Since that rainy night, Horn has been in a coma for three days in bed, but his condition hasn’t improved.
He spends more time sleeping than awake, and most of the time he’s awake, he uses it to eat, take medicine, and vehemently reject the physicians’ proposed treatments of bloodletting, enemas, and castration.
During these three days, Horn drank a considerable amount of precious herbs and foods from the monastery, and ate quite a bit of magical beast meat, which barely stabilized his condition.
But it was just stabilized; Horn still suffered from periodic high fevers.
In most of his dreams, he was being pursued by the Church and the Empire’s army, and then beheaded, spending his time in an endless cycle of nightmares.
Every time Horn woke up, he couldn’t stop sighing.
He had killed a Priest in front of everyone’s eyes, not someone like Barnett, a countryside knight, but a genuine Priest.
The alias for the Priest is rural bishop. Though the Church doesn’t have a bishop of this level, their power and status are equivalent.
More terrifying is that countless people saw his face, both when he committed murder and during the period of his treatment.
He cannot even figure out how many people know who he is or who exactly saw his face; he’s wracking his brain trying to come up with ways to cover up.
Meanwhile, from the vague information he heard while asleep, it seems the peasants in the Gulag Monastery area have united with the Secret Faction and launched a rebellion.
For some reason, they consider him the legendary "Chosen One."
Sometimes Horn truly cannot understand these whimsical people from another world; someone they’ve never met, who suddenly appeared, how did he become the "Chosen One"?
Before, Horn becoming the Holy Grandson at least had some groundwork and intentional planning, which he could understand.
But the Chosen One ordeal, he genuinely cannot comprehend; is this reasonable?
Just because he killed the Priest?
Anyway, the peasants regard him as the savior Chosen One, coupled with the previous rebellion incident...
If the Empire or Church army takes issue with it, they might categorize him as a member of the rebellious group.
A huge black pot slammed straight onto his head, Horn really doesn’t want to die along with this group of lunatics.
It’s tough, but for now, he needs to figure out how to endure this damn illness.
Lying on his back, like the past two days, the high fever gradually turned into a low fever, thirst and chest tightness awoke Horn from his sleep, he called out with his eyes closed:
"Jeanne, I want some water."
Unlike usual, no one responded to Horn’s request today.
Horn managed to open his eyes, the large room was empty, only a dusty wooden ceiling.
As he moved his body, Horn felt something warm sticking to him.
Turning his head, the first thing he saw was a head of white hair, long white hair with a porcelain-like texture, messily draped.
"You’re pressing on my hair..." Perhaps due to Horn’s movements, a mature voice, sounding like a playful whine, emerged from within the white hair.
Nestled beside Horn, she wore a white linen corset nightgown, her two long and strong legs tightly clamping Horn’s waist and abdomen.
This woman held Horn in her arms like a hugging pillow.
Through the soft white linen cloth, Horn could even feel a fuzzy touch on his waist and abdomen.
Seeing Horn awake, she sat up obediently, rubbing her eyes resembling red agate with her white fists, mumbling:
Now Horn could see her face clearly, it was an extremely incongruous face.
In this nearly nine-head-tall body, on a swan-like elegant neck, was a face looking like a fifteen or sixteen-year-old girl.
Her oval face still had some baby fat, coupled with her half-awake and submissive demeanor, those with poor eyesight might mistake her for a cute little girl.
But Horn won’t underestimate her, her bosom was high and round, making Jeanne appear like a small mound in comparison.
If Horn was right, she should be Witch Jia Li, the witch imprisoned by Durdafer.
Earlier, it must have been her who blew the bone flute in the rainy night; judging by her current state and recalling rumors of her being force-fed excessive Holy Water, Horn reasonably suspected she might have amnesia.
"Why are you on my bed? Where’s Jeanne?"
Horn directly asked his question.
"Uh..." Jia Li pressed her finger against her lips, "Sister Jeanne told me to take care of you, then I felt sleepy."
Saying that, she yawned.
"Did we know each other before? Why do you call Jeanne sister?"
"Fat bully me, fat is bad, you guys killed fat, you guys are good."
"Then why are you sleeping in my bed?"
"Because you are warm, very cozy."
What do you mean I’m warm, I’m feverish!
Horn didn’t know what to say for a moment; he sat up and put on a coat.
He just wanted to get out of bed but felt intense sinus pain, his whole body sore to the extreme, the familiar dizziness resurfaced again.
With no other choice, Horn leaned against the headboard, slightly panting, he looked helplessly at Jia Li, who was curled up like a small animal and about to fall asleep again, and whispered: "How long has Jeanne been out?"
"When will she be back?"
"Servant, call the servant."
Seeing Jia Li fall asleep with her head on his thigh halfway through talking, Horn was completely helpless.
He had finally regained some clarity and wanted to seize the opportunity to save himself.
As for those physicians’ proposed treatment plans, like enema and bloodletting, they’re simply ridiculous.
To survive, he must take matters into his own hands.
In his view, with a condition like his, it’s most likely an infection of some bacteria.
The best method to combat bacterial infections is antibiotics, though he certainly can’t produce penicillin, but there’s allicin.
In the technologically backward Middle Ages, allicin is comparatively easy to make.
It only requires twenty kilograms of garlic mashed into pulp, then distilled into a golden oil-like substance, which should be sufficient.
Most monasteries, for some celebrations and festivals, have specialized brass distillers, they understand the procedure, Horn doesn’t even need to do it himself.
The only question is whether the garlic here can be distilled into allicin.
After all, Horn doesn’t know how many times he’s treated the dead horse as a living one; it’s completely inconsequential.
But at this crucial moment, Jeanne is absent, and Jia Li, who is a child trapped in an adult’s body, what should be done?
The sound of the door opening startled Horn from his contemplation, he looked up and saw several peasants wearing wrinkled suits enter.
Horn rejoiced despite being unpleased about being chosen as the Chosen One; he was very satisfied with using the Chosen One identity to seek benefits.
Someone came just at the right time; he might as well have them help him get allicin.
But before Horn could say anything, those peasants rushed forward, grabbing his arms left and right.
"Sorry, Lord Saint Grandson."
The two said as they lifted Horn from the bed, sandwiched between them, jogging toward the door.
"What are you doing?" Horn tried to struggle, but the severe sinus and body pain paralyzed him.
He could only obediently be sandwiched and dragged outside.