"That's it!" Caman also roared.
Winters's vision went dark, and he collapsed stiffly to the ground.
In a daze, he heard Caman chanting, "[Ancient Language] O my Lord, forgive us our sins, lest we fall into the fires of Hellfire..."
Struggling, Winters got up and walked over to the operating table.
He saw Caman clutching the holy emblem tightly, reciting the scripture in a trembling voice, his face deathly pale.
He witnessed Andre's wounds healing at a rate visible to the naked eye, with new flesh budding where muscle had been torn by lead and broken skin gradually knitting together.
"I understand it all now, no wonder you know medicine, no wonder you are skilled in surgery." Winters's head buzzed, "You... you're a Divine Arts practitioner!"
Caman looked exceedingly tired, and he wrapped Andre's healed wound with a bloodied gauze, "Did I ever say I was not?"
The practitioner of Divine Arts that Winters had longed for was hiding right beside him. Even after being in close company for so long, he hadn't noticed at all.
Andre's broken muscles and skin grew back together, leaving only a dark red bruise beneath the outer layer of skin.
It was somewhat different from the Divine Arts that the old Shaman Hestas had displayed to Winters on Red Sulfur Island.
Winters's wounds healed to the point where only a red line remained. After the scab had fallen off once, the red line disappeared completely, leaving no trace of the external injury.
However, Andre's wounds healed very irregularly, resembling a large drop of red ink splashed on the skin, leaving a radial trace.
"Then you... you..." Winters trembled, wanting to question.
He wanted to ask, "Why didn't you reveal your identity and help?"
He also wanted to ask, "Do you know how many people a Divine Arts practitioner could save?"
But he couldn't bring himself to ask; his conscience told him: Caman had already saved many lives.
Even without revealing his identity as a practitioner of Divine Arts, he had already saved countless lives.
He could understand Caman. How many more could a Divine Arts practitioner save by exhausting themselves completely? And what would those who were not treated think?
Like now, did Caman receive resentment or gratitude?
"Are you going to tell them?" Caman faintly asked, "Tell them that although I could have saved their lives, I remained indifferent?"
Winters bowed his head and fell silent for a while, "No one can save everyone."
"Only the Lord can save everyone," Caman crossed himself. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by novelꜰire.net
"Thank you, I owe you one."
"You owe me nothing, Mr. Montaigne," Caman slowly drew back the curtain, "I didn't come here for you, you don't owe me anything."
"Mr. Chelini is still in danger; Divine Arts cannot bring back the dead. If his fever breaks, he'll live; if not, he'll die. You go, I'll take care of him."
Winters had countless questions in his heart. He wanted to ask Caman: Why did you come to Wolf Town? Why did you join the army with us?
But seeing the tiredness in Caman's eyes, he couldn't ask.
He wanted to leave but then remembered Colonel Jeska, and a flicker of hope ignited in his heart, "Divine Arts, can it heal eyes?"
Colonel Jeska was brought into Caman's surgical tent.
Setting aside the surgical knife, Caman took Winters outside the tent, "No... I can't remove the lead fragments from the eyes."
Winters punched the wooden lattice heavily.
"Completely removing the eye and 'recreating' it with Divine Arts, could that work?" Winters asked in a low voice.
"Don't probe any further..." Caman replied with difficulty, "Divine Arts... Divine Arts can't 'heal' organs as complex as the eyes."
Caman averted his gaze, almost pleading, "Please, no more questions..."
Winters was utterly baffled, but Caman's earnest tone made it unbearable for him to press further.
"Is there no other way?" Winters asked, both sad and angry, for there is nothing more despairing than disappointment after hope.
Caman nodded heavily.
Winters lowered his head and let out a long, anguished sigh.
A green-tasseled messenger hurried over, "Gentlemen, where is Colonel Laszlo? Lieutenant Colonel Robert? Captain Castor? And Colonel Jeska?"
"What for?!" Winters yelled at the messenger.
The sudden outburst startled the messenger.
In his eyes, this centurion, covered in blood, was probably just a foul-tempered jerk.
The messenger stood to attention and said formally, "General Sekler has summoned the officers."
Jeska couldn't go to see Sekler. Laszlo, Robert, and Castor were likewise unable, as they were also injured.
So General Sekler came to the medical station himself.
Winters wasn't qualified to attend the meeting, but Jeska kept him there.
"This lad is good," Colonel Jeska said, holding Winters's arm, "He is to take up my flag."
Taking the flag, in the language of the Paratu People, meant succession—a very serious implication.
The command of Jeska's squadron was officially transferred. By tradition, the unit should be called "Montaigne's Squadron" from this moment forth.
But nobody on the scene cared about that; they had more pressing matters at hand.
"Gentlemen?" General Sekler's piercing gaze swept over each subordinate, "What was the mission I gave you?"