Chapter 97: The Chirurgeon's Mercy
Kian leaned in for a closer look. Indeed, the man was beyond help. Shrapnel had severed the femoral artery; he had bled out into the mud long ago. His soul belonged to the Golden Throne now.
Kian moved to the next man, who was clutching a mangled arm and howling. Kian checked the wound—messy, but the bleeding was sluggish. He ignored the man's cries, classifying him as "Light Damage," and pushed deeper into the med-shack toward the critical cases.
He stopped before the third man. This one was a ruin. A high-explosive fragment had raked across his midsection, opening a jagged cavern in his abdomen. His intestines were spilled across the blood-stained straw, mixed with waste from a ruptured bowel.
The rebel leader standing beside Kian shook his head. "This one is finished. Move to the next."
The rebels' medical knowledge was primitive. In their eyes, an abdominal wound mixed with sepsis was a death sentence. Without high-end antibiotics or sterile theaters, the man would rot from the inside out within days. To them, it was better to save the supplies for those with a chance.
"No," Kian rasped, his eyes fixed on the man's "Critical Health" bar. "This one lives. Get four men to pin him down. Don't let him thrash."
The rebel leader, stunned by Kian's confidence, signaled four guards. They threw themselves onto the dying man, pinning his limbs to the dirt.
Kian snapped open a Surgical Kit. He pulled out a scalpel, forceps, and a spreader. With the brutal efficiency of a man who viewed human anatomy as a series of data points, he expanded the wound. He used the forceps to dig deep into the abdominal cavity, pulling out jagged shards of PDF steel.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sounds of metal hitting a tin tray were punctuated by the man's muffled screams. Kian ignored the blood spraying his visor.
"Hold him! If he shifts, I'll nick the aorta!"
The rebel leader hurriedly stuffed a rag into the soldier's mouth, leaning his full weight on the man's skull. Other rebels gathered at the door, their faces turning pale as they watched Kian pull handfuls of shrapnel from the man's guts. Several of them turned away to vomit.
Kian looked like a butcher in a trance. Once he was certain the fragments were gone, he unceremoniously stuffed the intestines back into the cavity. He poured a handful of Refined Haemostatic Powder into the mess and pulled out a surgical stapler.
Click-clack! Click-clack!
He stapled the skin shut in seconds, a crude but functional seal. Finally, he pulled a Regen-Bolt from his vest, held it up for the crowd to see, and shouted:
"By the will of the Space King, the Void-Blood Pump initiates!!"
He slammed the needle into the man's jugular and depressed the plunger.
Then, he moved. He became a whirlwind of "Combat Triage." He focused only on the nine men he deemed "Blacked Out"—those on the very edge of death. He performed the same violent surgeries, digging for lead, stapling flesh, and finishing each one with a green injector.
Under the eyes of the terrified and awestruck rebels, a miracle occurred. The nine men, who had been grey-faced and rattling, fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Their wounds began to knit together with a speed that defied biological law.
"That's the last of the bolts," Kian wheezed, wiping his hands on a rag. "The rest have minor wounds. I'll show your 'Healers' how to apply the antiseptic powder and the bandages. The rest is up to them."
Kian rested for a moment while the three surviving cell leaders and Parson gathered around him, their expressions a mix of fear and fanatical gratitude.
"The Cell has suffered a great blow today," one leader said, looking at the graves being dug outside. "But we held. Our home remains."
"What's the plan now?" Kian asked, lighting a Lho-stick. "Your numbers are gutted."
"We merge," another leader said firmly. "The eight cells are now one. We have the cleared land, the water, and now... we have the 'Scavenger's Mercy.' We will attract more workers from the outskirts. We will grow back stronger than before."
Parson stepped forward. "Master Voss, because we are now one family, our grain surplus is doubled. Whatever volume of starch your brewery requires, we can provide it. We are your brothers in the dirt."
Kian smirked. This was the result he wanted. A consolidated supply chain.
[COGITATOR NOTIFICATION]
Contact: Parson (Secessionist Commander) Reputation
→\to→ CROWN (EXALTED).
[REWARD UNLOCKED: MANPOWER REQUISITION]
You may now spend Reputation Points to 'recruit' loyal personnel from the rebel pool. Every 10 points allows for 1 'Volunteer' to be sent to your brewery.
Note: These recruits are vetted by Parson. They are loyal, hardworking, and ready to fight for the man who saved their brothers.
Kian let out a low whistle. "A recruitment pipeline. Perfect."
He spent another hour coordinating with Parson. He arranged for the rebel to meet him at the ventilator with a team of mules to receive the medical shipment. Then, he returned to the hidden PDF truck.
He drove the heavy vehicle back to the treeline near Rudolphson's sector, covering it with a mound of branches and camouflage netting. Once the "Stash" was secure, he sprinted back to the PDF camp.
He didn't walk through the front gate. He waited in the tall grass until the familiar rumble of the Chimera approached. The ramp lowered, and Kian hopped inside before it even touched the ground.
Rudolphson was practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Well?! Is it done?! Is the Spire-brat a memory?!"
Kian didn't answer. He reached into his pack and pulled out the gory, cloth-wrapped bundle. He gripped the severed head by the hair and used his other hand to manipulate the jaw, putting on a high-pitched, mock-noble accent.
"Oh, my dear Lieutenant Rudolphson!" Kian squeaked through the head's dead lips. "I am so sorry I tried to steal your promotion! I was a very naughty Spire-boy! I've decided to go report to the Emperor early! The Battalion is all yours now, Lord Major! Tee-hee!"
Rudolphson stared at the severed head of his rival, his face turning a shade of ecstatic red. In the PDF, the jump from Company Commander to Battalion Commander (Major) was the threshold of Godhood. A Major was a "Landless Noble"—a man with Spire-status, a permanent pension, and ten times the authority he had yesterday.
"Major..." Rudolphson whispered, his bionic eye whirring. "Major Rudolphson. I like the sound of that, Voss. I like it very much."
☆☆☆
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