Any who gazed upon the man kneeling in the center of the still bloodied ring would be justified in believing him an undertaker. Gone were the noble robes, replaced instead with a white apron and gloves, the gloves themselves appeared to be dyed white but lacked any fur or leather components. Instead, they fit precisely onto the hands, sticking to the surface, and blood rather than soaking and staining the outerwear was instead slipping right off.

Yet the man was lost within his work, ignoring the glances of all those around him. This man who was working diligently, covered in blood, and sweat, working without rest was none other than the Scholar. If any of the crowd had been informed of his title and who he was, then the actions occurring would be understandable, as it was well understood who had created the Medical School in the Capital, which in turn led to the prevalence of the Temples of Healing and the orders of medicants who healed the sick and wounded throughout the League.

Training of specialist doctors and medics in the Capital had allowed for the spread of medical knowledge. Still since the Scholar was removed from his position within the court the aristocracy sought to contain the spread of knowledge to their own private doctors. Medicants are those who were able to learn the basics but refused to serve as servants to the nobles, thus as traveling healers they acted in a similar manner to wandering priests.

The presence of a healer was not surprising, but a doctor or medic, one knowledgeable enough to repair flesh and bone this far from the center of power was strange. Had they been aware that the individual was none other than the “Grand Scholar”, he who had discovered and been instrumental in ensuring better healthcare throughout the League, undoubtedly many would be lining up to request his services.

However, the many hooded and unhooded warriors surrounding the grounds deterred even the most clueless of spectators. At this moment numerous metal pins, similar to ones that may have been used by a seamstress held open the flaps of skin. The Scholar had completed working on the now unconscious champion, the gash upon his thigh having been sewn up tight and the bones in his left hand set correctly. Using numerous precision tools designed for the task, as well as the alchemical draught findwale the operation had been a success.

It was quite fortuitous that he had a couple of bottles of findwale within his aid kit, as without it the patients may have been awake during the occupation. Findwale was a well-known commodity, unlike Aether which was still rare and only processed in Temrenos. The herbs used to create both were common, however they required a precise process of distillation to create.

Information that was restricted by the nobility to ensure the high prices of the anesthetic, which was also the reason for the constant denial of Aether shipments in the north. Carrying out an operation even with a skilled doctor and no anesthetic could drastically reduce the survivability of the patients, as shock from the pain could result in death.

In any case the Scholar had luckily had the necessary tools needed to ensure the survival of both the Champion and the Challenger Tariq. Tariq had collapsed not long after his outburst, no doubt Xeander would have sent his personal servants to end the man’s life. However, it did not take long before Tariq’s men appeared, half the hooded figures standing guard were these individuals. The one distinctive feature the welt upon their left shoulder, it was as if someone had taken a branding iron used for livestock and used it upon them. The burned flesh depicted a rough image, one of a broken chain.

The rest of those present were a combination of Xeander’s own arena guards. Followed closely by Maatilani, his own elite rangers and the newly purchased battle slaves who had yet to be properly clothed and armed. Yet even being newly purchased, the men showed no signs of lethargy, they stood at attention, evidence that the men may have previously served as warriors or veterans at some point. Although there was considerable room for improvement, their previous habits would need to be countered, new tactics and strategies beaten into them from continuous training like all other Temrenosian soldiers.

For her part Maatilani had managed to piece together a pair of stretchers for both patients, wooden staves from the armory acting as the frames on either side, the center was made with fishing nets secured tightly around the staves. Although extremely basic, the stretchers allowed for both patients to be safely elevated and carried from the ring. A simple splint fashioned from a broken spear and bolts of linen were used to set the champion’s left arm and Tariq’s right ankle. To end the procedure a healthy slathering of medicinal paste was used to coat the wounds, the paste acted as an antiseptic assisting in preventing illness and increasing survivability.

Wiping away the sweat from his forehead, the Scholar gazed upon the resting patients. The surgery had been a success, with the youth suffering the worst, particularly the gash on the right thigh. Luckily thanks to the Scholar’s quick actions the bleeding was stopped, and the areas sealed. Both men would survive, there was no doubt as their breathing had stabilized and the color returning to their faces. Unfortunately for the Scholar there was still more work to be done, there was still the matter of the Champion’s teacher. Namely his price and whether his condition was treatable in the first place, factors that would have to be assessed after witnessing the individual in question.

The so-called crimson brands silently departed, presenting a single bow before lifting their unconscious commander and departing the arena. Xeander’s guards watched their movements closely, some with hands upon the hilt of their blades, yet the number of hooded figures kept them at bay. Any half decent warrior would immediately notice that those men were well trained, this was true when observing the way in which they moved, how they positioned themselves, as well as the “eyes” shadowing their group from the viewing platforms above.

“Your title and skills are most apt my Lord. It would appear the stories of your capabilities have not been exaggerated.” Lysias spoke in barely a whisper, yet for some inexplicable reason it carried as if the man was speaking directly into your ear. The Scholar himself appeared unfazed, yet some of those standing nearby shivered, their skin crawling under the undesired caress.

“Don’t waste my time with unwanted pleasantries steward, I am a busy man and no longer have time for these games. Take me to the one I need to see; I trust that there will be no issues.” The Scholar showed open contempt for the man, primarily due to who he served, but to some extent as a reaction to his unreadable expression. Even now the man had yet to drop his mask even once, there was clearly something else going through his mind, yet only that false smile existed.

“Of course, my Lord, please follow me, I shall escort you to the medical room.” Maintaining the friendly façade, Lysias led the Scholar and Maatilani towards their destination. The other members of their escort group were sent away, tasked with delivering the new battle slaves and the injured champion to the rest of the party. Although there was some pushback to the decision, the Scholar was adamant that if a situation was to occur, he and Maatilani could escape far easier without needing to worry about the others. Reluctant though they may have been, the logic was sound, and it wasn’t long before they all went their separate ways.