Beneath the Dragoneye Moons

Chapter 477: Minor Interlude - Hong Jia - The Han Civil War III

Chapter 477: Minor Interlude - Hong Jia - The Han Civil War III

When Hong Jia was a child, he had a dream.

He would stand triumphant on the battlefield, his spear raised up to the heavens as legions of loyal troops shouted his name. In the way such childish fantasies were, he had one foot on the head of his enemies, his armor would be HUUUUUUGE, and perhaps even a member of the royal family would glance at him! He would naturally be a weaponmaster without peer, and would only need to march every other day, and…

His dreams grew fragmented and indistinct. There was never a family involved though, nor did a childish Hong Jia even have a concept of a home. He simply traveled with the endless baggage trains and camp followers, playing [Soldier] with his friends, and finding ways to scavenge food and sleeping spots at night.

Hong Jia had grown up with war. His earliest memories involved fire and ruin, his family fleeing. He’d grown up as one of the numerous camp followers, and his destiny was painted with delicate brush strokes.

He would take up the spear, join the army, and die.

One by one, his older friends attained an age where they were ‘encouraged’ to join, left for the battlefield, and never came back. It was a particularly bad streak of luck for his group, but not a single member survived their first battle.

What was Jia to do? He was a kid. He had no real skills, no ability to strike out on his own if the very idea could even permeate his head.

The first time one of his friends survived, being taken to the triage tent instead of the forges of rebirth, Jia piled into the tent.

He held his hand as dozens of people hurried around, trying to figure out what he could do. How could he save his friend? How did he stop the bloody coughing? What could he do about the screaming?

“You, boy! Fetch me some water!” One of the [Healers] imperiously snapped at Jia.

That one commandment changed his life.

Jia hopped to his feet and charged off, finding a cup of water for the senior [Healer], and his fate was sealed. His destiny averted. The senior found Jia pleasing to her eyes, his quick feet and stable hands useful. He was conscripted as one of the dozens of [Assistants], and the red tents became his life.

That one commandment changed his dream.

No more did Jia dream of the battlefield. It had been utterly shattered beyond repair. Now he dreamed of a life of healing, of repair. Of people sighing in relief when he entered a room, of the [Great General] respectfully asking after him.

Of staying away from the battlefield, from the death.

He would be the greatest healer the Chu had ever known!

Battle after battle, year after year, Jia learned the trade by digging arrows out of people. While other soldiers developed their muscles by swinging spears, he developed his by setting bones. When the troops were partying, Jia was listening with rapt fascination as his mentor read from the famous Medical Manuscripts, trying to impart all the knowledge he’d need as a [Healer] himself one day.

Within minutes of breaking through to the Sage realm in his Mind cultivation as a [Battlefield Surgeon], he swore the [Healer’s Oath]. 2.5% additional Ling and Qi Manipulation per small step.

Friends came and went like the seasons, the ever-shifting flow of war like the waters of the great river - sometimes ebbing, sometimes flowing. His heart leapt into his throat when [Healers] were targeted by the enemy, and he never breathed a word to a single soul how happy he was when [Tacticians] were the designated top target of assassinations.

Jia didn’t stop working when his mentor, his teacher, his very heart and soul was struck down by an [Assassin] posing as a wounded soldier. He carried on, weeping freely on his patients who tried to comfort him just as he tried to heal them.

There was a grand decree, a world-wide edict from the very heavens above that no [Healer] should cross into the Enlightened realm.

Hong Jia no longer believed in the heavens. What were they going to do, strike him down? The whole world had been trying to strike Hong Jia down since the moment he was born!

He crossed the threshold without ceremony, breaking the forbidden barrier.

Nobody said a word. No lightning descended from the heavens to punish his transgression.

With all he had seen, if there were gods, they would have to beg for his forgiveness.

He blinked, and became the most senior healer at the ripe old age of 25. His leveling rate promised that he would one day break into the Saint realm or greater - should he survive.

‘Most senior’ at 25 implied that he wouldn’t see 30 years. It would still be 15 more years of life than if he had taken up a spear.

In the aftermath of a ‘victorious’ battle - many more victories like this, and they’ll be ruined, Jia privately thought to himself - the healer was in his tent once again.

He was wrist-deep in guts, delicately trying to remove a lodged arrowhead without causing too much additional trauma. He wasn’t made out of infinite qi. The more he could fix on his own, the less he needed to pull on his magic. Being a spendthrift with his qi here meant he had reserves when a triage case needed desperate stabilizing, when the general’s son required immediate aid, and that the army, his whole world, would be back on its feet sooner rather than later.

With a gentle hand, he pulled out a length of small intestines. Blood rapidly filled the cavity, and his hand drifted over the metallic ties on his belt. Silver, silver, brass, copper, ah ha! Iron! It didn’t have to match the dullahan’s innate metal type, but it helped when it did. Jia grabbed the spare twist of metal off his belt. Reaching inside, he found the offending artery, but realized with a start that it had already sealed itself up.

What?

That was unusual, but the healer wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Some unusual survival skill must be at work. Jia had seen enough in action to recognize it, and note its oddities.

No sense in ‘fixing’ it now, not when his further actions might break it.

Jia examined the length of the intestine, the arrowhead jumping out at him.

Nasty piece of work it was. Serrated to cause as much damage as possible, without anything to give it an extra killing edge. It was designed to wound and maim, to tie up his resources and the army’s.

A dead soldier was stepped over.

A live soldier took several troops to drag back, a healer to fix, a tent to recuperate in. Their screams were demoralizing, and their recovery could take ages.

Overload an army with enough wounded, and they’d collapse under their own weight.

Hong Jia carefully worked the arrow out of the intestine, trying to do as little damage as possible. He was relieved when the soldier passed out - a lack of squirming made his job that much easier.

He passed the arrowhead off to one of his assistants, frowning at the gut.

The wound was writhing like it was alive, rapidly sealing itself up but scarring horribly in the process. It would work, and saved him the effort of ensuring there would be no gut-rot, but it was another strangeness to the whole thing. How did this soldier have such powerful healing skills? Why was he on the front lines, and not one of his most trusted aides? How had he even ended up here if he could heal himself so well?

None of it made sense.

“Iron!” The assistant declared, a good omen. The [Battlefield Surgeon] always liked it when his collection of ties increased. His assistant would reshape the arrowhead into more ties. When there was a lull, she’d retie them to his waist, and the cycle would continue.

“Mark this man. I want to speak to him when he wakes up.”

Seeing no other clear injuries, Hong Jia carefully placed the intestines back in, then rearranged the rest of the organs into roughly the correct position when the assassin came for him.

A blinding blur, streaking towards him.

His brothers and sisters in arms closed ranks around him. Sacrificing themselves such that Jia would live, and would save their own friends and family down the line.

The weight of it threatened to crush Jia. He had too many life-debts. Too many people he owed.

Too many broken promises.

Hong Jia didn’t dream anymore. The grindstone of the world had worn away at him, carving him down to nothing. There were no more ambitions. No more hopes.

He almost welcomed oblivion.

The least he could do was save one last life. Hong Jia didn’t cower, didn’t bend, didn’t hide. He continued his work, placing a hand on the patient’s chest and starting to form his image.

The arteries and guts were the first to be formed. If those two were present and healed, the rest of the unknown soldier’s body could stitch itself, especially in the presence of whatever healing skill he possessed. Next up were nerves - Jia knew his ability with nerves was poor at best, and many soldiers had complained of numbness after he’d saved their life.

The comments hurt. He knew he was no School-trained [Healer]. He’d learned the trade on the job, heard a torn and bloodstained copy of the Medical Manuscripts once. It was a blessing of the System in the first place that he could even perform a [Restoration] at all!

Such excuses were just that - excuses. Hong Jia didn’t let the snide comments get him down. He used them to push himself, to focus on his areas of weakness and try to improve. This one last heal would be his unknown masterpiece.

The crush of bodies couldn’t stop the [Assassin’s] deadly payload, a single glowing butterfly. It zipped through the smallest cracks, the tiniest holes, and Jia felt peace.

At last, he could rest.

The butterfly alighted on his nose, and a voice whispered to him, softly managing to cut through the din and the shouting.

With my blessing.

[Rejoice! [Elaine’s Oath] has been improved! 2.5% Ling and Qi Manipulation per Small Step-> 4% Ling, Qi Manipulation, and Qi Restoration per Small Step]

An angel.

That was the only explanation Hong Jia could come up with. He had been visited by an angel.

The miracle rekindled a fire in his heart. He turned to the next patient and frowned.

“What is this man’s condition?” He asked his aide. When she didn’t reply, he turned and snapped.

“Nurse!”

She jumped, having still been entranced by the near-death experience. To her credit, she only fumbled for a minute before replying.

“Oh! Um. Amputated arm?”

Her confusion was clear. There was no amputated arm, although bandages and bloodstains implied something had happened with the soldier’s arm.

The man in question stirred and got up, his eyes flying wide at Hong Jia’s scowling visage. He immediately cupped his hands and tried to bow, all while half-lying in bed.

“This one greets his savior! A thousand thanks and blessings on your house and ancestors!” He shouted with vigor.

Jia looked up and down the tent, confusion soon giving way to realization. He fell to his knees and wept.

It had been an angel, and more than improving his [Healer’s Oath], she’d done one other thing.

She’d performed a miracle.