Crown Prince Sells Medicine

“From this moment forth, I once again pledge my eternal loyalty to His Majesty, the rightful ruler of Anbouaz. I shall now present the current military report.”

This is Balrua Fortress.

It serves as the sole passage through the rugged mountain range in the central region of the Anbouaz Kingdom. Within the august council chamber of this fortress, King Merovingian Balua Anbouaz attentively received the report from his intelligence officer. Deep within him, a blazing anger smoldered. This was a newfound rage directed at his own kinsman who had incited a rebellion.

‘Javillon, that scoundrel…’

Javillon Flambeur Anbouaz, a member of the royal family with an ancestral lineage. He was also a Swordmaster, a rare and highly prized talent.

Indeed, he had been cherished greatly.

Especially because the royal family boasted only two Swordmasters.

‘Yet, how does he repay my generosity in such a manner? Truly?’

Javillon had always been known for his ambition from the very beginning. Some ministers openly voiced their concerns, alleging that he harbored sinister intentions. They recognized his exceptional abilities but cautioned against bestowing upon him excessive authority.

However, the king held a distinct viewpoint.

He believed that the more ambitious a person was, the wiser it was to keep them close. Overestimating their value could potentially lead to rebellion, making them even more perilous. Instead, he advocated for granting them just the right amount of authority, a move that would inspire them to utilize their talents and, hopefully, moderate their ambitions.

Consequently, he had appointed Javillon as the commander of the eastern region. For a few years, this choice appeared sound. Javillon had conducted himself appropriately, leading the king to believe that this trend would persist.

But the king’s judgment had been flawed.

“As I’ve reported, at present, aside from minor skirmishes in the northeast, there is no major conflict. It seems that the rebel forces are amassing here, targeting Balrua Fortress.”

The words of the intelligence officer pierced the king’s ears, causing his countenance to darken.

“So, they are concentrating their primary forces here. It appears they have no intention of avoiding a confrontation with us.”

“It certainly appears that way, Your Majesty.”

The king emitted a sigh.

The impending massive battle with the rebels weighed heavily on his mind.

“Is there anything else to report?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Hoping for positive news, the king inquired, though with restrained expectations. Surprisingly, the intelligence officer’s demeanor brightened.

“Recently, there has been a field hospital achieving remarkably positive results.”

“Remarkable results? From a field hospital?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

King Merovingian shook his head.

A report about the achievements of a mere field hospital seemed inconsequential in light of the impending clash with rebel forces. He couldn’t grasp its significance. What impact could one field hospital possibly have? However, the intelligence officer’s subsequent report seized his complete attention.

“In the last two months, the survival rate of the wounded there has exceeded 70%.”

“What?”

70%?

The king nearly choked in disbelief. It was an astonishing statistic.

“So, out of ten wounded individuals taken there, seven emerge alive?”

“That’s correct, Your Majesty.”

“Is that truly the case?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Initially, I had my doubts as well. Considering that the typical survival rate in field hospitals is around 10%, this result was remarkably good. However…”

“However?”

“Upon conducting our own investigation, we confirmed that this figure is an unaltered, transparent fact.”

“Is that truly the case?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. In fact, rumors about this particular hospital are rapidly spreading among soldiers of various ranks in our kingdom’s army.”

“Rumors?”

“The belief that, no matter how you are injured in battle, if you are taken to the 21st Support Battalion’s field hospital, you can survive, has spread. Soldiers have even coined a nickname for it.”

“A nickname?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The intelligence officer smiled in response to the king’s question.

“The soldiers are calling the 21st Support Battalion…”

♣ ♣ ♣ ♣ ♣ ♣

“A Healing Camp?”

“Yes.”

“Why is a Healing Camp mentioned here?”

Raciel tilted his head and looked at Gardin with puzzled eyes.

“By any chance, Gardin, were you an avid follower of a certain broadcast?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

Raciel chuckled.

“You just mentioned that our medical camp here in the royal army has a unique nickname. And for some reason, you brought up a name that sounded familiar to me.”

He couldn’t help but laugh.

He had been stationed here for two months now. During that time, rumors about this medical camp had spread rapidly among the soldiers in the royal army. The rumor that if you were sent here, you could survive. They had even coined a nickname for the camp.

“It’s called the Healing Camp, huh. Haha.”

He shook his head, pushing aside his memories and thoughts about a broadcast from Korea. Then, he turned his attention to the twenty or so individuals standing behind Gardin.

“Anyway, setting the nickname aside, are you saying that the King sent these people to our camp because he heard these rumors?”

“Yes, my lord. To be precise, His Majesty was highly impressed with our performance.”

“Impressed?”

“Yes. The survival rate of the wounded here is over 70%.”

“Isn’t that always the case?”

“No, certainly not.”

Gardin emphatically shook his head.

“Typically, a survival rate just above 10% is considered excellent.”

“I see.”

“Yes. That’s the norm.”

“So, in any case, His Majesty was pleased with our performance and sent these people here for training?”

“That’s correct, my lord. These are military officers selected from various medical camps within the royal army.”

“Wow.”

Raciel’s eyes, which had previously held a hint of gloom, suddenly lit up. He couldn’t help but express his surprise.

“All twenty of them are active-duty military officers? So, they’re not inexperienced? That’s fantastic. We were short on manpower anyway!”

He had been struggling with a shortage of skilled medical personnel, with only himself and Gardin being capable. The influx of wounded soldiers seemed endless, and he hadn’t enjoyed a good night’s sleep since arriving.

‘The King of Anbouaz is certainly coming to our aid!’

Raciel could feel a glimmer of hope breaking through his exhaustion-induced dark circles. Struggling to suppress the fatigue threatening to overcome him, he greeted the officers with a wide, welcoming smile.

“Ahem, it’s a pleasure to meet all of you. I’m Officer Rihan.”

“……”

“I understand you’ve been sent here for training. You must be weary from the long journey, but if you could please follow me for now. I’ll give you a tour of the camp. Our tents are arranged based on the conditions and recovery status of the wounded, so understanding this will be helpful for your future duties.”

“……”

“What are you all waiting for?”

“……”

Something seemed off.

Not a single one of the twenty officers responded to him. In fact, they didn’t appear to be considering moving at all. They simply stared at him with vacant expressions.

Their gazes were somewhat peculiar.

It was as though they were silently questioning, ‘Why are you giving us orders?’

He had a strangely unsettling feeling, and that feeling turned out to be spot on.

“Excuse me, but wouldn’t it be more appropriate to direct us to our quarters for some rest first?”

One of the dispatched officers, a remarkably handsome and tall figure, stepped forward. His voice carried an air of confidence, suggesting he might be the de facto leader among them. It certainly seemed that way.

“Officer Rihan? As you are aware, we’re here on a sacred mission at the request of His Majesty the King. However, the journey was far from comfortable. We endured a forced march for six days. Don’t you think it’s only fair to grant us a moment to relax after such an ordeal?”

“Fair?”

“Yes, I believe it’s only considerate.”

“……”

Such bold statements. Raciel struggled to contain his astonishment.

He countered, “So, if I understand correctly, you’re suggesting that it’s inconsiderate of me to have your men continue working without rest?”

“Exactly.”

“Why is that ‘exactly’?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“It’s Shandre.”

The officer who disclosed his name still bore an overly confident expression. He resembled someone who orders Jjajangmyeon at a Chinese restaurant and then complains about the absence of complimentary dumplings. Raciel found himself even more incredulous.

“Officer Shandre? May I pose a question? Do patients wait for doctors?”

“Excuse me?”

“Imagine there’s a patient teetering on the brink of death. Would that patient patiently await the arrival of a doctor?”

“What are you talking about?”

“We have wounded soldiers here, dozens of them at death’s door, and you’re talking about the ‘right to rest’?”

Raciel’s voice took on a stern tone. His frustration surged, and understandably so.

‘I’m already swamped! My bonus lifespan is dwindling!’

He had an overwhelming workload.

Instead of attending to the wounded on his rounds, he was wasting time arguing with this individual. Time was of the essence. Yet Shandre, oblivious to Raciel’s irritation, proceeded to make an even more perplexing remark.

“Among the wounded who are at death’s door, there can’t be many aristocratic officers, can there?”

“…What?”

“Aristocracy?”

“What are you getting at?”

Shandre persisted, “Aristocracy. You’re not segregating them, are you?”

“Of course not…”

“Tsk tsk. You can’t even get that right. I’m disappointed.”

“… “

When someone becomes excessively absurd, words fail you. Raciel simply shut his mouth. He sensed that if he were to open it, a torrent of curses would pour out.

Shandre’s nonsensical diatribe persisted.

“Officer Rihan? Despite my presence here for training, there’s something I must convey. There are two categories of wounded soldiers: nobles and non-nobles. Those who must be saved and those who needn’t be. That’s the gist of it.”

“…”

“There’s a rationale behind categorizing the wounded. We have limited medical personnel and an overflow of patients. That’s the harsh reality of a battlefield camp.”

“…”

“So, who should we prioritize saving? Who will yield us substantial rewards? Obviously, it’s the nobility, isn’t it? Saving a dying aristocratic officer could bring significant recognition and even sponsorship from their family.”

“…”

“On the flip side, if you save a common soldier, what do you gain? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You might even suffer a loss by expending precious time and effort that could have been used to save an aristocratic officer.”

“…”

“So, here’s my advice. You’re lacking in the basics. Phew, we narrowly averted a major problem. The lord would have been terribly disappointed had he learned of this unfortunate situation. Fortunately, we arrived here and pointed it out.”

“…”

“Officer Rihan?”

“…”

“Why are you silent? Ah, are you surprised? But this is the unvarnished logic of the real battlefield. It seems you still lack experience, so…”

“Stop. Enough with the nonsense.”

“…Pardon me?”

Shandre’s eyes widened.

Nonsense? Stunned by the sudden outburst, he was baffled. He believed he was offering valid and helpful advice. Why was this red-haired, portly officer suddenly resorting to curses?

But Shandre’s musings halted abruptly.

Smack!

“…!”

Raciel’s punch, fueled by pent-up anger that had exceeded his monthly limit, erupted. Shandre’s head spun around, and his body executed an elegant triple axel in the air. A tooth soared out of his mouth, glinting in the air.

The pupils of the other officers quivered like dancing eels.

(To be Continued)

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