Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"I've only heard of soldiers bleeding to death on the battlefield, never of bloodletting as a way to save people!"

"Nonsense! Where did you learn your medical skills to be so presumptuous in front of me?" the old man blew his beard and glared.

Winters replied coldly, "The Army Officer Academy!"

"Isn't the Army Officer Academy meant for teaching how to kill? Since when is it qualified to teach medicine?"

"The military academy doesn't teach medicine, but I learned a bit in hygiene class—if there's a wound bleeding, you need to find a way to stop it, but no one ever taught me to draw blood deliberately when there's no external injury!"

"Can external bleeding and internal toxin accumulation be considered the same?"

"I don't care! The major is very weak now, and I absolutely can't agree to you bloodletting him. Is that the only treatment you have?" Winters didn't bother arguing with the doctor and firmly refused to allow the bloodletting of the major. All of Winters' medical knowledge came from the hygiene courses at the military academy, which in turn originated from practical experiences summed up during the Sovereign Wars.

The old man was so infuriated by Winters that he was almost having a stroke, and he bellowed resentfully, "You won't let me bleed him, then I won't treat him at all! If this gentleman's condition worsens, it will be your responsibility! Don't come looking for me!"

With that, he snatched his knife back from Winters, hurled it into his medicine box, slammed the wooden case shut, and stormed off angrily.

His assistant cast a hateful glance around the cell and then sullenly followed the old man.

Having driven the doctor away, Winters actually felt a bit guilty, but he believed he wasn't wrong this time.

He said helplessly to his classmates sitting on the ground, watching him, "Can bloodletting even be called a treatment method? It really could kill the major."

"Good job!" Andre cheered loudly and started clapping vigorously, "I've always found that old pretender annoying!" The others joined in the applause, and sporadic claps echoed within the cell.

Winters nodded in gratitude to Andre, now finding an endearing quality in Andre's character. The guy had no real sense of right and wrong—or rather, his sense of right and wrong could be summed up in five words: stand by your own. His own people were always right, the enemies always wrong.

The major couldn't hear anything, but he saw the doctor and Winters seemed to have started arguing, his assistant was held down on the ground by the other warrant officers, and then the doctor left in a huff.

He picked up a quill pen and wrote on a piece of paper, passing it to Winters: What happened?

Winters smiled bitterly and wrote back: That doctor just now said that toxins are accumulating in your blood, in your liver, and wanted to bleed you from the arm. I didn't agree, so he left.

After reading this, the major nodded and wrote: It's normal, the world doesn't recognize our medical experience, thinking we are just a bunch of executioners, while we merely sum up patterns in practice. Thank you, you did right by not allowing him to use bloodletting.

Getting the major's understanding was a big relief for Winters. What he feared most was that the major himself would support bloodletting, which would make his own rush to prevent the doctor turn into a farce.

Suddenly remembering that the major hadn't properly eaten ever since, Winters wrote: Do you want to eat something?

The major shook his head; he had no appetite. Most of the time now, the major was in a sleep state, eager for news updates, and he picked up the pen to write: Any new developments at the customs?

Winters replied: None at the moment, but the attitude there has softened a lot.

Looking at Major Moritz's face, which had become slightly sunken, Winters suddenly remembered the scene at the dock when he had shouted to the major to aim at the opponent's head, yet the major still fired at the opponent's chest armor. It seemed comical in retrospect.

So, Winters wrote with a smile on the paper: If you had aimed at those assassins' heads back then, it would be the customs awarding us medals now.

When the major used the Arrow Flying Spell, Winters heard a teeth-gritting sound of metal deformation as silver coins collided with armor; the assassins were even forced to retreat repeatedly to offset the impact.

Such power wasn't inferior to arrows shot from a bow of over a hundred pounds. The assassins weren't wearing helmets, so a hit to the head would certainly be fatal.

Major Moritz wrote with a resigned smile: Hands were shaking, couldn't aim, so I aimed for the torso instead.

Winters didn't understand the major's meaning at a glance, but when he recalled the major's condition before disembarking, he immediately understood.

Based on Winters' current understanding of magic, the Arrow Flying Spell essentially involved accelerating an object as much as possible within one's spell-casting range, in essence, like throwing darts with a "third hand"; accuracy was all about "feel."

The major's spellcasting material for releasing the Arrow Flying Spell was a silver coin he constantly fiddled with, leading Winters to conjecture that the major constantly practiced coin tricks to maintain his feel for the spell.

However, during the last days on the Bandit Gull, Major Moritz's hands shook uncontrollably due to alcohol withdrawal symptoms. He couldn't even perform coin tricks, let alone expect any accuracy from the Arrow Fying Spell.

General Antoine-Laurent believed that Spellcasters shouldn't use any addictive substances, as they could destroy their precious magical abilities.

Winters had previously blindly followed the general's teachings to abstain from drinking and smoking, but now the way Major Moritz's magical abilities had suffered due to his heavy drinking was a real lesson for Winters.

Winters really wanted to urge Major Moritz to give up drinking for good; he dreamt of becoming a powerful Spellcaster like the major.

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