Chapter 32 Witch Carrie
Since that rainy night, Horn lay in a coma in bed for three days, but his condition did not improve.

He slept more often than he was awake, and most of his waking time was spent eating, taking medicine, and strongly rejecting the doctors' treatment plans of bloodletting, enema, and castration.

During these three days, Horn drank a lot of precious medicinal herbs and food in the monastery in a daze and ate a lot of monster meat, before his condition stabilized.

But it was only stabilized, and Horn still continued to have periodic high fever.

Most of the time he spent his sleep in nightmares in which he was surrounded by the armies of the Church and the Empire, and then his head was chopped off again, followed by an endless loop.

Whenever Horn woke up, he couldn't stop sighing.

He killed a priest in public. This was not a country knight like Barnett, but a real priest.

Another name for priests is rural bishops. Although the church does not have bishops at this level, their power and status are equivalent.

What’s even more terrifying is that countless people saw his face, both when he was killing people and when he was receiving treatment.

He couldn't even be sure how many people knew who he was, or who had seen his face. He racked his brains but couldn't figure out how to cover it up.

At the same time, according to the intelligence he heard while he was asleep, the villagers in the Gulag Monastery had joined forces with the secret party to launch a riot.

For some unknown reason, they actually regarded themselves as the legendary "Chosen One".

Sometimes Horn really couldn't understand these people from other worlds with strange ideas. How could a person he had never seen before, a person who suddenly appeared, become the "chosen one"?
There was at least some foreshadowing and deliberateness in Horn's becoming the Saint's grandson, which he could still understand.

But he really doesn't understand the incident of the Chosen One. Is this reasonable?
Because he killed that priest?
In any case, these villagers regarded him as the savior of the world, and coupled with the previous riots...

If the Empire or the Church's army took this to heart, they would probably consider themselves part of a rioting gang.

A huge pot was put directly on his head, and Horn didn't want to die with these lunatics.

It’s so difficult, but for now I should just think about how to get through this damn disease.

Lying on his back in bed, like the previous two days, the high fever gradually turned into a low fever. Thirst and chest tightness woke Horn from his sleep. He closed his eyes and shouted:

"Jeanne, I need some water."

Unlike usual, no one responded to Horn's request today.

Horn opened his eyes with difficulty. The huge room was empty, with only a dusty wooden ceiling.

As he moved his body, Horn felt something warm against his body.

When I turned my head, the first thing that caught my eye was white hair, long white hair that looked like white porcelain, and was scattered in a mess.

"You're pressing on my hair..." Perhaps because of Horn's body movement, a mature female voice that sounded like a spoiled child came from the white hair.

Nestled in Horn's side, she was wearing a white linen corset nightgown, her long and strong thighs tightly clamped around Horn's waist and abdomen.

The woman held Horn in her arms as if he were a pillow.

Through the soft white linen cloth, Horn could even feel the furry touch on his waist and abdomen.

Seeing Horn wake up, she sat up obediently, rubbed her red agate eyes with her white fists, and murmured:
"dad……"

Only then could Horn see her face clearly, and it was an extremely incongruous face.

On this body that is as big as nine heads, and on a neck as graceful as a swan, there is a small face that looks like it is only fifteen or sixteen years old.

Her oval face even has some baby fat, and her sleepy and well-behaved expression, people with poor eyesight would think she is just a cute little girl.

But Horn would not underestimate her. Her round breasts stood tall, making Na look like a small mound in front of her.

If Horn guessed correctly, this should be the witch Carrie, the witch imprisoned by Durdafor.

It should be her who played the bone flute on the rainy night. Looking at her current condition and considering the rumors that she was fed too much holy water, Horn reasonably suspected that she had lost her memory.

"Why are you in my bed? Where's Jeanne?"

Horn asked his question directly.

"Well..." Carrie put her index finger against her lips, "Sister Jeanna, call me to take care of you, and then, I'm sleepy."

As she spoke, she yawned. "Have we known each other before? Why do you call Jeanne Sister?"

"Fatty bullied me, Fatty is bad, you guys beat Fatty to death, you guys are good."

"Then why are you sleeping in my bed?"

"Because you are hot. Very warm."

What do you mean I'm hot? I have a fever, okay?
Horn didn't know what to say for a moment. He sat up, picked up his coat and put it on.

He just wanted to get up and get out of bed, but he felt a sharp pain in his sinuses and his whole body was sore. The familiar feeling of dizziness came again.

There was no other way, so Horn could only lean against the bed and breathe slightly. He looked helplessly at Carrie, who was curled up like a little animal and about to fall asleep, and asked in a low voice: "How long has Jeanna been out?"

"do not know."

"When will she come back?"

"do not know……"

"Where are the servants? Call them here."

"........."

Looking at Carrie who fell asleep again on his thighs in the middle of a conversation, Horn was completely helpless.

He finally sobered up a little this time and was thinking of taking the opportunity to save himself.

The treatment plans proposed by previous doctors, such as enema and bloodletting, are simply a joke.

If you want to save your life, you have to go on stage yourself.

In his opinion, his condition was most likely caused by some germs.

So the best way to deal with bacterial infection is antibiotics. He is 100% unable to produce penicillin, but he has allicin.

In the Middle Ages when technology was backward, allicin was relatively simple to produce.

All you need to do is mash 20 kilograms of garlic and distill the golden oil.

Most monasteries have special brass stills for celebrations and festivals. They understand the process and Horn doesn't even need to operate it himself.

The only problem was that he didn't know whether the garlic here could be distilled into allicin.

After all, Horn had treated that dead horse as a living one so many times that it was not a problem at all.

But at this critical moment, Jeanne is not there, and Carrie is a child in an adult's body. What should she do?

The sound of the door opening woke Horn from his thoughts. He looked up and saw several villagers in wrinkled suits walking in.

"you……"

Horn was delighted. Although he was dissatisfied with the fact that he was chosen as the Chosen One, he was still satisfied with using his status as the Chosen One to gain benefits.

Since someone is here, I might as well ask them to help me get the allicin.

But before Horn could say anything, the villagers rushed up and grabbed Horn's arms on the left and right.

"I'm sorry, Grandson Saint."

As the two men spoke, they lifted Horn from the bed, sandwiched him between them, and trotted towards the door.

"What are you doing?" Horn tried to struggle, but the severe pain in his sinuses and body made it almost impossible for him to move.

I had no choice but to be clamped and dragged outside.

　p.s. There will be another chapter later. I have had a slight cold these two days, so my saved manuscripts are running out a little fast

　　
　
(End of this chapter)