Chapter 10: If Healing Spells Don’t Work, Then I Will!

Chapter 10: If Healing Spells Don’t Work, Then I Will!

carriage, silk robes, silver dishes, wine?

“I’ll be there soon too, so there’s no need to rush?”

Garrett gave a wry smile.

Was that why I became a doctor? For perks and privileges?

If I wanted good treatment, why did I stay in the emergency department for over ten years—rising from resident to deputy chief, pulling night shifts every three days, heart racing at the sound of every ambulance siren?

And the emergency department? One of the poorest departments in the whole hospital.

My monthly paycheck? Let’s not even talk about it. Thinking about it just makes me want to cry.

If I cared about salary, why didn’t I switch departments? Or hop hospitals?

Orthopedics has great pay.

Surgical oncology has prestige.

Private hospitals pay in gold.

And now look where I’ve ended up—

In this dump of a fantasy world. What perks am I gonna get here?

First-class flights? Bullet trains? Air conditioning? Smartphones? Streaming dramas? TikTok?

They don’t even have flush toilets!

Garrett shrugged, ready to crack a sarcastic joke—but he didn’t get the chance.

A shrill scream erupted from the hall.

A farmwife burst in, clutching a limp child in her arms, and rushed to the cleric seated at the head table.

“Please! Please save him—he’s dying!”

A patient!

Garrett’s instincts kicked in, and he bolted forward.

He was fast—but the veterans were faster. Raymond, Tom, and Vali charged ahead, then one by one overtook him.

By the time Garrett arrived, a crowd had already formed.

In the center, the young cleric stood with hands clasped over his chest, solemnly gazing down at the boy in the woman’s arms. Soft chanting filled the air, and a clean white light descended from above.

No reaction.

The boy—no more than seven or eight—lay limp in his mother’s arms.

The healing spell didn’t help at all. As the light bathed him, he tilted his head back and gasped with effort.

A rough, hollow wheeze cut through the crowd and pierced Garrett’s ears.

At that moment, a chill ran down his spine.

Stridor! That was stridor!

That high-pitched wheezing, loud enough to hear through the crowd—this kid was in serious trouble!

Garrett shoved his way through the onlookers.

Even before he reached the front, he caught sight of the boy’s face—bluish lips, limbs flailing weakly.

With each desperate gasp, the flesh above and below his collarbone caved inward—the notch at the base of the throat, the spaces between his ribs, all visibly collapsing with effort.

Suprasternal, supraclavicular, and intercostal retractions—

The “Triple Retraction Sign.”

Inspiratory soft tissue collapse!

And that stridor—so loud, so distinct—Laryngeal obstruction.

At least grade three, no—judging by how bad the kid looks—grade four!

He’s suffocating. If we don’t intervene now, he’s going to go hypoxic and die within minutes!

The healing spell failed. The cleric frowned in surprise, then knelt down again and tried a different incantation.

This time, the magic had a faint blue shimmer—liquid light flowing gently from head to toe, and back again.

“Detoxification magic…” someone beside Garrett muttered.

But still—no effect. The boy’s limbs twitched, then stilled. His face was soaked with sweat, his breathing now shallow, wheezing barely audible—

He doesn’t even have the strength to make noise anymore.

That was it.

Garrett could wait no longer.

Healing magic, detoxification, divine blessings—it didn’t matter.

There were problems that magic couldn’t solve.

Or rather, this particular cleric’s magic couldn’t solve it.

Then I will!

He yanked the child from the stunned farmwife’s arms and laid him flat on the ground, face-up.

With a swift motion, he tore off his own shirt, rolled it into a wad, and tucked it under the child’s neck for support.

Then, without hesitation, he dropped to one knee, twisted around, and drew a dagger straight from Raymond’s belt!

“What are you doing?!”

“Garrett, stop!”

“Hold him back! Someone stop him!”

Gasps of shock erupted all around him.

But Garrett didn’t even lift his head. His left hand pressed against the center of the boy’s throat, fingers sliding downward, gently feeling for landmarks.

Here’s the thyroid cartilage.

Here’s the cricoid cartilage.

The child’s anatomy was smaller, the neck shorter, no Adam’s apple yet—but that didn’t matter. Locating the right spot was easy for him.

He was an ER associate chief physician at the No.1 People’s Hospital of H Province, with over a decade of clinical experience under his belt!

He spread his index and middle fingers to stabilize the skin on either side of the cricothyroid membrane. Then with his right hand, he drove the dagger down in a clean, vertical stab.

“Aaaah—!”

The mother screamed. Blood spurted from the incision in the child’s throat.

Don’t lunge at me—don’t come at me— Garrett focused intently on the sensation at his fingertips, silently praying.

Just give me one second. That’s all I need. One second!

He pressed down slightly. The blade met brief resistance—and then, that unmistakable give as the knife pierced through the membrane and entered the airway.

Without hesitation, Garrett withdrew the dagger and flicked it aside.

Hssssss

A sharp hiss of air escaped.

Garrett exhaled—a full-body release.

The emergency cricothyrotomy was complete.

The airway was open.

The child had been snatched back from the edge of death.

The moment relief washed over him, his body sagged. His muscles ached, drained and weak. The adrenaline crash hit hard—ATP hydrolyzed, high-energy phosphate bonds broken, energy expelled like a passing typhoon, leaving behind a mess of ADP and free phosphate.

He knew this feeling well. After every resuscitation, after every ER battle, this exhaustion always followed.

But now… now at least, the boy’s life was safe.

Just as that thought passed, a blinding white flash struck. Garrett didn’t even see it coming. Pain exploded in his chest, and before he could react, he was sent flying backward.

He tumbled end over end, rolled clean off the raised platform, and landed hard on the dirt floor below.

It was a rough fall. His shoulders, legs, elbows, knees—everything burned. One of his shoes had even flown off.

Dazed, Garrett propped himself up on one arm and looked up.

The knight who’d been seated just below the cleric now stood by the child, greatsword planted beside him. His left foot had just retracted from a kick.

—He kicked me off?

Garrett opened his mouth, ready to question him—but then noticed the cleric leaning forward again, chanting softly. His pale blue robes rippled in the candlelight, his gaze calm and focused on the child.

“Don’t move!”

Garrett shouted, but the cleric didn’t respond. His lips moved in quiet prayer, white light flickering at his fingertip, ready to cast another spell.

Panic rising, Garrett snatched his fallen shoe and hurled it with all his strength.

Smack!

The shoe flew wildly, missing the cleric’s robe—but it startled him enough to make him take a step back. The white glow at his fingertip flickered and faded.

The knight’s face twisted in fury.

His unsheathed greatsword rose again, now pointed directly at Garrett.

“You!”

The knight’s bellow was met with the scrape of chairs as the cleric’s warriors—all far stronger than the city guards—leapt to their feet. One grabbed Garrett and twisted his arm behind his back, slamming him to the ground.

The knight approached slowly, sword looming like a guillotine.

But Garrett ignored him. He strained his neck upward and shouted past the knight, toward the cleric:

“Don’t heal him! Do you want to kill him by suffocation?!”

“What did you say?”

“What did you say?!”

The cleric’s voice was confused. The knight’s—angry.

Garrett raised his head and shouted again, louder:

“His throat was blocked! I had to cut it open so he could breathe! If you close that cut—he’ll suffocate and die!”

The cleric froze.

He leaned closer to the boy and carefully observed.

The child’s once-blue lips had regained a healthy pink hue.

The cleric murmured thoughtfully.

“…He does have a point. Let him go.”