Chapter 35 — All Germs, Forward!
Dusk bled across the sky above the God's Eye, staining the clouds a deep, violent red.
By now, Hogg's condition had deteriorated badly.
Blood kept pouring out of him in unstoppable pulses, soaking into the soil beneath his hips until the mud turned dark—nearly black.
Stour's face was tight with worry.
They were veterans. Men who'd seen bodies open on battlefields and watched comrades die with their eyes still wide.
And they knew what this meant.
When blood wouldn't stop…
Death wasn't a question of if.
Only when.
Years ago, Stour had already witnessed a case like this.
A poor bastard had gone whoring and—after refusing to pay—got his thigh slashed open by a prostitute in a rage.
The man's uncle happened to be the steward of Karhold, so they hurriedly brought in a Maester, who served Lord Rickard Karstark.
Stour had been there.
And even that learned maester, after one look, had only shaken his head.
No hope.
Stour still remembered the steward's expression—like he'd just watched his own son die.
That scene had stayed carved into Stour's mind ever since.
Which was exactly why, seeing Odin's calm confidence now, Stour couldn't help doubting him.
But it was too late for doubt.
This was the wilderness—no maester, no tower, no tools, no second chance.
They had no better option.
So Stour swallowed it all down and chose the only thing left:
hope.
If he fails… Stour thought coldly, I'll kill him and bury him beside Hogg.
He inhaled hard.
---
"Move."
Under [Insight Lv.1], Stour's expression shifts were as obvious to Odin as a map laid open.
But Odin didn't flinch.
His voice didn't tremble.
If anything, it was calm in a way that bordered on cruelty.
He shoved aside the soldier pressing on the wound—and in the shocked gaze of everyone present—
Odin reached into the wound with his bare hand.
He plunged his fingers straight into the cut at Hogg's inner thigh.
"—HISS—"
The surrounding soldiers sucked in breath like they'd been stabbed themselves.
"AHHHHHHHH!"
The pain was so savage that even half-conscious Hogg jerked violently, a raw scream ripping out of his throat.
Even Stour's eyelid twitched.
This isn't healing, his mind screamed.
This is torture.
But Odin's face remained composed—almost bored—like this was just routine work.
Stour clenched his fists so hard his knuckles whitened, forcing down the urge to smash this barefoot "healer" in the skull.
Instead, he lunged forward and pinned Hogg's upper body down with brute strength, roaring at his men—
"Hold him down! NOW!"
Several northern soldiers rushed in instantly, piling onto Hogg like a crude human press.
A grim, desperate game of stacked bodies.
With the man restrained, Odin could finally work properly.
One hand locked onto the artery, squeezing it shut with merciless precision.
The other moved with practiced speed—hemostat clamps, snapping into place.
Then, switching hands smoothly, Odin drew out a curved suture needle.
Hook-shaped.
Ugly.
Practical.
And in this moment—
it looked like the sharpest weapon on the battlefield.
Without any disinfection at all, under the horrified stares of the surrounding soldiers, Odin relied entirely on touch—and the muscle memory granted by [Surgical Operation Lv.2]—to force the operation through.
Gripping the curved needle in his fingers, he didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat.
He drove it straight into the torn, rolled-back flesh with ruthless certainty, looping around the shredded end of the artery and performing several violent pass-through stitches—then tightening them into brutal ligatures.
It was agony.
That much was obvious from the way Hogg thrashed like a fish dragged onto dry land.
But after multiple "professional" surgical experiences already, Odin had long since grown numb to whatever horrors his patient might suffer.
His hands were fast, precise, utterly emotionless—like a skilled leatherworker sewing up torn hide.
Each time the needle plunged in, Hogg's body jerked violently—only to be crushed back down by Stour and the others with brute force.
The entire procedure was shockingly quick.
No debridement.
No irrigation.
No cleaning.
At one point, Odin simply grabbed the waterskin a soldier handed him—still smeared with mud—uncorked it, and dumped the remaining clean water over the wound with a loud splash, washing away most of the blood and the more obvious debris.
When he finally bit down and snapped the thread with his teeth, the nightmare gash in Hogg's thigh had been forcibly closed.
The stitches were crooked. Ugly. Almost monstrous.
But—
the bleeding stopped.
"Done. The bleeding's under control—for now."
Odin straightened, then casually wiped the blood off his hands on nearby grass, his tone as flat as if he'd just finished dinner.
"Now we watch him for a few days. If the wound doesn't rot, and he doesn't spike a fever… he probably won't die."
His "medical advice" was just as crude as his treatment.
But Odin knew the truth:
Infection—necrosis—fever—
was basically guaranteed.
There were two reasons.
First, he had no time or conditions for proper sterilization.
Second, when an artery's spraying blood, the only priority is keeping the patient alive.
His mentor had once said:
On a battlefield, medics would sometimes hook an artery out with their fingers and tie it off like string—
or carve open the chest and shove a hand inside to perform direct cardiac massage.
If the pain knocks you out?
Then congratulations—that's your anesthesia.
Infection?
That's a problem for people who live long enough to worry about it.
Compared to the modern world's sterile operating rooms, Hogg's luck was terrible.
But Odin didn't feel the slightest guilt.
Because—
only survivors qualified as his patients.
Besides.
Look at Jaime.
Why the hell does his stump get dragged through mud and soaked in horse piss with no consequences?
If Hogg dies of infection, then—
that's on him.
Bad luck.
Maybe he's cursed.
Or maybe…
he should be thanking Odin for even giving him a chance.
---
"Seven hells… thank you, thank you, healer!"
Stour had been staring in slack-jawed shock the whole time, but the moment he heard the bleeding stopped, his face lit up like a man spared execution.
He pounded Odin's shoulder so hard it almost staggered him.
"You saved Hogg! I, Haragg Stour, owe you a life!"
"You're… you're…"
He searched desperately for a beautiful, poetic way to express gratitude.
But as a half-literate brute, Stour's vocabulary was about as deep as a puddle.
So he just repeated himself over and over, exploding with sincere enthusiasm—
as if Odin were his long-lost brother from another father and another mother.
And yet from beginning to end, this "generous" Northman never once mentioned returning the hundred gold dragons he'd confiscated earlier.
Not once.
Odin, for his part, wore a perfectly professional smile, listening politely—
and just as wisely did not mention gold even a single time.
Stour believed he'd gotten a bargain:
Free top-class treatment + a hundred dragons stolen without consequence.
But Odin had already marked it down in his ledger—
the debt…
the humiliation…
the insult…
He would collect it all.
With interest.
A very profitable transaction.
---
Odin's surgical skill won him a small measure of freedom.
Stour no longer kept him constantly at his side and allowed him to move around the camp—
though he still refused to let him return to his companions.
The plan was clear:
Odin would stay until Hogg recovered.
Odin stretched lazily, rotating his shoulders as if simply loosening stiff muscles.
But his eyes slid toward the center of the camp—
toward the crooked tree standing there like a grim gallows.
Hanging beneath it was Sandor Clegane—
the Hound.
His hands were bound with rough hemp rope, hoisted high over a thick branch.
His toes barely grazed the earth.
Most of his weight hung from his wrists, and the strain made his already savage face twist into something even more monstrous—veins bulging at his temples.
Seeing him like this, Odin felt an odd flicker of emotion.
Because when Odin first arrived in this world—
he'd been in the exact same position.
Several Karstark soldiers were circling the Hound now, spitting insults.
After all, during the fight he'd cut down several of their comrades.
"Pah—bastard!"
One soldier spat a thick glob of phlegm right into the Hound's face.
Another slammed the blunt end of a scabbard viciously into his abdomen.
"Ugh—"
The Hound let out a muffled grunt, then jerked his head up, feral eyes burning with rage as he roared:
"FUCK ALL OF YOU!"
"If I hadn't been starving for two days with no strength left—"
"the lot of you worthless cunts couldn't take me even if you came at me together!"
He tried to cling to dignity through sheer aggression—
but that only poured oil on the flames.
"Still running your mouth when you're about to die?!"
One of Stour's personal guards exploded in fury, pointing at the Hound and shouting:
"This mad dog killed five of our men! Put a noose on his neck and hang him!"
"Hang him!"
"Strangle him!"
"Pay for our brothers!"
The whole group erupted instantly.
Several men surged forward, reaching for the knot holding the rope at the Hound's wrists—already moving to reposition it around his neck.
The Hound clenched his teeth, staring at the man who suggested hanging him—
as if carving that face into his soul forever.
But at that critical moment—
a voice, faintly regretful, suddenly sounded:
"Such a waste…"