Lynn hesitated, considering the consequences of accepting. While he was not one to shy away from the challenge, the crisis in the abandoned district was far more complex and dangerous than it first appeared.
Delving deeper into the heart of the storm could potentially jeopardize his situation. However, the commanding tone indicated that refusing was not an option, and defying the extraordinary captain would only invite more trouble.
Cursing his luck under his breath, he reluctantly agreed, letting out a resigned sigh. On the bright side, this was an opportunity to gain more class experience and safely take a closer look into the enigmatic forces at play.
Satisfied with his response, Simon gave a curt nod and instructed the other officers about his situation. Without another word, he swiftly turned and left, his long strides taking him toward other units that required support.
A few minutes later, multiple military transport vehicles arrived at the scene. Lynn was ushered quickly into a large one filled with rows of makeshift stretchers and an assortment of first aid supplies for emergency moments.
Since he decided to help, he immediately began providing first aid to the individuals in the back as the engine roared. He knew that time was running out, and every second counted in these critical conditions.
Quickly surveying the injured, he noted that most had sustained wounds of varying severity. Some were bleeding profusely, while others appeared to be in shock, their faces pale and clammy.
Suppressing the impulse to use his extraordinary abilities, he focused on applying standard modern treatment, not wanting to attract unwanted attention. But even then, his surgical precision and expertise sparked curious inquiries.
Fortunately, those kinds of questions were easily deflected and avoided due to the urgency. Lynn also skillfully shifted the conversation by asking about the refuge where Izzy and the other civilians headed toward.
It was a temporary camp hastily set up by the authorities in the aftermath of the central district incident. The bustling area had been requisitioned and transformed, with all entrances guarded and under constant surveillance.
However, something was wrong with that place. When the controlled rodents managed to slip past the scrutiny and infiltrate it, their connections suddenly faltered. Something seemed to interfere and sever the temporary bond.
This anomaly was unusual and instantly piqued his interest. It was undoubtedly related to the Special Investigation Bureau, probably a defensive mechanism. He hoped to get some information discreetly through the discussions, but predictably, nothing came out.
After what felt like an eternity, the military transport vehicles finally arrived at their destination – a fortified military base situated a short distance from the refuge. As soon as the large truck stopped, a group of medics rushed forward.
"Fast, get the injured inside!" one of them shouted, his voice cutting through the din. "We need to stabilize them immediately!" A soldier in the best state exited and rapidly informed the team of his circumstances.
Stepping outside, Lynn was immediately accosted and guided into the field hospital by an old lady. "Stop their bleeding quickly," she declared, pointing at someone while handing him a medical bag with all the necessary equipment.
Nodding, he set to work, his mind shifting into a clinical focus. The chaos and noise around him faded into the background as he zeroed in on the wounded person before him—a middle-aged man with a weathered face, the lines of experience and exhaustion etched deeply into his features.
His uniform was tattered and tainted with blood and dirt, a testament to the fierce conflict encountered, and the strain in his eyes was visible as he fought to stay conscious. Despite having five or six observable injuries on his body, he remained alert, struggling against the pain with determination.
The most severe injury was a deep cut running across his chest, the edges ragged, as though made by a serrated blade. Some of those crazed gangsters with blades must have managed to reach him during the skirmish.
The bleeding soaked the torn fabric significantly, spreading rapidly with each heartbeat. Without wasting a moment, Lynn unzipped the provided pack, retrieving a pair of sterile gloves and the tools to control the situation.
His hands moved with practiced accuracy as he cleaned the wound, the smell of antiseptic mingling with the coppery scent of blood in the confined space of the tent-like shelters used as mobile health units.
The officer trembled as the stitching of the cut started, but he did not utter a sound. His jaw clenched tightly, his focus seemingly elsewhere, perhaps on the ongoing battle outside or the safety of his comrades.
The stitches were tight and secure, ensuring it would not reopen effortlessly, even under strain. Once the chest laceration was securely closed, Lynn moved on to the other damages, prioritizing the most severe ones first.
A bullet hole in the left shoulder required immediate attention. The shell was lodged deep inside, causing him to frown slightly. He decisively chose to leave it there for now, focusing on stopping the bleeding and applying pressure.
While he worked, stabilizing the injury before moving on to the next, another man—less injured but still looking worse for wear—stood nearby, watching with curiosity and concern. "Why not extract the bullet?" he questioned.
"It takes a while to recover something buried this deep without causing further damage," he replied without pausing in his work. "Many other people are seriously wounded. If they do not receive immediate treatment, they will likely bleed to death."
As the curious guy nodded, the blood leakage finally stopped. He began to prepare a bandage when he noticed the gaze of his patient had cleared somewhat. Thanks to his intervention, the pain was now more manageable.
"Little brother, you did a good job. Go and take care of the others," he suddenly opened his mouth and spoke, his voice steady despite the ordeal he had just been through. This abrupt demand made Lynn hesitate briefly.
"Are you certain about this? Would you like me to bandage your wounds first?" he asked, concerned. Although the officer was currently out of danger, he doubted his capability to care for himself in such a state.
The soldier shook his head firmly with a smile of gratitude. "No, just give me gauze, and I will manage the rest. I cannot afford to be a burden now," he responded with palpable determination, his tone brooking no argument.
Seeing the resolve in his eyes, he knew that further insistence would only waste valuable time. Nodding, he handed over the gauze and some medical tape. "Alright, but if you need help, do not hesitate to call me."
With his first case complete, Lynn turned his attention to the surroundings— rows of injured people, some unconscious, others moaning in pain, and the medical staff working frantically to keep them alive.
It was clear they were overwhelmed; resources stretched to the breaking point. "Doctor, hurry up, he is dying!" The panicked voice of a young assistant pierced through the chaos, yanking his focus away from this terrible scene.
Turning around, he saw a person lying on the ground, entirely soaked in crimson. Closer inspection revealed the horrific extent of the injuries. More than eight gaping holes dotted his torso, the result of a devastating shotgun blast.
He quickly knelt beside the wounded man, his skilled fingers swiftly tearing away the tattered clothing to assess the damage. The right side of the abdomen was shattered, the flesh and muscle pulverized by the blunt force trauma.
A numb sensation rippled across his scalp as he registered the severity of the situation. That was beyond the scope of his conventional medical expertise – the patient was not far from death, and without resorting to his extraordinary skills, there was little chance of saving him.
Shaking his head regretfully at the assistant beside him, he steeled himself and turned to tend to the other. He could not waste time on a lost cause when many others still had a chance of survival.
But just as he was about to move on, a bloodied hand shot out, grasping the hem of his cloak. "Help... me..." the man gasped, his eyes flickering with life, his voice a mere whisper lost amidst the encircling noise.
This action made Lynn freeze, jaw tightening as he looked into the gaze, seeing the desperation and the fiery will. Despite the devastating injuries that should have robbed him of consciousness, this person clung to life with an iron grip, unwilling to surrender.
Torn between the need for pragmatism and the weight of that imploring stare, he found himself hesitating, his logical mind warring with the emotional pull of the scene before him. Gritting his teeth, he made a risky decision.