After more than two hours, the Baron's castle finally came into view, its towering walls glowing faintly in the dying light of the afternoon sun. The gates opened with a low groan, and the group rode in, their arrival surprisingly subdued considering the urgency of the situation. Yet, inside the main keep, Baron Leo, alerted by the commotion, emerged from his chambers.
The moment he stepped outside, his eyes immediately landed on Hughes, being supported by his companions, bloodstained and pale, his every movement weak and shaky. Then his gaze flicked to Richard, narrowing slightly in suspicion and concern. "What is the meaning of this? Why is someone injured? Did… bandits attack you?"
Bandits? Could a professional assassin be considered a mere bandit? Of course not. But Richard, uninterested in arguing semantics with the man before him—his so-called "father"—merely gave a slight nod. "Something like that," he said, his tone deliberately flat and cold, leaving the unspoken meaning hanging in the air: do not ask further.
Surprisingly, Baron Leo did not respond as he had before with a cursory "understood" and a quick retreat. Instead, his face hardened, brows knitting as he spoke with an uncommon seriousness. "It seems the security in our lands has deteriorated. To think bandits—or worse, anyone capable of attacking a noble heir—could appear so easily… We must employ more capable knights to patrol the territory!"
Richard's lips curved faintly. He had already discerned the subtext in the Baron's words, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Without revealing it, he decided to play along.
Turning to face the Baron directly, he spoke with calm authority, his voice smooth, almost casual. "My dear father, are you suggesting that I forge a few alloyed swords for you so that you may recruit competent knights? That way, when I leave the castle, I need not worry about threats in the lands?"
Baron Leo hesitated slightly, caught off guard by Richard's directness. After a brief pause, he admitted with a touch of awkwardness, "Well… in any case, it would benefit you as well, since…"
Richard cut him off immediately, his tone firm. "But a trade is a trade, is it not? If memory serves, during the summer we discussed this: you were to gather certain materials from outside the lands. Once I had the materials, I would forge the alloy swords for you. Several months have passed, yet I have received no materials, and now you request swords? That seems… unreasonable."
The Baron's brows furrowed, a faint flush of irritation spreading across his face. "It is not that I intend to break our agreement, Master Richard. The materials you requested are difficult to gather, requiring time. However, there is news: a caravan carrying all the items you need has departed the Mallen Union and is en route to the Prudent Empire. It should arrive soon."
Richard's expression remained unreadable. "Then we shall wait for its arrival before discussing the swords," he said plainly, leaving no room for negotiation.
The Baron's face darkened. "I am your father! Do you not respect me?"
Richard inclined slightly, bowing with formal courtesy yet retaining an icy detachment in his expression. "I have the utmost respect for you, my dear father, Baron Leo," he said, his tone polite, yet every word carried a subtle chill that left no room for doubt about his priorities.
Seeing this, the Baron could only huff, frustration simmering, and turned back into the keep, muttering, "Then we shall wait… really!"
Richard shrugged lightly, letting his attention drift back to the courtyard. Turku and the others, however, looked uneasy. "Master Richard, are you sure it is appropriate to speak to the Baron like that? Won't it cause trouble?"
Richard's eyes flicked over them briefly, expression calm. "You need not concern yourselves. I have everything under control," he said. Then he turned his attention to Hughes. "Come with me. I need to check your blood type."
Richard preferred tangible, practical actions over idle speculation or politicking. He led Hughes toward a small, well-lit chamber inside the keep, where he could work efficiently.
Hughes, still pale and trembling, obeyed, allowing Richard to support him gently. His mind raced, both with fear of the previous encounter and confusion over the strange authority Richard wielded so effortlessly.
The procedure began. Richard first tested Hughes' blood type, then checked compatibility with potential donors inside the castle. Once compatibility was confirmed, the transfusion process commenced.
In this world, transfusion was considered arcane by most practitioners. The principle was simple: remove blood from one body and introduce it into another. Yet mismatched blood could cause hemolysis, potentially fatal. Richard, with meticulous precision, performed multiple titrations, observing every drop and reaction to ensure compatibility before proceeding.
Modern hollow needles were unavailable, but Richard improvised using sterilized bamboo tubes, carefully disinfected. The process was slower and the incision slightly larger, but functionally equivalent.
Under Richard's control, the transfusion proceeded smoothly. Blood flowed from donor to recipient, the crimson stream mingling with the dull red already present, oxygenating tissues, replenishing vital volume. Within moments, Hughes' cheeks began to regain color, the pallor of near death replaced by a fragile, yet undeniable, vitality.
Turku and the other guards stared, astonished. Though they had witnessed Richard perform unthinkable feats before, this surpassed their expectations. "Incredible," Turku whispered. "To save a man without the need for bloodletting… using only transfusion…"
Richard said nothing, focusing instead on monitoring Hughes' vital signs, noting the rapid improvement. It was a cruel irony: in this world reminiscent of Earth's medieval period, medicine was primitive, dangerous, and often lethal.
Historically, the practice of bloodletting dominated treatment. A headache? Draw some blood. Fever or nausea? Draw some blood. Severe injury? Draw more blood. Legends told of soldiers in the Bourbon era, their injuries worsened by repeated bloodletting, treated further with leeches, their strength sapped until death became inevitable. Even Charles II of England had succumbed to the very practice meant to preserve him.
In this context, Turku and the guards' astonishment was understandable. Here, in the Baron's keep, a man whose wound should have been fatal was restored using reason, biology, and careful technique. What they witnessed was nothing short of a miracle in comparison to the barbaric standard of care of the world around them.
Richard finally stepped back, observing Hughes now sitting upright, breathing steadily, color slowly returning. "This," he said softly, more to himself than anyone else, "is how healing should be—precise, careful, and effective. Not a single drop of life wasted."
Hughes' eyes were wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Master Richard… you… you really saved me?" His voice trembled, barely above a whisper.
Richard nodded once, expression unreadable. "Yes. But consider this a lesson. In this world, most 'doctors' are more likely to harm than to help. Bloodletting is the favored method, yet it kills far more than it cures. Remember that."
The room fell silent for a moment, the gravity of Richard's words sinking in. Outside, the sun had completely set, casting long shadows across the stone courtyard. Yet inside, life had returned, fragile but enduring, thanks to one man's knowledge, skill, and indifference to convention.