A Hospital in Another World?

Garrett was planning to visit the Alchemy Guild, and naturally, Bernard followed his every command. Unexpectedly, the deliveryman from Black Crow Swamp also tagged along persistently:
"Master Nordmark, what are you looking for? Ways to handle corpses? Shall we go together? If there are long-term supplies from Black Crow Swamp, we can negotiate a lower price..."
Huh?
Is there such a good deal?
Garrett was somewhat pleased but also a bit embarrassed. He wasn’t the type to easily accept others’ kindness; once he accepted, he felt obligated to reciprocate.
If this mage from Black Crow Swamp was representing his school, it would be fine. If he was representing himself...
"Will it delay your business?"
A mage’s time was incredibly precious; every second was best spent on meditation and research. Accompanying someone for a walk seemed like such a boring task.
While others might be polite, he had to maintain propriety.
"I was assigned to see if you have any needs and to meet them if possible. Besides, Olivi and I share the same teacher. You saved his life, and we are all grateful to you..."
Olivi? Who? A necromancer? When did I save his life? Where was it?
Garrett had treated many people, so just mentioning a name didn’t jog his memory...
He maintained a polite smile, but his gaze was distant, pupils slightly unfocused. Even without a mind-control mage, anyone with basic social skills could tell he was utterly confused.
"Olivi! Olivi Brynn!"
The necromancer emphasized. Seeing Garrett still hadn’t remembered, he raised his right hand, reversed his index finger, and made a "poke into the eye socket" gesture...
"Oh, oh, oh!"
Garrett suddenly realized.
That guy who had a dagger poked into his eye socket, reaching the base of his skull, with an underdeveloped Willis circle!
Indeed, mentioning the case immediately brought it to mind!
Since it was the same sect as his patient, Garrett didn’t hold back. He walked side by side with the necromancer towards the Alchemy Guild, chatting as they went: ȑάΝő𝐛ĚS
"By the way, why does Black Crow Swamp have so many corpses? I remember getting dozens from you... Where do your corpses come from?"
"The sources are extensive!"
Talking about other topics, the necromancer might be socially awkward, but when it came to corpses, he was quite eloquent:
"There are three large almshouses in Nevis, and one is run by us. The people there eat our food and use our supplies, so naturally, their bodies belong to us after they die."
Good theory, Garrett thought curiously:
"How many do you get from this source?"
"Just from this source, over a hundred a year," the necromancer bent his second finger:
"In Nevis City and its surroundings, all unburied dead, starved, fallen by the roadside, and abandoned orphans and elders are our responsibility. Additionally, we buy corpses all year round..."
He puffed out his chest proudly:
"Poor people would rather sell their bodies to us than pay for a funeral. It earns some money, a final contribution to their families."
A world where bodies can be traded is great. Though aware of the potential problems, Garrett, as a medical student, was genuinely envious.
The freedom of using a cadaver was every medical student’s dream!
"Anything else?" he asked, intrigued:
"This source only collects pauper bodies. You mentioned different levels and professions’ bodies—"
"Oh, we are the executioners for the council," the necromancer winked slyly:
"All executed professionals’ bodies, unless redeemed at a high price, belong to Black Crow Swamp. Plus, we purchase various corpses, and colleagues bring some back from their ventures..."
You really mean "ventures" in the literal sense. Garrett suddenly remembered Lynn. How many bodies did he bring back from the Radiant Church invasion?
Would he collect more from the border of the colonies on this trip to the New World?
As they talked, they soon reached the Alchemy Guild. Garrett stepped in and immediately inquired with the receptionist:
"Do you have a colorless gas, slightly heavier than air, easily soluble in water and alcohol, irritating to eyes and nose? Or its solution?"
"Do you have a white or pale yellow translucent solid, lighter than water, softens when heated, melts around forty or fifty degrees, soluble in oils but not in water or alcohol?"
The range was too vague. The receptionist frowned, trying hard to smile:
"This... there seem to be several substances matching your description... Please wait while we check... John, John! Stop dawdling and find what the guest needs!"
A flurry of activity ensued...
Garrett ended up with seven or eight dozen bottles and three or four dozen types of "white, pale yellow solids."
...Really? This many?
The names were colorful and bizarre, with none marked by molecular formula. Next to them, half were for demonstration.
Starting with the solids, Garrett indeed found something like paraffin oil.
Weighing.
Heating.
Dissolving...
Luckily, the paraffin-like substance was identified. But finding the liquid was harder. Garrett carefully opened each bottle, wafting the scent towards himself:
...Not this one.
...Not this one.
...Not this one either.
He could identify formalin even with a cold and a blocked nose!
Any medical student who had fished out cadavers would never forget that smell!
But there was none. Garrett had the staff search thoroughly, confirming no formalin, so he focused on Black Crow Swamp:
"How do you usually preserve corpses? More chemicals or more spells?"
"Both. Higher-grade corpses use [Corpse Preservation Spell]; the Sleepless Tower has a whole floor engraved with it," the necromancer shared freely:
"Ordinary bodies are buried in a cemetery treated with negative energy for longer preservation. Rapid freezing, [Touch of Thirst], or simply burying in lime are other methods..."
These are all good methods, Garrett thought, planning to try each for making tissue slices to preserve them best.
But of course, this requires a blade and someone to make the slices:
"Bernard!" he called out:
"What kind of weapon do you need to cut a corpse—or a specimen—into thin, even slices? If not 0.5mm, then 1mm or thicker is okay!"
"Boss, you want me to cut?"
The barbarian’s face turned bitter. Garrett had never seen him look like this—
Even when cornered on a cliff during a battlefield retreat, he was fearless, struggling to raise his giant bone club to protect Garrett.
But now, Bernard’s face was contorted. One side showed difficulty, the other grievance. His beard was messy, his face ashen, like someone in the late stages of liver cancer:
"Boss, do I have to cut? I always use a bone club; I can’t handle such delicate weapons..."
He looked genuinely pitiful. Making a barbarian do this felt like forcing Zhang Fei to embroider. Was I pushing him too hard?
Maybe professional tasks should be left to professionals, not barbarians?
"Uh... How about we order a guillotine?" he called the receptionist:
"Make it thin, sharp, with a consistent blade thickness to avoid crushing tissues. Mounted on vertical rails for smooth slicing..."
The receptionist quickly noted it down. Just as he was about to confirm with Garrett, a tall mage emerged from inside, smiling at Garrett:
"Excuse me, Master. If your follower wants to advance quickly, perhaps he should do the slicing himself."
Huh? Garrett turned to him. The mage spread his hands, showing thick calluses:
"We’ve customized weapons or enchanted them for many mages’ followers. This warrior beside you seems to be level eight, right?"
Good guess. Garrett gave him a thumbs-up. The mage smiled:
"Typically, followers’ levels are higher than the mages’. You’re level seven, and judging by his steps and breathing, he hasn’t reached level nine yet."
Uh, although the conclusion is correct, the process is all wrong. Actually, when I was a level one mage, Bernard was already level seven; when I reached level seven, he was only level eight...
Garrett tried to keep his smile from stiffening. The mage might have sensed something, also smiling, continuing:
"This warrior, judging by his physique, uses heavy weapons with broad strokes. Reaching the level eight to nine threshold requires honing fine control. Slicing thin pieces by hand is a good training method."
Garrett was tempted. He looked at the barbarian:
"Bernard, what do you think? Want to practice?—Don’t worry about the weapon; we can afford one..."
In the end, Garrett and Bernard left the alchemy workshop with a longsword. The blade was three feet long, thin as autumn water. Of course, in Bernard’s hand, it looked more like a toy...
"Go, Bernard!" By the unextinguishable flame, Garrett crouched beside the lab table, cheering the barbarian on:
"No rush, slice slowly, one piece at a time! It’s okay if the first ones aren’t thin, thicker is fine too!"
"Boss, how about we slice a bigger animal instead..."
Bernard was sweating profusely, crouched, both hands gripping the sword, pressing down slowly. In his heavy palms, the thin longsword quivered slightly:
"Using such a big sword to slice a mouse is really uncomfortable..."