That woman... No, she looks old. Around... 47 years old? She doesn't look like one of the figures I read about in history books. But her eyes, there's something about them. Like she knows more than she lets on. Her accent is peculiar, too, but I can understand her clearly. How does she manage to adjust her speech so I can understand it so well? Did she recognize something in me?
Wait.
I shook the thoughts away, my head spinning. I need to focus. I need to sort things out. That old woman, the man Alfred, the plans, everything. My mind was a jumble, spiraling in too many directions at once. No, I can't afford to think like this. I need clarity. My focus should be my goal—preventing the appearance of Exchaor.
I glanced around my room, the dull light of a foreign world casting long shadows across the floor. Everything here was unfamiliar, the walls, the atmosphere, the people. But I had to learn quickly, adapt. This time—it's not like the one I knew.
I tapped my fingers against my leg, thinking. Motors, electrical circuits, inventions I once took for granted—they'd be useless here, wouldn't they? No tools, no materials, nothing to support modern technology. But... could there be another way? Could my skills in engineering, in thinking about mechanics, help in a world that hadn't even learned the basics yet? Perhaps. But I need to be careful. If I built something too advanced, too soon, it would be suspicious. They'd see me as a threat, not a resource. No, I have to be subtle. I have to think strategically.
A sudden scream broke through my thoughts, piercing the silence like a knife.
"AAAAA!"
It was faint at first, but the sound sent a cold chill through my spine. It came from outside my room, from somewhere in the direction of the road. Panic began to rise in my chest. What now? Was someone in trouble? Should I stay put or go see what was happening?
I quickly made my decision.
Getting up from the bed, I moved quickly through the hallways of the building. I heard voices echoing in the distance, some hushed murmurs, some frantic shouts. My steps grew faster, my mind racing.
Did something happen? Surely nothing bad happened, right? No. That scream, is not a sign that nothing bad happened.
As I exited the building, I saw the scene unfold before me. A young girl, no older than fifteen or sixteen, lay on the ground. Her face was contorted in pain, her body writhing as she screamed. A group of young men stood around her, each of them too afraid to act decisively. They checked her body, but it was clear they were out of their depth. No one knew what to do.
I hesitated for just a moment, standing off to the side as I took in the situation. The girl's cries echoed in my ears, each one pulling at something deep inside me. I felt the weight of the situation press down on me. Was this really my problem? It wasn't my responsibility. And yet, something inside me couldn't just stand by.
"Gosh, this is frustrating," I muttered to myself.
My hesitation was brief. I stepped forward, pushing through the crowd of bystanders. I ignored the confused glances thrown in my direction. As I approached the girl, one of the men gasped. His hand hovered over her thigh, where I noticed a deep, jagged scar. The wound was ugly, swollen, and oozing with blood. It was a dagger wound. Whoever did this didn't care to be precise. They wanted to cause pain. To hurt.
"Is she... is she going to survive?" one of the men asked, his voice shaky.
The answer wasn't so simple. I could already tell the wound was too severe to be ignored. Infection would set in soon if it wasn't treated immediately. But with no doctor in sight, the situation felt grim. I felt the weight of the girl's suffering pressing on me, urging me to do something—anything.
Without thinking, I knelt beside her, quickly pushing the men away. They backed off, startled by my sudden movement.
"Get back, all of you," I ordered, my voice sharper than I intended. "She needs immediate help."
To think that the body knowledge I once used for the TTM project—knowledge designed to prevent harm towards the body when using the machine—would now be put to use in a situation like this. It's strange, almost surreal. The skills I acquired to understand and protect the body under extreme conditions are now the very things keeping someone alive in a time that's not my own.
The men didn't argue but stood back, helpless and uncertain. I focused solely on the girl, who continued to cry in pain, her face pale from blood loss. There was no time to waste. I tore a strip from the inner part of my dress. It wasn't much, but it was clean enough. It was a poor piece of clothing, not mine to begin with, but it would have to do.
"Hold still," I whispered, aware that my strange, unfamiliar accent might confuse her, but hoping she could understand my intention. I gently pressed the fabric to her wound to reduce the blood loss. Despite the chaos of the situation, my hands remained steady.
I had seen enough injuries in modern times, during the TTM project, to know the basics: clean the wound, control the bleeding by applying pressure to reduce blood loss, numb it using anesthesia so the patient feels no pain during stitching, stitch the wound closed, avoid infection, bandage it, and ensure proper aftercare.
The girl's cries grew louder as the pressure I applied caused pain, but it was necessary. I couldn't afford to let the blood continue flowing. I needed to stop it, or else she'd die from blood loss before we even had a chance to deal with the infection.
"Please... help me..." the girl whimpered between sobs, her voice fragile.
Her words struck me deeply, but I couldn't allow myself to falter. I scanned the surroundings for anything that could help. There were no clean cloth, no proper equipment. This era's medical knowledge was limited, and the tools they had were crude at best. But I wasn't about to give up on her.
I noticed the old woman, standing at the edge of the crowd. She was watching me intently, her sharp gaze assessing my every move. The same woman who had confused me earlier with her cryptic presence. She didn't seem to be in a hurry to help, but her eyes... they said more than words could express.
I raised my voice, pushing my frustration into the air. "Hey! I need a clean cloth immediately!"
The old woman looked up, surprised by my outburst. Her expression shifted slightly, as if she had been caught off guard. She muttered something to one of the nearby workers, and soon enough, a bundle of cloth was handed to me. It wasn't much, but it would have to suffice.
I snatched it from the hands of the worker, tearing it into smaller pieces. My fingers worked quickly, replacing the torn fabric with the clean cloth as soon as it arrived, minimizing the risk of infection.
Carefully, I removed the old cloth without disturbing the clot or worsening the injury. The last thing I needed was to reopen the wound or let the blood flow uncontrollably again.
I applied pressure again with the clean material, making sure to tie it snugly around the wound. It had to be tight enough to control the bleeding, but not so tight that it would cut off circulation.
As the blood flow slowed, I ensured the fabric stayed in place, providing enough pressure to keep the wound from reopening. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do for now.
The weight of the girl's body sagged against me as I applied pressure to her wound. But it wasn't enough. This was just the first step. The wound had to be cleaned, stitched, and properly tended to before I could even think about a chance at healing.
I scanned the area desperately. The crowd had gathered, but no one seemed to have the expertise needed for this kind of injury. Not that I expected them to. This time, this world, was so far removed from everything I knew. No sterile environment, no advanced tools. The reality of it hit me like a slap in the face.
I glanced around frantically, my mind racing. Sterilization. There was no clean water here. No proper tools, no antiseptic. Even if I could get the wound stitched up, there was a high risk of infection. Without the right conditions, any care I gave would be a band-aid at best. The girl would still be at risk of sepsis—an infection that could kill her long before she had a chance to heal.
There was no hospital here. No way to disinfect any of the instruments. I had no gloves, no sterilization methods to ensure the infection wouldn't spread. I could clean the wound as best as I could, but without proper sterilization, I might make things worse.
I turned back to the girl. Her cries were quieter now, but the pain was still written across her face. The blood loss had drained her, and I could see it in her trembling form, the way she clung to my arm.
I gritted my teeth. "We need to get her inside. Somewhere clean," I muttered, my voice steady despite the rising panic inside me. "The road's too filthy. She could die from infection if we don't get her somewhere safe."
I called out to the old woman, my voice sharp, tinged with urgency. "Please. We don't have much time."
Her gaze met mine for the first time since the commotion started. She didn't respond immediately but gave a subtle nod, turning toward the men in the crowd. It was as if she knew what needed to be done.
I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold it together. We moved quickly, but I could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on me. There was no time to waste. I had to act. I had to save her.
When we reached the small shelter, the men gently laid the girl down. I knelt beside her, my fingers trembling as I adjusted the cloth to stop the bleeding. Every second felt like a lifetime, and I knew that if I didn't stitch her up soon, she'd slip away.
The old woman stood just behind me, her sharp gaze never leaving the scene. There was something unsettling about her, something that made me feel like she knew far more than she was letting on. But now wasn't the time for questions. Not when the girl's life hung by a thread.
I needed more than what I had at hand. The wound needed to be stitched up properly, but I couldn't do that without thread and a needle. And I needed something to clean the wound, something to help prevent infection. It was strange, how much I'd taken for granted in my time—back then, we had antiseptics, modern sterilization, everything. But here, in this era, none of that existed. I had to think of what was available—alcohol, maybe, or a mercury compound. Anything that could clean the wound.
"Please," I whispered, frustration thick in my voice. "I need thread—something strong enough to stitch the wound. I need a needle, and something to clean it with—alcohol, or mercury if you have it. Otherwise, infection will set in and she'll die."
The old woman didn't respond right away, her gaze sharp as she seemed to consider what I said. Slowly, her hand moved to her bag, fingers deliberate, as if she understood exactly what I needed. She pulled out a small, worn leather pouch and opened it with care.
Inside, there were scalpel blades, a small vial of alcohol, and even a spool of thread. It wasn't much, but it was everything I could work with right now.
I didn't care how the old woman had them. I didn't care about anything except what I needed to do.
I grabbed the tools, my heart pounding in my chest. They weren't ideal—far from it. The thread was thin, the alcohol—likely the only antiseptic available—was crude, and the scalpel blade was worn. But there was no time to hesitate. I had to make do with what I had.
For a brief moment, I hesitated, my mind racing. Even with these supplies, the risk of infection was high. I was used to a world where everything could be sterilized, where medical procedures were as safe as possible. But here, in this time, it felt like I was performing surgery in the dark. There was no guarantee.
I forced myself to focus. The steps were clear. Clean. Numb. Stitch. Bandage. Care. But they weren't easy. I couldn't afford to forget anything. The tools were crude, and the air around me felt thick with uncertainty. The absence of sterile needles, a controlled environment—it all gnawed at me. And deep down, I feared I was making it worse.
The girl moaned softly, jerking from the pain as I removed the makeshift bandage. I steadied my hands, but the unease gnawed at me. It was hard to stay calm with so much on the line. One wrong move, and it could be over. There was no room for error. I couldn't afford to let her slip away now.
The old woman was still watching. Her gaze was sharp, unblinking, assessing. Was she judging me? Or waiting for something? I couldn't waste time worrying about her now. All I could focus on was the girl in front of me. There was no second chance.
I moved as quickly as I dared, carefully preparing the wound. Time was running out. I had to finish before it was too late. Would the crude antiseptic the old woman had given me be enough? Would it even work? Could I stop the infection from spreading?
I pressed forward, pushing the doubts aside, even though they lingered, threatening to pull me under. I didn't know if I was enough—if any of us were. But right now, I was her only chance. And that was enough to keep me moving.