A Lord, a Priest, and a Scalpel

The guards came for me at dawn, and let’s just say they weren’t exactly gentle about it.

Pururun was still snoozing in my satchel when they yanked me upright. She woke up with a startled wobble, blinking her translucent “eyes” in confusion.

"Up, blasphemer," one of the guards barked. "Lord Aldwin wants to see you."

"Well, good morning to you too," I muttered, rubbing my wrists. "I hope there’s coffee and croissants waiting for us."

Judging by their blank stares, my sense of humor didn’t exactly land.
All brawn, no brain — classic guard archetype.

Their boots echoed against the cold stone floors as they escorted me through the castle corridors. Pururun trembled faintly inside the bag, picking up on the tension in the air.

"Relax, jelly," I whispered quietly. "Trust me. No funny business today."

***

The audience chamber was smaller than I’d expected. No golden ornaments, no pompous throne, just a heavy oak table, a few chairs, and the faint smell of old wax.

Lord Aldwin stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the courtyard. He was in his fifties, graying hair cut neatly, his weathered face marked by years of responsibility. His clothes were simple but finely tailored, without unnecessary embellishments.

When he turned toward me, his steely gray eyes examined me with open curiosity.

"So," he said calmly, "you’re the infamous ‘false healer’ who’s been causing such a commotion… and who’s earned me an uninvited visit from the Temple."

"False healer?" I echoed with a wry smile. "Depends on how you define ‘real.’ If real means dressing up like a clown, waving your hands while mumbling incantations, then yes — guilty as charged."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Reverend Father Matthias did mention your insolence," Aldwin said. "He failed to add that you were also something of a comedian."

"Oh, Matthias says a lot of things," I replied. "I’m probably a demon’s minion, a corrupter of pure souls with my ‘impure potions,’ and an all-around blasphemous pest who tells your gods to shove it."

"Something like that," Aldwin answered dryly, pacing toward me like a man studying an exotic animal.

"The testimonies I’ve received are… contradictory," he continued. "Marta, the innkeeper, swears you cured her fever in a single night. Her daughter claims your remedies are more effective than the Temple’s blessings. The butcher and the blacksmith call you an ‘Elect of the Gods,’ one of those legendary heroes who slay calamities. And the street children… they talk about you like you’re a saint."

"A saint?" I laughed. "Wow, those kids need better role models. All I did was tell them to stop digging through trash, washing their hands or brushing their teeth. Basic hygiene, not divine intervention. I don’t crap miracles on demand."

"Exactly," Aldwin said softly. "You taught them hygiene. You helped them when no one else would, when they were left to die in neglect."

There was something in his tone — bitterness, maybe. Disappointment?

I straightened my back slightly, dropping the sarcasm for once.
"Look, Lord Aldwin. I’m not here to revolutionize your kingdom. I treat people because that’s what I do. That’s all there is to it."

"Even without payment?"

"Money’s for the rich. The poor just need someone to help them. It’s not that complicated."

He studied me for a long moment, searching for something beneath my words.

"Reverend Matthias demands your execution," he finally said. "Legally, I’m expected to follow the Temple’s directive. Officially, you’re guilty of blasphemy and unauthorized healing. If the Temple alone held power, you’d already be dead."

My stomach tightened. There it was — the execution notice, served cold at breakfast.

"But…"

That single word felt like a life raft tossed into stormy waters.

"But fortunately for you, the Temple doesn’t have the authority to pass judgment on its own. They need either the King’s sanction or mine. And as it happens… I have a rather pressing problem. One that might just require your particular talents."

He clapped his hands, and two guards entered, carrying a stretcher. On it lay a young woman in her twenties, pale as snow, her face contorted in pain. Her once-fine garments were stained but clearly noble.

"My niece, Lady Eleanore," Aldwin said gravely. "She fell from her horse three days ago. Reverend Matthias ‘treated’ her with his divine gifts."

I didn’t need to examine her closely to see the problem. Her left leg was bent at a grotesque angle beneath the sheet.

"Compound fracture," I diagnosed instantly. "And judging by the smell, the infection’s already set in. So, what did the divine quack do? Aside from billing you."

"He laid his hands on her, said some prayers, and declared her healed," Aldwin replied bitterly. "Then he claimed her survival now depends solely on her piety. If she dies, it’s her own fault for straying from God. Since then, she’s only gotten worse."

Lady Eleanore whimpered weakly. Her breathing was shallow and fast — classic signs of sepsis.

"If I don’t intervene, she’ll be dead within the day," I said bluntly.

Aldwin paled. "Can you save her?"

"Maybe. But it’s not going to look like what you’re used to. No golden lights, no choirs, no sparkly miracles. Just surgery. Brutal, bloody, and not exactly pretty."

"Do whatever you must."

"Here? In front of everyone?"

"I want to see with my own eyes whether you truly have the power to heal. If you succeed, we’ll reconsider your legal situation."

I sighed. Performing surgery in front of a medieval lord and his guards wasn’t exactly on my bucket list, but hey, survival comes first.

"Fine. But I’ll need help. And no one interrupts me. No matter what."

"You’ll have everything you require."

I turned to my satchel.
"Pururun, time to work."

The slime peeked out timidly, earning startled murmurs from the assembled guards.

"What… is that creature?" Aldwin asked.

"My assistant. And before you ask, no, she’s not a demon. Except maybe temperamentally. But she’s extremely useful."

I examined the injury more closely. The bone was indeed sticking out through the skin, and the infection hadn’t yet gone systemic. I had a chance.

"Pururun, antiseptic and anesthesia, please."

She concentrated, then secreted two substances into the vials I’d prepared earlier: one clear, pungent liquid that smelled strongly of alcohol, and another pale green gel.

"Perfect. Everyone, stand back. This is going to get messy."

I placed my hand on Lady Eleanore’s forehead and closed my eyes, summoning my Chirurgia Arcana. That familiar warmth spread through my fingers as instruments materialized one by one.

Scalpel. Forceps. Retractors. Bone saw.

They shimmered into existence in a green-gold glow, sterile and sharp.

The onlookers fell silent, their astonishment palpable.

"Now this," I said dryly, "is already more impressive than Reverend Quack’s party tricks."

And with that, I began to clean the wound meticulously, slipping seamlessly into the one domain where I reigned supreme.

For the first time since arriving in this world, I was completely in my element.