The Steam Age: Gears and Bones

Chapter 52

Perfit fell into a coma and developed a low-grade fever.

From the night of the breakout, she had been lying in the carriage, wrapped in two blankets, with a cloth soaked in snow water on her forehead.

The military doctor would change her wet cloth every now and then, and every time he lifted the old cloth, he could feel that the residual body temperature on the cloth was abnormally high.

It wasn't a high fever caused by a wound infection; there was no redness or swelling of the wound, no pus, and no blood.

She was just in a deep sleep, breathing shallowly and rapidly, her lips were chapped, two abnormal blushes appeared on her cheeks, and her forehead was as hot as the outer wall of a steam furnace.

The military doctor took her pulse, checked her pupils for light reflex by flipping open her eyelids, and listened to her chest for a long time with a stethoscope—her heartbeat was a little fast, and her breathing sounds were rough, but there were no rales, which did not seem like a lung infection.

The military doctor put down his stethoscope, withdrew his hand from her forehead, and shook his head.

He wrote a line in the military medical manual, tore the paper with too much force, then crossed it out and rewrote it: "Non-traumatic fever, persistent coma, cause unknown. Existing medications are not applicable."

There were indeed many medicines in the carriage, but they were all prepared by the military doctor and two alchemists according to battlefield first aid standards before departure: tourniquets, suture needles, hydrogen peroxide for disinfection, several jars of sulfanilamide ointment, several bottles of morphine tincture, and two rolls of gauze soaked in pine tar.

These are all things used to treat external injuries and battlefield infections—knife wounds, bites, fractures, burns, and everything used to stop bleeding in case of lacerations in infected individuals.

There were no fever reducers, no anti-inflammatory herbal decoctions, and no medications specifically targeting the "disease" itself.

Allen turned the entire medicine box upside down and finally found only a small packet of dried willow bark powder. Professor Archibald had packed it in the box before they left, saying that it could be boiled and drunk in case anyone caught a cold or fever.

But boiling willow bark powder in water might be helpful for a low-grade fever, and Allen himself wasn't sure if it would work for Perfit's current fever.

"Could we try to concoct a medicine?" Allen squatted down next to the carriage, poured willow bark powder into his palm and looked at it. He looked up at Morris and said, "Use willow bark as a base and add some antipyretic herbs—I remember there are several antipyretic formulas in the standard textbook, one of which is made by boiling white willow bark, mint leaves and chamomile flowers in water. It is effective for low fever."

If alternative materials could be found, perhaps the effect could be enhanced, at least enough to lower her temperature slightly.

Morris squatted down beside him and drew a few simple alchemical transformation array sketches on the frozen ground with his fingers, intending to use the several herbal ingredients he carried with him to extract antipyretic components through alchemy.

But when he drew the third node, his finger stopped.

He looked up at Perfit, who was wrapped in a blanket in the carriage, and after a moment of silence, said to Allen, "Do you remember what the teacher said? If you give medicine to a patient with a fever and don't know the cause of the fever, the antipyretic itself may become poison."

We're not even sure why she has a fever yet. If it's caused by a mental counterattack, prematurely administering antipyretics might interfere with her mental recovery.

The two looked at each other, and then simultaneously heard a voice.

It wasn't the sound of speaking, but the subtle friction of metal joints moving. During the time that Perfitt had been unconscious, they had become quite familiar with this sound and what it represented.

Belfast stood beside the carriage, fine white mist still billowing from the exhaust grilles of the steam knight's armor.

She never took off this armor after the breakout, only having Allen and Morris change the fuel once during the march.

At this moment, she took half a step forward, blocking the carriage and the two alchemists. Her left hand held the chainsaw sword that had stopped spinning, with the tip touching the ground, while her right hand was outstretched, palm facing outward, making a very clear "stop" gesture.

She didn't activate the chainsaw's serrations, nor did she increase the steam core's output, but this gesture alone spoke volumes—no one was allowed to approach Perfit without her permission.

Allen put the willow bark powder back into the box and took a step back.

He knew very well what instructions were written into Belfast's differential machine logic; it wasn't a matter of reasoning with a machine.

Ludwig stood at the front of the group, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

He didn't participate in the debate about the medicine; he simply turned around after a moment and continued walking.

He understands better than anyone what this team relies on right now.

It wasn't him, nor his gray-armored knight, nor Chernzov who was still commanding the Ross soldiers—it was that steam knight.

As long as Belfast is still wearing that armor and standing at the front of the line, any infected person blocking her way will be torn to shreds.

If the Steam Knights were to stop at this moment, their hope of crossing the battlefield would be like the damp cloth on Perfit's forehead, with each passing moment the cold would draw away a layer of heat.

So until Perfitt wakes up, the only thing he can do is keep moving forward.

Corpses dressed in Romulus's military uniforms began to appear on the frozen ground along both sides of the post road.

At first, there were only a few scattered ones, lying limply in the long-dried drainage ditch by the roadside, covered with a thin layer of snow blown in by the wind.

Their uniforms were frozen stiff, their rifles were still clutched in their hands, the muzzles were rusty, and the bandages wrapped around some of their heads had frozen into a hard, grayish-white shell.

Ludwig did not stop as he passed the corpses, nor did his grey-armored knights, but they were noticeably a beat slower.

As you walk further ahead, the number of corpses begins to increase.

They didn't fall by the roadside, but lay in large patches on the wasteland on both sides of the post road.

There were at least several dozen bodies, dressed in the dark gray uniforms of Romulus's Northern Legion. Some of the corpses were still in the position they had just left behind, back to back, with bayonets pointing outwards and black bloodstains still on the blades.

Their ammunition pouches were empty, their guns were out of ammunition, and their bayonets bore the marks of repeated stabbing.

Clearly, they were surrounded and killed by the infected after running out of ammunition.

Ludwig stopped as he passed the pile of corpses.

His expression didn't change much, but when he squatted down to examine the collar insignia of a corpse, his fingers lingered on the edge of the insignia for a long time.

That was the designation of the 7th Infantry Regiment—a veteran regiment under his father's command.

He had accompanied his father to inspect that unit when he was young and could accurately recount the history and honors of that regiment.

Cherzov stopped a short distance behind him, glanced at the insignia in his hand, and said nothing. This kind of thing didn't need comforting.

The procession continued forward.

Infected individuals began to appear on both sides of the post road.

They were no longer scattered individuals, but rather small groups gathered in the sheltered areas of the ruins and frozen hills.

More and more infected people along the post road began to wear Romulus military uniforms.

The faded dark blue appeared black under the reflection of the snow, but the trim on the collar and cuffs still retained the legion's distinctive color.

As Ludwig passed by several of the infected who had been beheaded by the knights, he crouched down and examined their collar insignia.

Some of the numbers on the collar insignia were blurred, but a few were still recognizable—they all belonged to the Northern Legion.

He smoothed one of the collar insignia with his fingers, confirmed the number on it, then stood up and handed the insignia to the gray-armored knight behind him without saying a word.

Many of the infected were young soldiers, some of whom had brand-new uniforms with no wear on the cuffs, like new recruits who had just enlisted.

After they were decapitated, they fell onto the frozen ground, black blood seeping from their necks and quickly freezing into a thin layer of ice.