"What!" Turku and the rest of the guards shouted in unison, their voices carrying a mix of shock and disbelief, as though they had just heard the most impossible tale. Their eyes widened, almost to the point of disbelief, as they turned to Richard, still struggling to reconcile the words with reality. "A deep abdominal wound, and yet he won't die… and you can… you can stitch it back together? Master Richard, how is that even possible?"
Richard, standing with the same calm demeanor that had unnerved so many opponents, did not answer immediately. He merely tilted his head, letting a small shadow of a smile curl across his lips. "Making the impossible possible—that is science," he said simply, as if it were the most natural truth in the world.
"Science? Science?!" The guards repeated in chorus, incredulous, their minds unable to process such a reality.
Ignoring their incredulous stares, Richard turned and walked a few steps away toward his horse. With precise, deliberate movements, he retrieved a collection of tools and materials from the saddlebag—items that to the untrained eye seemed ordinary, yet in Richard's hands they were instruments of life and death. He returned swiftly to Hughes, whose pale face reflected both pain and confusion, the remnants of blood still seeping through his clothes.
Richard knelt beside him, opening a ceramic jar of alcohol. Without hesitation, he poured the liquid directly onto Hughes' deep wound. The alcohol hissed as it made contact with exposed tissue, sending Hughes into a sharp, involuntary cry of pain. The sound cut across the field, startling the horses nearby, their ears flicking at the sudden outburst. Richard did not flinch, nor did he offer comfort. Instead, he rose, voice flat yet commanding, "Soon you will have to ride a horse back with someone else."
"Huh?" The guards exchanged puzzled glances, trying to comprehend the meaning behind Richard's cryptic words. Before anyone could react, Richard had already taken a West European-style thrusting sword from his belt. The blade was long, almost a meter, cylindrical at the base with the diameter barely wider than a finger, tapering to a sharp point at the tip. Its sole purpose was piercing, yet its design promised lethality and efficiency.
He approached the nearest horse, the animal shifting uneasily under his gaze, nostrils flaring, muscles tense. But Richard's calm, unwavering eyes forced the creature into stillness. He positioned the tip of the sword against the animal's chest, the steel cold against its warm coat.
The plan was clear in his mind, though few could have understood it. To suture Hughes' wound, Richard needed a material strong and flexible enough to act as a substitute for surgical thread. The problem was not the needle—those were simple—but the thread. Real sutures, made from processed sheep or cow intestines, were unavailable here. And time was limited.
Richard's mind ran through alternatives: plant fibers like flax, hemp, or cotton were possible but prone to rejection and infection. Animal tissue offered better compatibility. Tendons, in particular, dense connective tissues connecting muscle to bone, offered the perfect balance of strength and elasticity. The longest, most usable tendons ran along the flanks of the spine, easily harvested if one dared.
A sharp exhalation, a mental preparation, and then lightning fast—the sword pierced the horse's chest, sliding cleanly through the heart. A rush of blood coated the steel, flowing along the blood grooves. The animal screamed, thrashing violently, white foam forming at its lips. With a firm but precise hand, Richard drove the sword into the ground beside the horse, delivering a single, forceful blow to the back. The creature collapsed in a shuddering heap, body hitting the earth with a thud that echoed across the silent field.
The guards' collective gasp rose in unison, realization dawning on them. The earlier remark about Hughes sharing a horse had not been a mere precaution—it was necessity. Horses were limited, and now, one had been sacrificed for a greater purpose.
Richard moved with methodical efficiency. The fallen horse lay unmoving, its chest rising and falling weakly, eyes dimmed. He lifted his blade, cutting along the spine to expose the long, silver-white tendon. Within moments, the tendon was carefully removed, dissected into thin strands, and disinfected with alcohol. The fibers glistened faintly in the afternoon light, strong yet pliable.
With materials prepared, Richard approached Hughes again. The guards watched, holding their breath as he threaded the strands through a specialized bone needle. Kneeling beside Hughes, he began the suturing process, each motion deliberate, efficient, and mercilessly precise.
One stitch. Two stitches. Three. The rhythm was mechanical, almost surgical in its precision. Twenty-one stitches later, the wound was closed. Richard exhaled, wiped the blood from his hands meticulously, and applied alcohol once more, disinfecting the sutures and surrounding tissue. Hughes' face was twisted in pain, pale and glistening with sweat, but Richard did not waver. Pain was a temporary inconvenience; survival required indifference.
Finally, Richard stepped back, surveying his work. Hughes, trembling, lifted a hand to touch the wound, feeling the tension in the threads and the closure of the gash. "Master Richard… you've… stitched it? I… I really won't die from this?" His voice trembled, disbelief laced with cautious hope.
"Not immediately," Richard said, his tone even. "The wound is closed, but in the days ahead, there is still a risk of infection. This world lacks antibiotics. Alcohol and cleanliness are all you have."
Hughes' brows furrowed slightly. "But… I'm alive. That's what matters. But… Master Richard… why did you kill the horse? One horse is not cheap, and…"
Richard tilted his head, expression calm, eyes glinting with a subtle, almost cruel amusement. "I considered using a human tendon for the suture. Many bodies surround us—one or two would suffice. But I knew you would find that unacceptable. The horse offered a compromise: strong material, fewer ethical objections for you. If you prefer, I can remove the stitches and redo them with tendons from the fallen humans instead."
Hughes shivered at the thought, the cold realization of Richard's logic chilling him. Hastily, he waved his hand. "No, no, Master Richard. This is fine, really fine. Let's just… return to the castle."
Richard nodded once, expression unreadable. "Returning sooner is better. Once there, we can match your blood type and transfuse some blood to accelerate recovery. Let's hope you are not O-negative or some rare type, else this will complicate things."
Hughes did not fully comprehend the meaning but instinctively understood the benefit. He nodded, allowing the guards to support him as he mounted the horse. Together, with Richard leading, they rode back toward the Baron's castle, the fading sunlight casting long shadows over the scarred field. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the lingering tension of recent events, a silent testament to the deadly efficiency of Richard's methods.