Garrett Nordmark was startled.
Had he not been an ergency departnt deputy director in his previous life, accustod to nurous situations, he might have physically jumped. Even so, he instinctively stepped back, nearly bumping into Bernard:
Why did I decide to go out?
Why did I co to see this house??
Why did I even cast [Comprehend Languages] for convenience while shopping???
If I hadn’t cast [Comprehend Languages], I could have pretended to be a tourist with a language barrier…
No, now is not the ti for regrets! What level is this priest of the Lord of Radiance? Can I defeat him? Will he kill ?!
Garrett cautiously retreated, keeping an eye on the other party. The evening air in Annya City was probably just above seven or eight degrees Celsius. Garrett himself was wrapped in a thick wool coat, its collar standing tall around his neck. Yet, the old man wore a white linen robe, through its frayed, unfinished hem, one could even see his bare ankles.
Oh, he wasn’t barefoot, but those hemp shoes exposing his toes weren’t much better than being barefoot.
Just this attire alone, braving the cold wind without flinching, was enough to assert a grandmaster’s presence. Of course, as for his exact level...
His level...
Sorry, this elderly man bore no level indication on him. The only adornnt he wore was a wooden holy emblem, smooth and polished, bearing a thick patina.
"I am not a follower of the Lord of Radiance," he said, taking a deep breath and stepping back cautiously. The old man simply smiled, his face’s wrinkles unfolding warmly:
"No matter. The Lord of Radiance refuses no one, just as the sun in the sky shines equally upon everyone, not withdrawing His radiance even from heretics. Stranger, I have lived in this city for ten years, and most of those I et are heretics and non-believers. I have never hard them because of this."
His smile was benevolent, his tone gentle. Garrett relaxed slightly, but upon considering the man’s identity, he resolutely shook his head:
"Thank you for your kindness, but—"
"Grandpa Martin! Grandpa Martin!"
Suddenly, a dirty little fellow burst in behind Garrett. Brushing past Garrett, he rushed straight to the old man, grabbing his sleeve and leaving a dark handprint on the white robe:
"My dad is really sick! Please co and see him!"
"Excuse , stranger, I must leave," the old priest Martin nodded to Garrett and hurried away with the child. Garrett hesitated for a mont, then quietly followed them at a distance, turning through back alleys.
Halfway down the street, a bright light shone like a flare exploding overhead. Garrett followed the direction and soon encountered a human wall—
Its scale resembled dozens of Bernards standing shoulder to shoulder.
Garrett wisely halted. He neither tried to squeeze through nor did he attempt to peek over. Standing five or six steps away, he listened:
Soone inside was chanting.
If Garrett wasn’t mistaken, that aged, llow voice belonged to Martin, the priest he had just spoken with.
The patient’s condition was unknown at the mont, but the priest’s chanting was vigorous and tense, turning a soothing hymn into a battle cry.
If this were an ergency room, in translation, it would be akin to:
"Adrenaline!"
"Dopamine!"
"Nitroglycerin!"
"Lasix!"
"Blood transfusion! Hurry up with the blood transfusion! Run!"
Garrett grew even more unwilling to leave. The sacred song echoed again and again, the light flickering on and off. Finally, the old priest sighed deeply, utterly exhausted:
"I have done all I can..."
"But my dad/brother/chieftain/Old Holrik isn’t better yet!" A chaotic chorus of voices protested. In the center of the crowd, a steady, anxious voice stood out:
"Lord Martin, please, think of sothing! The chieftain turned berserk for our sake, defeating that seal so we could return safely... Now, in this condition, we can’t face his family!"
"I have healed his physical wounds and soothed his soul," the old priest’s voice, drained of strength, filtered through the crowd:
"But choosing to go berserk ans handing over one’s soul to demons in exchange for power. The soul’s realm belongs to the Lord alone; whether he can recover is also in hope of our Lord’s rcy."
"May the Lord of Radiance bless him."
"May the Lord of Radiance bless..."
The barbarians mumbled in unison, their insincere manner reminiscent of tourists from Garrett’s previous life bowing to Buddha statues or offering scarves to the Virgin Mary. As they chanted, the crowd began to disperse
, and Garrett seized the opportunity to squeeze in for a closer look:
A burly man lay on the ground, even taller than Bernard, bound by three tal chains. Unaware, his eyes were wide with rage, his expression vacant. Bloodstains remained on his chest and limbs, indicating a recent fierce battle, his physical wounds freshly healed.
Having just undergone berserking... What illness is berserking? How is it treated?
Garrett was clueless. Bernard crouched beside him, saying:
"That’s Holrik the Walker! He invited
for a drink before I boarded the ship... Boss, can you save him?"
I don’t even know what berserking is, how could I treat it?
Garrett was stunned. But at that mont, the big man shuddered, opening his mouth wide as a foul-slling gush erupted. Garrett leaned back, narrowly avoiding the projectile, but ended up seated on the ground.
Bernard quickly reached out to help him, but Garrett pushed his hand away:
"Never mind ! Help him! Tilt his head to the side so he doesn’t choke on his vomit!"
While speaking, he changed position, scrambling towards the big man. Awkward in movent, almost rolling and crawling, Garrett was unaware of his own clumsiness:
Damn it! Projectile vomiting! How high must his intracranial pressure be!
He reached the big man, observing closely while firing a barrage of questions:
"Do you have a headache? Feel nauseous? Can you move your hands? What about your legs? Can you hear ? Follow my finger with your eyes?"
The patient didn’t respond. Instead, bystanders answered in a cacophony:
"Headache, for sure! Always a headache after berserking!"
"Often feels nauseous..."
"Uh, if they recover from berserking, usually no problem, but sotis they can’t lift their arms or legs..."
"Ah! He’s starting to convulse!"
Garrett sighed. He was still unfamiliar with berserking, but the series of symptoms sounded alarmingly like a brain hemorrhage...
"Stranger, I have exhausted my thods. Can you help him?"
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