Henwell gnces at Mishasa, she is pulling the dagger from Wopeko’s back. “You’re much smarter than I thought. I was ready to expin a few things to you!”
Mishasa steadies herself with her left hand against the wall, her right hand’s dagger pressed into the ground as she struggles to stay upright.
“I’m no little girl, and definitely not a fool. His appearance here today says a lot. Besides, only he could bribe someone close to me to leak the secret about our st shipment, which led to the fleet’s transport accident. I’ve suspected him for a long time. I’ve been investigating my father’s sudden death, and recently found clues linking subtly to this ‘good uncle.’”
Henwell points to her wounds. “I suggest you stop the bleeding first. Otherwise, you won’t survive. Given your condition, going back to your pce isn’t a good idea. Come to my pce, I know a bit about treating external injuries.”
Without waiting for her reply, Henwell turns and leaves the alley.
After a brief hesitation, Mishasa stands and follows him.
Henwell’s inn isn’t the most expensive in town, but it has official backing, it’s like a semi-official guesthouse.
Normally, someone like Mishasa, covered in blood and armed, arriving te at night would draw the guards’ scrutiny.
Yet they act as if they see nothing, ignoring her entirely.
Mishasa realizes Henwell might have ties to the Federation’s authorities.
Inside Henwell’s suite, he pulls out a small box and begins sterilizing the delicate knives inside.
“Now take off your clothes.”
Mishasa freezes for a moment, then meets Henwell’s calm gaze. After a slight hesitation, she starts removing her clothes.
Not completely, but enough to reveal rge patches of skin.
Yet in Henwell’s eyes, there’s no hint of desire, just focused observation of her wounds as he selects tools and thread.
After a moment, Henwell nods gently. “Not too serious. No major vessels or bones are damaged, just surface wounds.”
Looking at the torn flesh on her arm and abdomen, pale from blood loss, Mishasa can’t quite understand how such gruesome injuries count as merely surface wounds.
Henwell takes out a bottle of medicine. “Are you afraid of pain? If so, I can use some anesthetic. But it’s addictive and can cause some brain damage, you need to think carefully.”
Mishasa shakes her head. “No, I have to stay clear-headed.”
Henwell doesn’t press further. He approaches with his surgical tools and grabs Mishasa’s arm.
“This might hurt a bit. If you can’t bear it, just tell me.”
He begins cleaning her wound. The moment he does, Mishasa’s body stiffens sharply, like a fish shocked by electricity, tense and twitching.
She can’t even let out a scream.
When she finally starts to cry out, Henwell whispers, “It’s te at night. Try not to scream too loud. Disturbing people’s peaceful dreams is one thing, but mainly, I’m still a young man, unmarried! I can’t have anyone misunderstanding or accusing me of some weird fetish.”
With that, Henwell’s Blood Will manifests, a swirling mist that covers Mishasa’s face, sealing her mouth and nose.
It doesn’t affect her breathing but silences any sound.
Henwell chatters away as he works, but his hands move steadily.
His stitching is precise and quick, closing the wounds neatly.
Partly, it’s Henwell’s skill that keeps his movements steady.
But it’s also thanks to his extensive experience treating external injuries.
After all, Henwell holds the honorary dean title at Peace Haven Medical Academy.
Calling him the top doctor in Peace Haven’s medical field isn’t an exaggeration.
About half an hour ter, Henwell finishes treating all of Mishasa’s wounds, big and small.
After waiting a few more minutes, he finally removes the Blood Will veil from her face.
Mishasa gasps for breath, curling up in pain and letting out agonized moans.
Henwell hands her the remaining half bottle of topical medicine. “I’ve already applied this to your back and other areas you can’t reach easily. Though patients usually don’t shy away from treatment, out of respect for you as a woman, I think it’s better if you apply the rest yourself.”
After a moment, Mishasa picks up the medicine and grimaces as she carefully applies it to her arm, abdomen, and other wounds.
Once she finishes, Henwell pulls out sterilized bandages and begins wrapping her injuries.
He then offers her another bottle of medicine. “Drink this. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and this will help your body recover.”
Mishasa doesn’t hesitate; she knows she has no reason or power to refuse.
If Henwell wanted to do anything to her, she couldn’t resist.
Resisting or being wary won’t change the outcome, so she might as well accept her fate gracefully.
After finishing the medicine, Mishasa looks at Henwell and asks, “What do you want?”
Henwell doesn’t answer. Instead, he gestures toward the bedroom beside the suite. “You’re exhausted. Rest tonight, and we’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll stay another day. There’s no rush, but you’ll need a clear head for our discussion.”
With that, Henwell returns to the master bedroom, leaving Mishasa alone in the living room.
That night, Mishasa thinks over everything, trying to piece the situation together.
Everything else is clear, but Henwell remains a complete mystery—unpredictable and unreadable.
She forms some guesses, but they have gring holes and fail to expin much.
Eventually, exhaustion overtakes her, and she drifts into a restless sleep.
When she wakes, pain in her body is the first thing she notices.
Looking down at the bandages and the unfamiliar surroundings, confusion fills her eyes.
It takes a while before she fully comes to.
Once certain st night wasn’t a nightmare, Mishasa gets up to find her clothes, but none are anywhere to be found.
She can only wrap herself in the room’s robe and head to the suite’s living room, but still finds nothing, and Henwell is nowhere to be seen.
Just then, a knock sounds at the door, and the inn’s female attendants call out.
Opening the door, several attendants enter, carrying luxurious clothes and jewelry.