Twilight, like blood, dyed the sky above the God's Eye red.
At this moment, Hogg's condition was extremely dire. Blood gushed out continuously, turning the soil beneath his buttocks black.
Stole's face was full of worry.
They were all experienced soldiers and naturally knew what unstoppable bleeding meant. A few years ago, Stole had encountered such a case—an unlucky fellow whose thigh was slashed by a prostitute because he didn't pay.
That guy's cousin happened to be the steward of Karhold and hurriedly invited Maester Regan, who served Earl Rickard. Stole happened to be present.
However, even Maester Regan expressed helplessness upon seeing it.
Stole remembered the steward's face looking like his own son had died. He had pondered over it for a long time, leaving a very deep impression.
So, seeing Corleone's confident look, he was very doubtful.
But it was too late to say anything now. In this wilderness, there was no better way. He could only pin his hopes on this doctor met by chance.
Anyway, if he can't cure him, I'll slaughter him to be buried with Hogg!
Taking a deep breath, Stole thought to himself.
"Move aside."
With the enhancement of [Insight Lv1], the changes in Stole's expression couldn't escape Corleone's eyes. Yet he didn't panic at all; even his voice didn't tremble, calm almost to the point of cruelty.
Pushing aside the soldier pressing on Hogg's wound, under everyone's shocked gazes, Corleone actually reached out directly, his fingers roughly probing into the wound at the root of Hogg's thigh!
"Hiss~~~~~"
"Argh!!!!"
The surrounding soldiers sucked in a breath of cold air.
The intense pain actually made the unconscious Hogg twitch violently, a cry of pain escaping his throat.
Even Stole's eyelids couldn't help but twitch.
This isn't treatment, it's fucking torture!
But seeing Corleone's calm demeanor, he still clenched his fist, resisting the urge to punch this barefoot doctor to death, and cooperated fully by stepping forward to pin down Hogg's struggling upper body, shouting: "Hold him down! Quick!"
Hearing this, several Northern soldiers also rushed up quickly, playing a game of human pile-on.
Fortunately, with their help, it was much easier for Corleone to handle things.
He pinched the arterial vessel tightly with one hand, skillfully clamped it with hemostats in the other, then switched hands, taking out the curved suturing needle and thread.
Without any disinfection, under everyone's horrified gazes, Corleone relied entirely on touch and the muscle memory of [Surgery Lv2]. Gripping the curved needle forcefully, he unhesitatingly pierced the rolled flesh, performing several rough transfixion sutures and ligations around the stump of the blood vessel!
The surgery process was extremely painful, evident from Hogg struggling like a fish on land.
But after several "professional" surgical practices, Corleone was unperturbed by any conditions the patient might exhibit.
His movements were precise and rapid, devoid of personal emotion, like a skilled cobbler patching a piece of worn leather.
With every stitch, Hogg's body couldn't help but jerk violently, only to be pinned down firmly by Stole and the others.
The whole process was surprisingly fast.
No debridement, no rinsing. He even directly opened a waterskin handed over by a nearby soldier, still stained with mud, and poured the remaining clear water over the wound, washing away most of the blood and obvious foreign objects.
When Corleone finally bit off the suture thread with his teeth, the terrible wound on Hogg's thigh was forcibly closed. Although the stitches looked crooked and hideous, the bleeding had indeed stopped.
"Alright, the bleeding is stopped for now."
Corleone straightened up, wiping his blood-stained hands casually on the grass beside him. His tone remained very bland, as if he had just finished dinner. "Next, just observe for a few days. If the wound doesn't rot and he doesn't get a fever, he probably won't die."
His "medical advice" also appeared simple and crude.
However, according to Corleone's own estimation, wound infection or even necrosis and fever should be a certainty.
After all, firstly, he really didn't have the conditions or time for preoperative disinfection. Secondly, with arterial bleeding, the primary task was saving life.
According to his mentor, military doctors on the battlefield would even pull out the injured artery to tie a knot, or cut open with a small knife and reach directly into the chest cavity for a heart massage. If the patient fainted from pain, consider it anesthesia.
Infection?
That's something to consider only after surviving!
But compared to the perfect medical conditions of his previous life, Hogg's luck was very bad.
Yet Corleone didn't feel a shred of guilt.
After all, only those who survived were worthy of being his patients!
Look at Jaime. Why was his hand fine after rolling in mud and soaking in horse urine?
If you die of infection, blame yourself, jinx!
Maybe... he should even thank me!
"By the gods, thank you so much, Doctor!"
Seeing Corleone's operation dumbfounded him, hearing that the bleeding had stopped, Stole immediately breathed a sigh of relief, patting Corleone's shoulder overjoyed.
"You saved Hogg. I, Harrag Stole, owe you a life!"
"You are truly... You are truly fucking amazing!"
Thinking for a long time, he originally tried to use some beautiful words to thank Corleone for saving a life. However, as a semi-illiterate, Stole's vocabulary was limited, so he could only repeat grateful words over and over.
That enthusiastic manner made it seem like Corleone was his long-lost brother from another mother.
However, from beginning to end, this "generous" Northerner never mentioned returning the one hundred Gold Dragons he had extorted from Corleone earlier.
And Corleone always wore a professional smile, listening quietly, also sensibly not mentioning a single word about "Gold Dragons."
Stole thought he took advantage, getting top-notch medical service and one hundred Gold Dragons for free.
But in Corleone's view, he would collect this debt, along with the previous insults, with interest.
A very profitable deal.
Exquisite medical skills won Corleone some freedom of movement.
Stole no longer kept him strictly under watch, allowing him to move around slightly within the camp, but didn't let Corleone go back either, planning to wait until Hogg's injury healed.
Corleone stretched and pretended to exercise his muscles and bones, pacing seemingly casually, but his gaze was cast under that crooked-neck tree in the center of the camp.
The "Hound," Sandor Clegane.
This strong warrior was currently having his hands tied with rough hemp rope, hanging from a thick branch.
His toes could barely touch the ground, and the entire weight of his body pressed on his wrists. This made his already hideous face even more twisted, veins popping on his forehead.
Seeing this scene, Corleone inexplicably felt a trace of emotion in his heart.
After all, when he transmigrated, his situation was exactly the same as the Hound's current predicament.
Several Karstark soldiers were surrounding the Hound, constantly humiliating him. After all, in the previous battle, this guy had hacked down several of their companions.
"Pah! Bastard!" A soldier spat thick phlegm onto the Hound's face.
Another used the end of his scabbard to jab hard into the Hound's abdomen.
"Urgh..." The Hound let out a muffled groan but suddenly looked up, his wild eyes full of resentment, roaring: "Fuck all of you!"
"If I hadn't been starving for two days with no strength, trash like you wouldn't be my match even if you all came together!"
He tried to maintain his dignity with a roar, but these words were like pouring oil on fire, instantly enraging the soldiers.
"Still stubborn when death is near!"
One of Stole's guards flew into a rage, pointing at the Hound and shouting: "This mad dog killed five of us! Put the rope around his neck and hang him!"
"Yes! Hang him!"
"Strangle him!"
"Avenge our dead brothers!"
As soon as these words came out, everyone was immediately roused.
Several people stepped forward immediately, about to untie the rope from the Hound's wrists, preparing to loop the knot around his neck.
The Hound clenched his teeth, staring dead at the guard who proposed hanging him, as if to carve the other's appearance into the depths of his soul.
But at this critical moment, a voice with slight regret suddenly sounded:
"What a pity..."