The man walked ahead at a slightly faster pace than he had maintained in the forest.
He still carried the bundle of dry branches in his arms, clutching them tightly as though they were something precious, and every few steps he glanced back—not to hurry Adrian, but to make sure he was still following.
Each time he turned, his gaze lingered briefly on Adrian’s face before darting away.
When the dirt path curved around the hillside, the village finally came into view in the hollow ahead.
Just as the man had said, it was small and dilapidated.
Seven or eight wooden huts were crowded together on the flattest patch of ground, their low thatched roofs torn unevenly by the wind and exposing the blackened rafters beneath.
The walls had been built from logs and coated with mud, but the dried plaster was covered in cracks that stretched from the ground to the eaves like wrinkles across an old man’s face.
Doors woven from branches hung crookedly from their frames and could not close properly, while one stood half-open, revealing only darkness inside.
The open space between the huts had been trampled hard and bare, without even a blade of grass growing from it.
A few battered farming tools lay scattered nearby—a hoe with a handle polished smooth by years of use and a blade covered in notches, along with an overturned wooden bucket whose staves had separated enough to leave gaps wide enough for a finger.
Several scrawny chickens scratched at the earth, their feathers so sparse that patches of pink skin showed beneath them.
They scratched a few times, pecked once, then scratched again, but found nothing.
Before Adrian even entered the village, panic spread through it.
A woman gathering firewood outside one of the huts looked up, saw him, dropped the branches in her hands, and hurried inside.
A man working beside a field abandoned his tools and fled toward the nearest house with a deathly pale face.
Adults dragged children indoors, doors slammed shut one after another, and the faint sounds of village life disappeared almost instantly, leaving only the wind rustling through the damaged thatch.
The man guiding Adrian looked embarrassed as he stepped into the packed clearing at the center of the village.
“My lord knight, please wait here for a moment.” Adrian gave a casual nod.
He was not concerned that the villagers might try anything; even wounded, he was more than capable of dealing with a settlement made up mostly of the old, weak, sick, and injured.
The man placed his bundle of branches on the ground, carefully stacked them, then disappeared into one of the huts.
A short while later, an elderly man with graying hair squeezed through the narrow doorway and gently pulled it shut behind him.
He wore a faded robe of rough linen and leaned on an oak staff worn smooth from years of use.
His back was slightly bent, and when he stopped a dozen paces from Adrian, he folded his hands before him and bowed even lower.
“Respected lord knight, may God bless you,” he said, choosing every word with extreme care.
“I do not know what brings you to our remote village, or what orders you may have for us.” Adrian needed food, water, and treatment for his wound.
“I’m only passing through,” he replied.
“Bring me some water and something to eat, then send someone who can tend to my injury.” The old man’s gaze rested briefly on the dark-brown bloodstain around Adrian’s shoulder.
“Understood, my lord.
We have only simple food here, but if that does not trouble you, we will prepare it at once.” Before long, he returned carrying a bowl of porridge—the sort of meal serfs ate most often.
It was made from rye mixed with whatever wild vegetables could be found, all of it thrown into a pot and boiled together.
Taste and appearance did not matter.
The only purpose was to fill the stomach, and the villagers had probably eaten meals like this every day of their lives.
Adrian accepted the bowl.
The coarse earthenware was hot against his palm, so he turned it carefully in his hand and blew across the steam rising from the surface.
He lowered his head and took a sip.
The sourness of the rye struck first, followed by the bitterness of the wild vegetables, while a faint grittiness scraped between his teeth from the stone dust that had mixed with the grain during grinding.
An earthy, muddy taste rose from the back of his tongue, while the vegetable stems, still undercooked, crunched between his teeth.
The porridge was barely salted—so little that he could hardly taste it—which likely meant salt was a precious commodity here.
Adrian swallowed, and the warm porridge slid down his throat, gradually spreading heat through his stomach.
This was no time to be particular about food; walking required strength, wounds required strength to heal, and even holding a sword required strength.
No matter how unpleasant the porridge tasted, it was still better than raw dandelion leaves or drinking cold water on an empty stomach.
Once he had something hot inside him, the light-headedness receded slightly.
When he had eaten half the bowl, the man who had guided him to the village emerged from the house with a needle and thread in his hands.
He stood nearby and waited quietly for Adrian to finish.
Adrian scraped the bottom of the bowl clean and chewed the last few pieces of vegetable stem before placing the empty bowl on a stone.
At that moment, a strange thought flashed through his mind.
Knockout drops.
In the memories of that other world, bandits and dishonest innkeepers sometimes slipped drugs into food or wine to render travelers unconscious before robbing or killing them.
Adrian glanced at the empty bowl, then at the old man, the villager crouching near the doorway, and the nervous eyes watching him through gaps in the huts.
This miserable village contained only seven or eight households, could barely afford salt, and lacked even a blacksmith; when a hoe or sickle broke, the villagers had to walk for several days to have it repaired.
Knockout drops were far more expensive than salt.
Where could people like these possibly obtain them?
Adrian leaned the back of his head against the tree trunk and smiled faintly.
The suspicion now seemed ridiculous, and he realized that some instincts carried over from that other world were unnecessary here.
Once Adrian had finished eating, the man stepped forward with an embarrassed expression.
“My lord, my wife is too frightened to come outside, so I will stitch the wound for you.” Adrian studied him.
Sewing flesh was not the same as carrying a bowl; if the man became nervous and his hands began to shake, he might worsen the injury, and Adrian would have no one to blame but himself.
He lowered his head and picked up the ball of linen thread.
The strands had been twisted unevenly, thick in some places and thin in others, while the rough, fuzzy surface was stained with grass fragments and mud.
Adrian pinched the end of the thread and rubbed it between his fingers, leaving a fine layer of dirt on his skin.
After considering it for a moment, he decided against using it.
He had no idea how long the thread had been hanging inside the hut or what it might have touched.
Without boiling water, strong alcohol, or flame to sterilize it, sewing the thread directly into his flesh would merely trap the filth inside the wound.
The skin might close on the surface, but if the injury began to rot underneath, the result would be far worse than leaving it open.
Adrian placed the ball of thread back on the stone.
“There’s no need to stitch it.” The man stared at him in surprise.
“But, my lord, your wound—” “Do you have any clean cloth?” The villager thought for a moment, then turned and hurried back into the house.
As the door opened, Adrian briefly heard a woman whispering inside, followed by the sound of someone rummaging through their belongings.
A short while later, the man returned holding an old linen shirt in both hands.
It had been washed until it was almost white, and although the cuffs were frayed, the garment had been carefully folded.
He looked down at the shirt, then back at Adrian, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.
“This is…
this is my wife’s best one.” Adrian accepted the shirt and examined it.
The fabric had grown thin from repeated washing, but it was clean and showed no obvious stains or patches of mildew.
He unfolded it, caught the seam of one cuff between his teeth, and tore away a long strip.
The cloth ripped with a sharp hiss.
Adrian tore off another strip, then a third, continuing until the shirt had been reduced to a neatly arranged pile of cloth bandages.
He then lifted the earthenware pot and poured clean water over the wound.
The water ran across his shoulder, washing away dried blood, scabs, and traces of mud.
The flesh around the injury contracted slightly at the touch.
He angled his shoulder so that the water flowed directly into the open wound, then gently moved the area to help rinse it.
Pale-red liquid trickled across his chest, cool against his skin.
Adrian repeated the process until the water draining from the wound was clear.
He then folded the first strip in half and pressed it firmly over the injury.
Holding the cloth in place with his right hand, he guided one end beneath his left armpit and pulled it across his chest to meet the other.
As he tightened the strip, the skin on both sides of the wound was drawn together.
He tied the two ends into a knot over his chest, wrapped them around once more, and secured them with a second knot.
Afterward, he tugged on the bandage to make sure it would not loosen.
The strip pressed firmly into his skin, tight enough to hold the wound closed but not so tight that it prevented him from moving his arm.
He placed the second strip over the top of his shoulder to compress the upper portion of the injury, drew it back beneath his armpit, and tied it securely.
The third strip passed horizontally around his chest and back, holding the first two in place.
Layer upon layer, the bandages formed a tight web around his shoulder.
The wound was now firmly compressed and had stopped bleeding.
Adrian cautiously moved his left shoulder, feeling the cloth tighten and shift with his flesh without coming loose.
Although the injury still hurt whenever he moved, the sensation that it might split open at any moment had diminished.
The man stood silently nearby, watching Adrian wrap and knot each strip in turn.
His gaze followed his wife’s finest shirt as it became a collection of bandages around the knight’s shoulder.
His Adam’s apple moved several times, but he said nothing.
Adrian rolled the remaining strips into a bundle and tucked them beneath his tunic.
He then pulled his chain mail back on and tightened his belt, the iron rings clattering as they settled over the bandages.