Days as a Spiritual Mentor in American Comics

To conserve energy for the more difficult surgery tonight, I did not see too many patients today. I closed the clinic as soon as I reached the target number of patients. The wooden puppets were sensible enough not to come looking for trouble, even though we had stopped receiving patients since the afternoon.

The remaining time was primarily spent assessing Stark's condition. The good news, after evaluation and examination, was that the bullet wasn't too hard to remove. The bad news was that Stark's condition was quite poor.

He was intermittently feverish, with significant fluctuations in body temperature. At the same time, his abdominal wound had started to show signs of infection, even though the bullet had been removed and the wound had been stitched up, the inflammation did not subside immediately.

Rabbit soup did replenish his strength, but the intake of protein could aggravate the inflammation. However, due to limited options, we had no choice but to opt for the lesser of two evils.

By dusk, Stark's consciousness was somewhat unclear, and his body temperature rose to an unprecedented level. Physical cooling was no longer effective. Wanda prepared a fever-reducing potion for him, but after drinking it, it only worked for a while before he began to develop a fever again.

Surgery is not advisable when body temperature is abnormal, so we could only keep delaying it. Finally, in the latter part of the night, Stark's temperature stabilized, clearly the cumulative effect of the medication kicking in.

With dawn approaching, Strange had to make a quick incision, gambling that the bullet wasn't far from his scalpel.

As soon as he made the incision, Strange felt a sense of surprise, because judging by the condition of the adjacent muscles, the bullet was closer than he had thought and could easily be extracted directly.

However, just as he was about to expand the incision and prepare to push aside the muscle to extract the bullet, he suddenly noticed that the underlying femoral nerve appeared somewhat blackened.

Strange immediately leaned in for a closer look, and it was not an illusion. The coloration of the femoral nerve was off. As a neurosurgeon for so many years, he had never seen such a condition.

If the patient's condition and the location of the incision were not problems, then the issue must lie with the foreign object lodged behind the nerve.

Indeed, as Strange moved aside the two branches of the femoral nerve, he saw the bullet hidden underneath. While its size was similar to the one he had removed earlier, this bullet was engraved with a rune.

"A magic bullet?" Shiller asked upon seeing it as well.

Both looked towards Wanda. Wanda was holding the lamp for them. After taking a glance, she said, "I saw them chasing a fugitive at Westchester's vegetable market before. The fugitive couldn't move at all after getting shot in the calf. It might really be a magic bullet."

Strange found the situation somewhat tricky. All he needed to do was to use the tweezers to lightly extract the bullet, but if touching it triggered some sort of magic effect that damaged the femoral nerve, or even worse, affected the sciatic nerve, it would spell disaster.

Shiller caught Strange's fleeting hesitation. Before he could open his mouth to reassure him, Strange dropped the tweezers in his hand and used his fingers to pinch through the division of the femoral nerve, squeezing out the bullet.

With a clink, the sound of the bullet dropping into the tray was like music to their ears, and Wanda let out a long sigh of relief.

Shiller went to look at Strange, who acted as if nothing had happened, casually tossing his gloves aside.

The surgery ended smoothly, and Strange drank some water from a cup to rehydrate. Wanda, true to her role as a nurse, began to check that all the instruments were accounted for.

Shiller also leaned against the wall taking a break with a cup of hot water and gave Strange a thumbs up saying, "Pretty cool, Godhand Mister."

"Hmph," Strange snorted lightly, not showing pride or modesty as if having done an inconsequential task.

"Those who always hesitate can never become surgeons. When facing all sorts of unexpected occurrences during surgery, what's most important isn't what you choose, but how quickly you make a choice. As long as I'm quick enough, death will always lag one step behind me."

Strange's voice echoed in the operating room. Shiller nodded and said, "There is one thing I think you are right about. The intelligence to think about what's best to choose is not as important as the determination to decide decisively. It's like that for many things."

"So now I'm standing here, while he's lying there," Strange said, looking at Stark who was still unconscious on the operating table.

Shiller nodded and said, "Tony's biggest problem is he overthinks things. I dare say, if he hadn't been so torn about whether to protect or abandon the witness, he probably wouldn't have been so badly injured."

"You get paid so much by him every quarter, yet you haven't solved this problem for him."

"Can't solve it. After all, I'm not the heart of God," Shiller replied with a smile, "Besides, a little overthinking isn't necessarily bad. People always mistake meaningless fretting for thorough contemplation. If they aren't satisfied with the outcome, they just think it should be like that."

"Tony is the same. If he hadn't regarded the process of thinking about whether to save the witness as a testament to his own genius, thus feeling content for having done his best after getting himself into this mess, we would probably have had to endure his complaints for a long time."

Time passed quickly; they had gone yet another night without sleep. After dawn, they transferred Stark to the ward to recuperate. Of course, the main reason was to prevent him from seeing them treating other patients, as there was still a good chance he would recognize the true identity of the incompetent quack doctor.

Shiller, welcoming the first rays of morning light at the window, said to the raven perched on the windowsill, "Good morning, grilled chicken, are you hungry?"

"You're as shameless as that alley cat on Rhododendron Street," the raven spoke.

Shiller happily accepted the compliment, looking up at the raven and saying, "Your arrival means Detective Polo has arrived too. Can I take it that you understand him better than we do?"

"My visit was originally to speak about this matter, and if you hadn't thought about cooking me, I would have already finished speaking," the raven said.

"What do you want to say?"

"You can save him, but it's better not to let him leave."

"Why?"

"Because he wanted to spread the word about what's happening here," Raven said.

Shiller narrowed his eyes slightly. The words spoken by the Raven caused him to reconsider his speculation on Raven's stance. So, did Raven actually wish to blockade the town?

"I know you are puzzled. Why don't people flee from the town amidst the outbreak of the great plague? Why are there even people actively obstructing the townsfolk who try to escape?"

"Isn't it because these people can't be infected by the plague? Like Wood, like you. You who stay in the town are just puppets, and if I'm not mistaken, your real bodies are in Westchester, right?"

"Yes," Raven did not deny it, and said, "Puppets indeed are not afraid of the plague infection, but puppets are also very precious to us. The quantity of Puppet Crystals you have in your hand is very scarce, and creating a Puppet also consumes a lot of our energy."

"So what do you want me to say? That your dedication is moving?"

"I just want to tell you that we put in so much effort not just to kill the people in the town, because it would be meaningless for us, not even recouping the cost of making Puppets."

"Really? So many people died, but you don't sell the parts for money, no wonder you are at a loss," Shiller said disdainfully.

Raven was either shocked by these words or had nothing to say, in any case, he fell silent.

It was only after a long while that he finally spoke: "Coming to this hospital proves that you are not among the cursed. You can spend this disaster safely here, as long as you don't interfere with the blockade of the town."

"Why do you want to barricade this place? Besides the reason of the plague spreading..."

"The plague won't spread," Raven gave an unexpected answer, "To be precise, it's not a plague, but a curse. It only happens to specific cursed individuals and is unrelated to innocent people like yourselves."

Finally, it came to the crux of the matter. Shiller clutched the grass soil in his hand and then asked, "How did this curse come about?"

"You need to find that out yourselves. If he is willing to tell you, you will eventually find out," said Raven, flapping his wings and staring at Shiller, "If you learn the truth, you wouldn't want to be a nuisance. It seems that this Mister Detective is your friend, so don't let him do that either."

After that, Raven flew away.

"Yes, I think I understand somewhat," Shiller muttered to himself as he walked back, "The abused little girl, a curse passed down for centuries, a plague that erupts every few years, the cursed acting as patients, the innocents as doctors..."

"But what does this have to do with me?" Shiller chuckled lightly and said, "All I know is someone deducted my money, pulled out my teeth, and even wanted to cut out my tongue."

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Because of the work delay last night, Shiller took the opportunity of the quiet morning to start modeling clay again. Wanda was sleeping in the lounge, Strange was busy in the operating room, so he shifted his workstation to the hospitalized room.

At this time, Stark was just stirring awake. He could now sit up with difficulty, and Shiller warmed up some rabbit soup for him. He leaned against the wall, sipping the soup while watching Shiller model the clay.

"What are you doing?" Stark asked.

Shiller briefly explained his plans to him. Quite predictably, he harvested a roll of Stark's eyes.

"Making a fire gun? Are you serious?" Stark shook his head and said, "In a magical world propelled by steam, you want to make that primitive firearm?"

"Considering the limited materials and space, and more importantly, I'm a damn psychiatrist. What should I make, if not a fire gun?"

"Just know you can't do it," Stark said with a shake of his head, "But never mind, the great Stark is here to help you. Once I'm healed, I promise I'll make you a fine gun."

"So you plan to stay here?"

"Of course not, I definitely plan to get out. But if I don't recover well, going out will just burden Steve."

"Aren't you afraid something might happen to him?"

"I'm not worried about him," Stark showed his typical stubbornness, "Even though his physique has become like an ordinary person now, his combat experience can't be erased. He is much more skilled than me now."

"It's just him alone, that's fine. But doesn't he have to protect the witness too?" Shiller said while modeling the clay, pretending to speak carelessly, "Even if your wounds heal and you go out, you'll still be an ordinary person. Besides protecting the witness, he'd have to protect you as well, isn't that a burden too? Maybe it's better not to go out at all."

Stark suddenly said with a suspicious tone, "That sounds somewhat familiar. Did a black bird tell you something?"

"No. I'm just worried about you all," Shiller replied.

"It's that damn crow! He and those who blockade the town are in cahoots, they want to kill all these innocent people! Damn politicians!" Stark exclaimed.

"You're right, even if my injuries heal, it'll be hard to deal with those sly fellows. I must think of something..." Stark mused.

In the corner Stark couldn't see, Shiller, putting down his clay, revealed a slight smile.