the Great Wall.

With dull swords, incomplete arrows, and insufficient rations, the soldiers guarding the border fought desperately on empty stomachs, gripping dulled blades. How could they possibly withstand the well-rested and prepared barbarian cavalry? Every drop of blood shed on the city walls, every corpse carried out of the wounded soldiers' camp, was recorded in the account of that one hand.

Yang Hu's skill in snatching lives from piles of corpses could temporarily save wounded soldiers, but it couldn't save a formidable pass whose foundation had been hollowed out. The only way to save this pass was to find the culprit.

"Impressive skill."

A deep voice came from behind.

Yang Hu turned around and saw an armored officer sizing him up. The officer was tall and straight, with sharp eyes, and was a rank higher than that of an ordinary squad leader.

"It's all thanks to you, a doctor, that we've managed to hold things together," the officer said slowly. "Last night's battle saved so many brothers, and you even issued Captain Zhou's orders on his behalf."

Yang Hu's heart skipped a beat, and he cupped his hands, saying, "The military situation is urgent, and I was too eager to do so, so I overstepped my bounds."

The officer laughed, a laugh tinged with an ambiguous meaning: "Overstepping my bounds? The army needs someone like you who can make decisions and keep order. Right now, the border is in dire need of capable people. It's a pity that someone with your abilities is buried in the wounded soldiers' camp."

Yang Hu responded modestly, but his hands, hanging at his sides, secretly clenched.

Is it genuine appreciation, or has a hidden hand already begun to take notice of them?

On the third day after the order was issued, wooden signs were erected around all the wells in the camp, bearing Yang Hu's own words: "Do not drink raw water." The first day some people laughed at it, but by the second day no one was laughing anymore.

The day after the wooden sign was erected, seven fewer wounded soldiers were in the camp—not because they died, but because their fevers subsided and they walked back to their tents on their own.

The seven soldiers who walked back to their tents on their own went to the city wall early the next morning, each carrying their weapons.

He glanced at the heavily guarded central command tent deep within the camp, and his heart tightened even more.