Chapter 47

Under the watchful eyes of everyone, the bald bishop strained to pull the hook. His body leaned back, but his head stretched forward, trying to see every move Greta made, causing his entire body to bend into a "C" shape. Sir Syro couldn't bear to watch and stepped forward to take the hook, but then heard Greta shout:

"Give me some fine needles! Toothpicks will do!"

Greta separated each muscle on the lamb's leg and inserted toothpicks between the muscles to mark them. Then he called everyone over to look: "Sir Barron, look, there are many muscles here. The tendon of one of these muscles in your arm is broken—"

As he spoke, he flipped the blade and made an upward cut. With a "snap," the tendon broke, and the entire muscle retracted upward, the silvery tendon retracting into the muscle group and disappearing.

"So, now we need to find it again..."

Greta tilted his head, spread his hands, and pointed at the lamb's leg. The meaning was quite clear:

You pull it out.

Sir Barron: "..."

Sir Flynn and Sir Syro: "..."

The bald bishop leaned in, examining from all angles. After a long while, he rolled up his sleeves and started digging into the muscle Greta had separated. After much effort, his hands were covered in blood, but he finally found the retracted muscle. He pinched it with two fingers and tried to pull it out—

"Hey!" It slipped!

"Hey!" It slipped again!

On the third try, the bald bishop learned his lesson and used his fingernails to grip the muscle tightly. With his veins bulging, he pulled with a "rip"—

The lamb's leg was torn open by his force.

"Hey, hey, hey, stop!"

Greta couldn't bear to watch: "Your Excellency, you can't use brute force here. We need the right tools... Someone, do we have forceps... No, do we have tweezers? No? Get two narrow flat iron strips and more hooks!"

"Go get them!"

The bald bishop and the knights gave the order simultaneously. The kitchen bustled with activity, and within a short time, the items Greta requested were brought in. Although the iron strips were uneven and the hooks were bent by the knights, Greta weighed them for a long time and had no choice but to accept them:

This will have to do...

He carefully separated the muscle, used the hook to hold it, and called the two knights to pull it apart. He found the broken tendon deep inside, clamped it tightly with the narrow iron strips, and called to Sir Barron:

"Pull! Pull backward!"

"Hey—"

Sir Barron's left arm bulged as he pulled with all his might. The lamb's leg made a creaking sound, stretching inch by inch, and the muscle did not tear again. As the broken tendon approached the other end, Greta immediately gave the order:

"Good! Right here, hold it steady, don't move!—Your Excellency, please cast a healing spell to connect the two ends of the tendon!"

White light descended. Everyone leaned in to look, and the tendon severed by the scalpel indeed grew back together!

"So that's how it's done!"

"Much clearer this way! Old Barron, look, your tendon can be reconnected like this!"

"Little Greta, you're amazing!"

The knights marveled. The bald bishop, emboldened, healed the entire lamb. Once the binding spell was released, the lamb was set on the ground and ran off—

...a bit limping.

"Little Greta, why is it still limping?"

"That's why I said we need the right tools!"

"What do you need?"

The bald bishop asked in a deep voice. Greta's eyes lit up.

The surgical instruments given to him by the necromancer Lynn were barely adequate. The blade was wavy, the surgical scissors were blunt and could only cut flowers, there was only one retractor, and what was a hemostat?

In terms of variety and precision, Greta, with his 21st-century experience, found them lacking.

But if he were to have them made himself, Greta weighed his wallet and felt uneasy.

He had been planning to save up and buy them piece by piece, but now the temple had offered—

The temple has money!

They are well-funded!

Take from the rich, get the surgical instruments! Don't be polite with the rich!

"It's hard to explain in a few words." He looked hopefully at the bald bishop, "Why don't we go home, and I'll draw them for you to see?"

After about the time it takes to eat a meal, the bald bishop looked at the large sheet of paper filled with detailed drawings and annotations of various surgical instruments, his eyes wide with surprise.

"What are these?"

"The handle of a scalpel."

"This one?"

"A round blade. This is a curved blade, a triangular blade, in various sizes..."

"This one?"

"A hemostat."

"Why are there two of the same?"

"Oh, this isn't a hemostat, it's a needle holder. This is a fine tissue forceps, a large flat forceps, a small flat forceps. This is a mosquito forceps, a fine-tipped mosquito forceps. This is a serrated scissors, a curved scissors, a straight scissors, this is a large curved, medium curved, small curved..."

"By the way, the mosquito forceps, fine-tipped mosquito forceps, fine tissue forceps, and hemostats are smaller, and the blacksmith's hands are rough, so it's best to find a jeweler to make them."

"So many?!"

The bald bishop was speechless. Greta sighed: "These are just the ones we need urgently. To have a complete set, it will take a long time..."

In every surgery, the instrument nurse's cart is always filled with dozens of instruments, without which the operation cannot proceed.

Zero sense of security.

Sir Barron looked at the drawings on the paper and then at his wrist injury, gradually lowering his head. His expression changed, sometimes bright, sometimes dark, and finally, he clenched his fist tightly.

"I..."

Greta had been watching his expression. This kind of hesitation, wavering, and finally making a decision, he had seen countless times in his past life:

Families with limited means, deciding whether to sell everything, whether to risk everything to try to cure their loved ones, always pacing back and forth in the emergency room, at the payment window, in the hall.

Back then, he couldn't do much. Out of 365 days a year, with dozens or even hundreds of patients a day, there were always a few who were economically struggling. But this time, he could do something.

Greta promptly placed his hand on Sir Barron's shoulder. He looked up and smiled brightly at the bald bishop, speaking with confidence:

"Your Excellency, can you make a set of these instruments?—After they are made, I will bring Sir Barron to the temple to complete the treatment. I can also write down the entire process in detail—"

The bald bishop's frown slowly relaxed. He shook his head deliberately:

"Just these?"

"Aren't these enough?" Greta was confident. "Your Excellency, among the believers of the War God's temple, there are many warriors, right? How many have old injuries that can't be cured? I don't know them, but you do, right?"

The bald bishop nodded lightly. Indeed, he knew over a dozen high-level warriors who had retired due to old injuries—

"These warriors, many of them are wealthy, right? If they knew their old injuries could be cured and they could return to the battlefield, what do you think they would be willing to do for the temple?—No other temple can cure them, only the War God's temple can!"

"You mean, only the War God's temple?" The bald bishop was moved. Greta shrugged:

"Anyway, I don't want to teach the Spring Water Temple..."

As for the Church of Nature, well, his identity as a divine initiate is fake, and he would avoid it at all costs.

The bald bishop lowered his head in thought. The more he thought about it, the more he found the proposal feasible. He looked at Greta and laughed:

"Brat! You're going to teach us how to treat these injuries and get a set of instruments for free?"

"Will you do it or not?" Greta chuckled. The bald bishop slapped him on the shoulder:

"Can I say no?"

"Ow—Don't hit me, I'm the one who will do the surgery!"