"Allen! Where are you? Something has happened, go get the package I left at your house! Hurry!"
Lann’s maneuvered boat practically crashed into Auridon’s small pier.
The villagers standing in a circle stared bewilderedly at Bernie’s fishing boat.
The bottom of this small boat was already a crimson red from the bleeding of two people.
A few village women surrounding Madam Donald hurriedly stepped forward wanting to say something.
But upon seeing Bernie’s deathly pale face, they hesitated and stopped in their tracks.
It was clear they had something important to say, but at the moment they couldn’t discern which was more important compared to Bernie’s situation.
Lann was alone; he only had the energy for one person.
As Lann dragged Bernie ashore, he didn’t even notice so many people watching, which was unusual at other times.
"Good heavens! Bernie... I’m going! I’m going now!"
Old Allen’s face was already troubled, now it showed terror. His old legs moved quickly, and in less than half a minute, he was back with the Alchemy Pouch.
"Get a few people to light torches and stand around me."
Lann took the Alchemy Pouch, began to rummage inside while making new requests to Old Allen.
Old Allen didn’t know if this was some kind of magic ritual or something else, but he was completely panicked now and did as Lann said.
He called over a few people who gathered around holding torches.
The tip of the crossbow arrow was completely buried in Bernie’s stomach; in Old Allen’s experience, this was practically a moving corpse.
But Lann was a Demon Hunter! Maybe? Right?
Lann pulled out a set of small, exquisite knives from the Alchemy Pouch.
This was a set he had entrusted Ivan to forge... The first user was supposed to be himself.
"Bring the torches closer."
Lann removed his studded leather gloves and steel bracers.
The torches had nothing to do with magic; they were to use the heat to kill most of the surrounding airborne bacteria.
Similar to operating near an alcohol lamp during biological experiments.
Lann needed to immediately perform surgery on Bernie, even without a surgical setting, it had to be done immediately.
He couldn’t afford to wait any longer!
Bernie’s lips were already deathly pale.
Lann pulled out a brown bottle from the Alchemy Pouch.
Redania Herbal Wine, frequently used by Demon Hunters as the alcohol base for Magic Potion, an undeniably high-strength liquor.
Though pure distilled Dwarf liquor would have been more appropriate at this time rather than herb-infused wine, but once again—there’s no time.
Lann poured this valuable bottle over his palms, wrists, delicate knives, and Bernie’s wound.
"Mentos, adjust my double vision."
His actions were methodical. Once the surgical steps began, Lann forced himself out of his agitated emotions.
Short-term brain overload of 70% proficiency caused a stress reaction, double vision was just a normal consequence.
The Bio-Intelligence Brain completed the task in the blink of an eye.
The blurred, overlapping vision was artificially corrected, the headache persisted, but Lann’s eyes and hands were incredibly steady.
Old Allen and a large group of villagers were watching. Lann’s orderly actions instilled confidence in the people.
The village elder sometimes glanced worriedly at Bernie, and sometimes cast a sympathetic gaze at Madam Donald sitting collapsed on the ground beside him.
He opened his mouth wanting to speak to the busy Lann, but Madam Donald raised her hand to squeeze his forearm softly.
Madam Donald shook her head gently.
Thus, the elder could only sigh and remain silent for the time being.
Lann’s hands were very steady, everyone who had seen his swordsmanship instinctively said so.
And for the feel of knives cutting flesh, the young man who had hunted dozens of Water Ghosts was already well-acquainted.
He maneuvered the delicate knives, cutting through skin, fat, muscle, nudging organs aside, layer by layer deep into Bernie’s abdominal wound until reaching the depth where the arrowhead was lodged.
No one dared to speak around him, many involuntarily held their breath.
When the surgical knife touched the crossbow arrowhead, creating the texture of metal meeting metal, Lann slightly relaxed.
There was no fecal odor; the arrow had fortunately not pierced Bernie’s intestines.
If the intestines were damaged, feces entering the abdominal cavity would mean Lann’s friend faced a 100% chance of confronting ancient surgery’s greatest enemy—wound infection.
In typical ancient surgeries, the chance of not having wound infections was about 30%.
Now, no matter what, Bernie’s survival rate was already above most of this era’s wounded.
Lann extracted the arrowhead minimizing secondary harm, the high-strength herbal wine cleaned the wound.
The bleeding was caused by an abdominal vein being cut; the young man swiftly stitched it up.
In the final stitching phase, as alcohol-soaked threads were sewn into the wound, Lann finally exhaled deeply.
As if this breath was a signal, the originally silent, tense crowd began to buzz.
Old Allen tentatively moved towards Lann, seeing the young man didn’t stop him, he knew things were probably okay now.
Lann’s previously straight back slightly relaxed during the last few stitches.
"The bleeding has stopped; if Bernie doesn’t get a fever today and tomorrow, the rest will be recuperation..."
Lann assumed Old Allen approached wanting to ask about the situation.
This old man had lived in Velen his whole life; based on experience, he truly didn’t see as much as traveling merchants, nobles, or knights.
But when it came to Velen life, he knew everything.
A fishing boat went out; the boat owner returned with a crossbow arrow in his belly. This couldn’t be an accident?
Velen’s environment was indeed perilous but not frightening to this extent; it’s not wartime.
Thus, after explaining Bernie’s situation, Lann was prepared to tell Old Allen about today’s events.
As the young man thought, this should be the village elder’s greatest concern.
But as he slightly bent his relaxed back, when he saw Old Allen’s expression, he immediately negated his judgment.
The old man’s face lacked inquiring puzzlement, instead still had undissipated urgency and... panic.
At this point, Lann’s keen observation freed from tense, focused spirit returned online.
It was the fishing village at work, the pier was crowded, this inherently was unusual.
Old Allen approached Lann cautiously; his eyes carried careful persuasion.
Lann’s amber cat eyes swept over, naturally capturing Madam Donald sitting collapsed, clutching a small cloth bundle.
A terrifying guess quietly deepened in Lann’s heart.
"It’s not your fault, Lann." Old Allen muttered for ages, finally saying this.
"We... everyone bears some responsibility."
The young man’s cat eyes looked at him; the slit pupil almost instantly contracted to a line!
This statement wasn’t about the "Bernie was hit by an arrow"; Lann keenly felt this.
"Old Allen, what do you mean?"
His relaxed bent spine slowly straightened again; that exhaled breath was almost instantly held again.
The elder’s hand tightly gripped his tobacco pipe.
"Little White went out to gather herbs outside the village this morning... he’s gone."