Chapter 1: The Unexpected Duties of One Returned from Death
※ Note: The 19th-century historical episodes and medical knowledge in this novel are mostly based on facts, but fantasy fiction has been blended in, with some alterations to the sequence of inventions.
I swear before God to uphold the following oath.
Ibel pressed down hard on the patient's abdomen.
Even so, she couldn't fully staunch the blood seeping out.
But if I don't do at least this much, he'll die soon.
Soldiers from an abandoned unit like this one usually met their end with rotting flesh around bullet wounds, succumbing to infection.
Still, Ibel moved busily, desperate to save even one lucky soul.
"Doctor! Doctor!"
The acrid stench of blood mingled with gunpowder, churning her stomach.
If there was any mercy, it was that she hadn't eaten, so there was nothing to vomit up.
"Patient over here!"
"Gunshot wound!"
"Shut up and lay him down."
No matter how hard Ibel tried, the injured kept piling up. Most had external wounds, calling for a skilled surgeon.
The problem was that Ibel was an internist, with only recent training in slicing and stitching human flesh. Ah, but she had learned to extract bullets from horrific wounds just by watching.
Her senior military doctor had taught her that much before dying—a small mercy, perhaps.
She thought impassively, gripping the blade with an expressionless face.
"The fire."
"Yes!"
Even in the midst of war, in a makeshift casualty tent that wasn't even a field hospital, Ibel upheld what she could.
Instead of nonexistent antiseptics or anesthetics, she ordered her assistant to heat the blade in the fire and pour cheap, potent liquor over the wound.
In truth, rations had run out days ago, and tomorrow there'd be none left—but saving whoever she could was Ibel's goal.
"Hold the patient tight. Removing the bullet now."
"Understood."
The assistant, pale-faced from watching countless procedures, responded briskly. Ibel didn't blink as she sliced into the flesh as swiftly as possible.
"Abel... please, gently..."
"Quiet."
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
As she probed the wound in deep focus, the blond officer groaned, but Ibel—known as Abel—ignored him entirely.
It wasn't a situation where she could tend to every plea.
Clink!
The metal fragment she extracted dropped into the iron bucket.
In normal circumstances, an internist doing surgery would be absurd, but here... no one in the unit outdid Ibel's skill.
They were all dead, after all.
If they could afford to be picky, it wouldn't be war—it'd be a playground.
"Treatment done. Bind the wound for now. Give him whatever liquor remains. Can't do more, so at least ease the pain."
"Got it...!"
Perhaps from the intense focus, her vision blurred. The chill wind made her shiver.
Maybe it's me who needs the liquor.
But Ibel never touched a drop.
Without her, no one would grind herbs or extract bullets.
There was an assistant, sure, but even he was unreliable...
'Ah.'
Blink.
She'd only sat on an empty supply crate for a moment, yet she'd dozed off. A beat late, Ibel realized what had woken her.
A man who looked like he wouldn't bleed even if stabbed with a military knife had draped his jacket over her shoulders.
Not just tossing it on—he'd even tied the sleeves securely with meticulous care.
She knew exactly who he was.
"Your Grace, Duke Bayern."
"You were shivering."
"My thanks for the consideration."
It was warm. The vast size difference made the jacket feel like a blanket. Or perhaps it still held the man's body heat.
Either way, grateful, she offered thanks, but Victor Bayern replied dryly as he straightened up.
"No need. If this front's only doctor dies, it'll be a grave inconvenience."
A curt response, but consideration was consideration. He'd removed his jacket for her, after all.
Of course, Ibel didn't misread his kindness. The iron-blooded man who made Franche troops tremble at his name alone wasn't the type for that.
Indeed.
In this hellish place, Ibel was perfectly mistaken for a man.
Naturally, she had no intention of correcting the record.
She'd stolen her brother's name to become a doctor and got conscripted, but she didn't fancy worse fates.
"..."
Silence passed with meaningless glances.
She was impassive too—no matching the duke's stone face.
Whether some emotional circuit had broken in childhood, he was the only man who'd never groaned, even when she clumsily extracted a bullet from his chest.
Well, after nearly a year rolling in this dump together, she could now read subtle eyebrow twitches.
That look says 'speak if you dare.'
"We've sent telegrams countless times, yet no support from the homeland. Looks like we're truly discarded."
Her matter-of-fact words, as if awaiting death, narrowed his eyes.
Richter's young king—little more than a brat—harbored inferiority toward the duke; even alleyway gossips knew it.
When assigned to his legion, Ibel had anticipated this.
"You don't seem to fear death."
"Never got good treatment at home either. No reason to fear dying now."
"No resentment? Half of it stems from me."
"Busting my ass to become an internist, only to end up like this—yeah, a bit unfair. Suddenly making me operate on you. And my first surgery being Your Grace... in hindsight, pretty unfair."
In wartime, chains of command were absolute. Normally, sitting brazenly before Duke Bayern or accepting his jacket would've been capital offenses.
But Victor Bayern was more lenient than his bloodcurdling rumors suggested, especially regarding debts of gratitude.
Since that first surgery, she'd saved his life about three times, and he hadn't forgotten.
Especially since she was a doctor uninvolved in war's pretexts or politics. Younger than him, too.
And... slimmer than the camp's youngest officers, built like he'd snap in a breeze—factors that let Victor overlook her boundary-crossing.
Abandoned by the king, he could use someone to vent to.
"How many in the family, was it?"
The man asked in his pleasant, low voice that tickled the chest.
She thought it every time, that velvety timbre.
Shaking off stray thoughts, she answered her superior dutifully.
"Both parents alive, and one pathetic brother above."
"Why pathetic?"
With the question, a large hand approached, peeling dried blood from her cheek.
The hand hesitated briefly, then—as if resolving some great dilemma—poked her cheek.