Chapter 25: Five Days of Ass-Killing Wagon Ride to the Field Hospital

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. The wooden wheels roll over the unpaved road. My back screams in agony. This world's carriages have no suspension. My body bounces up and down. Every time my ass slams into the wooden floor, it feels like an iron rod stabbing into my waist. Thump. We hit a rock. My ass lifts off, then crashes back down.

...From the grad school lab to a frontline field hospital. Didn't expect the career change to be this abrupt.

The first two days, I watched the scenery. Plains. Farmlands. A river crossed by a wooden bridge. The air so clean it looked like a medieval painting. By day three, I saw nothing. Just ass pain. Horse manure stench rides the wind into the carriage. My nose, which sniffed Rosa's herbs until yesterday, is exhausted by shit now.

Day four. The landscape changes. Farmlands vanish. Wasteland. Burned buildings. Collapsed fences. Rusty armor scraps by the roadside. Traces of demon attacks.

The smell hits first. Burnt wood. Rusted iron. And something sweet yet foul. Rotting corpses. Faint from afar, but thick enough my nose can't pretend it didn't notice.

Fuck, when rotting corpse smell actually hits your nose, news footage is nothing.

Nausea rises. I swallow it down. A chunk of hardtack bread climbs halfway up my throat before I force it back. This world's war isn't a concept—it's a smell.

Day five. Afternoon. We arrive at the field hospital. Foothills clearing. Several large tents. Wooden fence around it. Fortress outline on the northern ridge. Ten kilometers to the frontline defenses.

Thud. I climb down from the carriage. Legs wobbling. Knees locked from squatting on wooden boards for five days won't straighten.

Hospital entrance. Two soldiers stand guard. I show my pass.

'Royal Special Consultant.'

The soldiers' faces change. 'What's this guy who rode in the back gonna do?' To frontline troops, a royal consultant is some out-of-touch noble brat. I get it. No urge to argue.

Inside the hospital. Cots lined up. Over twenty. Bandages. Blood. Groans. A soldier without an arm stares at the ceiling. Next cot, a blindfolded one gropes the wall with his hands. A scream erupts somewhere. Short and sharp. A voice tearing apart. Smells: disinfectant, blood, sweat, piss. All mixed, stabbing my nose. Thicker than the outdoor corpse rot since it's closer. I fight the urge to retch. I'd done clinical rotations in hospitals, but this is another level.

"The consultant from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the palace?" Voice behind me. I turn. Marta. Late forties. Short gray hair. Military surgeon uniform. Sleeves rolled up. Blood on her forearms. Fresh from surgery, looks like. Big woman. Broad shoulders. Angular jaw. Gray eyes sharp. Eyes that have shut off emotions. Eyes that've seen soldiers die on the front for twenty years. Distrust. That's the only feeling I read.

'What can a palace boy do?'

"Kang Do-hyun. Here for combat trauma treatment."

"Combat phobia? You saying you can cure that?" Mockery in her tone.

"Nightmares, panic attacks, hallucinations, self-harm. You said they heal with time, but we've got fifteen soldiers here six months in who haven't."

Six months. In this world with no meds or therapy, that's abandonment.

"I'll show you."

"Show me what?"

"The treatment."

Marta's gray eyes narrow.

"Fine. Tent 3. Start with the worst cases."

Marta leads. Dirt path between tents. Dry grass crunches underfoot. Past Tent 1. Surgery. Bandages and blood. Armless soldier. Blindfolded one. Groans leak outside.

Tent 2. Internal medicine. Patients with festering bites from magic beasts. Fouler smell, thicker.

Run into someone exiting Tent 2. Silver hair. Short cut. Woman. Late twenties. Silver locks to just below ears, bob. Military uniform like Marta's, but build totally different. Slender. Not frail. Blade-like woman. High nose. Sharp jaw. Long lashes. Blank expression. Eyes: pale purple. Cold. No emotion.

If Marta's eyes killed emotion, this woman's are frozen solid.

Erika. Military surgeon. Pale purple eyes. Face frozen in emotion. My next target.

"New consultant. Erika, say hi."

"Erika."

Voice emotionless too. Gaze lingers half a beat, then drops. Erika brushes past. Sleeve touches my arm. Instant. Brief, but I read it. Surface empty. But beneath... pain. Frozen pain like the glacier floor. Armored young man's smiling face. That face bloodied. Light fades from eyes. Contact cuts.

Erika walks away. Lost her lover. In the war. Pain froze her emotions.

...Rosa melted with a deal. Deals won't work on this one. Gotta ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠enter through the frame of medicine.

Later. First, Tent 3.

Tent 3. Clank. Open the flap. Ten cots. Eight patients. First: early twenties. Eyes wide open. Staring at ceiling but seeing nothing. Second: thirties. Buried under blanket, shivering. Not even cold. Third suddenly screams.

"No! Behind! It's coming from behind!"

Bolts up, charges wall. Two adjacent soldiers grab him. Clank. Cot leg scrapes floor.

Marta crosses arms.

"Like this. Every day. Meds, booze—nothing holds. Can you calm him?"

"Just put my hands on during restraint. Won't take long."

"...Weird method. Do it."

Approach screamer. Hand on shoulder. Contact. Memory Read activates. Images flood. Forest. Ambush. Comrade stabbed beside him. Blood sprays fountain-like. Demon's red eyes flash in dark. Terror. Terror swallowing his brain.

Load Suggestion. 'This memory is past. You're safe now.'

Shhh. Tension drains from his body. Shaking eases. Screams stop. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. He blinks. Focus returns.

"...Where... am I..."

"Field hospital. You're safe."

He cries. Quietly. Relief from memories invading nonstop for six months.

Marta uncrosses arms. Distrust fading from gray eyes.

"...He's calm. No meds?"

"Separating the fear response attached to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the memory."

"Show me one more."

One's coincidence. Two's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠skill. Twenty-year vet surgeon's standard.

Second patient. Ceiling-staring twenties guy. Take his hand. Flames. Magic flames engulf trench. Comrades burn. He alone survives. 'Why me?'Suggestion. 'Surviving isn't wrong.'

Shhh. Light slowly returns to eyes. First in six months.

"...Frontlines... over?"

"Safe here. Hospital."

He looks at his hands on blanket. Wiggles fingers.

Marta's eyes widen.

"...Six months. He's stared at ceiling six months."

"Once emotional shock from memory releases, they recover."

Approval in gray eyes.

"...Rest too?"

"All eight by tonight."

Marta nods.

"Erika! Over here! Log this!"

"Yes, senior."

Erika at tent flap. Don't know how long she's watched. Blank face. But faint curiosity in pale purple eyes. Curiosity in frozen eyes means... cracks in the ice.

Erika stands beside me with parchment and quill.

"Logging."

Scratch. Quill on parchment.

Third. Fourth. Fifth. One by one, take hands. Memory Read finds core. Suggestion detaches fear. Same principle each time. Different wounds. Forest ambush. Trench flames. Comrade deaths. Captivity. Demon mind attacks. Each memory different smell. Blood, charred flesh, dirt. Not my memories, but they hit my nose.

Sixth, feel drain. Continuous Suggestion builds mental fatigue. Temples throb. Can't stop. Seventh. Eighth. Finish eighth's Suggestion, brain numb. Blood not flowing to temples. Mental overload. But done. All eight in Tent 3 treated. Palms sweat-soaked. Shirt back drenched.

Marta eyes me, arms crossed.

"...I acknowledge you."

Those words. Acknowledgment from a twenty-year frontline surgeon.

"Other tents starting tomorrow?"

"Ten per day max."

"Five days, all fifty."

Marta smiles first time. Bare lift of mouth corner, brief.

"Dinner in main hall tonight. Hot soup."

"Thanks."

"Skip thanks. I'm the grateful one."

Frontline welcome rite.

Erika organizes logs. Meticulous notes on eight treatments. Pale purple eyes glance up briefly. Curiosity slightly bigger than before. Ice starting to melt. Fucking slowly. But surely.

Finish work, brush past Erika, murmur soft.

"Good work."

"...You too, Consultant."

Response. Change in itself.

Dinner. Main hall. Soup smell. Warm oil and meat. First real meal in five days. Spoon up. First sip. Salty. Greasy. Hot. Tongue burns.

...Five days of hardtack, salty broth is heaven.

Whish. Wind through tent gap. Groan from outside. Tent 4 direction. Untreated patients yet.

Finish soup. Scrape bread clean.

Back to barracks. Stop at fence behind main building. Sun sets over ridge. Red light scrapes over tents.

...Tent 4 tomorrow. Female soldiers mixed in, Marta tipped. Plant a line in first patient. That line spreads via rumors to Erika's ears. Erika logs the rumor herself on her parchment as record-keeper.

'Words she writes herself become hers. Only way to melt ice within medicine's frame.'

Wind blows. Cold wind. Frontline nights colder than capital. Back to barracks. Lie on cot.