After being separated from my family, I became a darling of the military region thanks to my medical

Inside the operating room.

Ye Zhen held her breath, her long-handled tweezers steady as a rock. Under the high magnification of the microscope, she precisely probed into that forbidden zone of life. Her world consisted only of this small area, the pulsating internal carotid artery, the fragile optic chiasm nerve, and that metallic foreign object embedded for twenty years.

The tip of the tweezers gently touched the edge of the shrapnel.

The last vestige of adhered tissue, as thin as a cicada's wing, tightly wrapped the shrapnel, its final stubbornness within the warm cranial cavity.

Ye Zhen twisted her wrist slightly, with a gentle yet irresistible force.

The shrapnel that had been wreaking havoc in Zhao Guozhu's mind for twenty years finally loosened its grip unwillingly and completely broke free from the warm cradle on which it depended for survival.

The tweezers were smoothly withdrawn from the nasal cavity along the path they had come from.

Clang!

A crisp metallic clang suddenly rang out in the otherwise silent operating room.

The shrapnel, dark in color and stained with dark red blood along its edges, was neatly tossed into the stainless steel curved disc. It rolled twice on the smooth bottom of the disc before finally coming to a stop, motionless amidst the bloodstains.

This subtle sound, to everyone's ears at this moment, surpassed the most beautiful music in the world.

Liang Guodong, a leading expert in the field of neurosurgery at the provincial level, a seasoned veteran who had seen countless storms, suddenly found his eyes reddening as he looked at the small metal piece on the plate. He opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was dry and hoarse.

"Leave the rest... to me?" Liang Guodong's voice carried a hint of cautious request.

Suturing the scalp, cleaning the nasal cavity, and packing with gelatin sponges—these finishing touches are usually done by assistants in any surgery. The surgeon, having completed the most crucial steps, is already exhausted and should ideally rest.

Ye Zhen shook her head, her voice low and hoarse from prolonged concentration.

"Sellar floor reconstruction is crucial; postoperative cerebrospinal fluid leakage can be very troublesome."

She didn't relax at all because of this earth-shattering success, nor was she in a hurry to enjoy the joy of victory. She took the nasal septum bone fragment and a small piece of fascia lata from the patient and began to repair the skull base gap that had been opened for the surgery, layer by layer.

Her movements remained meticulous and precise, as if she were crafting a fine work of art. The needle holder gripped the curved needle, threaded it through the tissue, tightened the suture, and tied one surgical knot after another. The tightness of each knot was just right, ensuring a secure suture while avoiding excessive pressure on the tissue. Her focused expression left everyone present with a silent sense of awe.

This is the true meaning of a great physician's skill and integrity.

This is what it means to be an expert at the very top of the pyramid.

Another half hour passed.

When Ye Zhen cut the last suture and gently placed the needle holder and suture cutters back into the tray, the clock on the operating room wall already pointed to the dead of night.

She glanced up at the steady green wavy line on the monitor, confirming that all vital signs were within a safe range. Her previously tense shoulders finally relaxed slightly. A belated sense of exhaustion surged from the depths of her body, almost overwhelming her. But her back remained ramrod straight, like a javelin.

"Surgery is complete."

She took off her sweat-soaked, sticky latex gloves and ordered in a hoarse voice, "Send her to the anesthesia recovery room. Prepare to wake her up once her vital signs are stable."

The heavy lead operating room doors slid open slowly to the sides with a soft "click".

Outside, the air, thick with the silence of hours of waiting, began to flow instantly as the door opened. The fluorescent lights from the corridor rushed in, blindingly bright.

Everyone waiting outside the door craned their necks.

Zhao Tiancheng also huddled at the back of the crowd, tiptoeing, trying to peek through the gaps. But what he saw first was a group of experts and bigwigs who were usually high and mighty, even provincial leaders treating them with deference, now surrounding that slender figure with an almost reverent devotion, like stars surrounding the moon.

The corridor lights shone brightly on Ye Zhen.

She removed her blue surgical mask, revealing a clean but tired and slightly pale face. Stray hairs, damp with sweat, clung playfully to her smooth forehead and cheeks. Her appearance was anything but refined; in fact, somewhat disheveled. Yet, paired with her calm, deep eyes, she exuded a breathtaking power.

That is the composure and calmness of an absolute powerhouse.

Zhang Guohua strode ahead like a bodyguard clearing the way. Upon seeing Zhao Gang, a family member standing nearby, he shouted, "Zhao Gang! Don't cry, kid! Dr. Ye snatched your father's life back from the jaws of death! The shrapnel is out!!"

Zhao Gang, a burly man over 1.8 meters tall, swayed upon hearing these words, as if all the bones in his body had been removed. His legs went weak, and he collapsed to the ground. He buried his face in his rough hands, and the sobs he had suppressed for so long finally burst forth—a wail mixed with ecstasy, lingering fear, and boundless gratitude, echoing in the empty corridor.

Dean Zhou Hai hurried forward, his hands trembling with excitement. He wanted to pat Ye Zhen on the shoulder to express his admiration and gratitude, but halfway up his hand, he felt the gesture was too frivolous and couldn't possibly convey even a fraction of his feelings. In the end, he could only solemnly give Ye Zhen a thumbs-up, all his unspoken words condensing into a heartfelt exclamation: "Little Ye, amazing!"

Standing on the outermost edge of the crowd, Zhao Tiancheng looked like a clown with the wrong makeup and on the wrong stage.

As he listened to the lavish praise and looked at the woman surrounded by everyone's admiring gazes, he felt a tightness in his chest, as if the air around him had been sucked away, making it hard for him to breathe.

It’s over.

It's all over.

His previous words to Zhao Gang, and the "rationality" he displayed in front of the experts, now felt like resounding slaps to his own face, one on each side. The burning pain traveled from his cheeks all the way to his heart.

Ye Zhen seemed to sense something, her gaze passing through the throng of people and landing lightly on Zhao Tiancheng.

There was no disdain, no mockery, not even the slightest extra emotion in his eyes. He was as calm as if he were looking at an inconspicuous stone on the roadside, or a stranger whose life had never intersected with his own.

This kind of complete, visceral disregard is far more cruel than any humiliation or beating.

Ye Zhen quickly looked away and nodded to Wu Wenqing: "Dean Wu, I'll have Dean Zhou organize the surgical videotape I promised you and send it to you later."

"No rush, no rush!" Wu Wenqing waved his hands repeatedly, his face full of smiles, showing none of the domineering attitude he had displayed during the argument at the gate earlier. "Xiao Ye, you've worked hard, go and rest. This is the most important matter!"

Ye Zhen didn't linger any longer and headed towards the changing room.

"Oh, right," she said, as if suddenly remembering something. She stopped, took a neatly folded piece of paper from the pocket of her white coat, and turned to look at Zhou Hai, who was still standing there. "Dean Zhou, this is for you. This surgery is a bit special. Postoperative management and complication plans are very important. I've written them all on the back."

"Hey! Hey! Okay!" Zhou Hai almost jogged forward, took the paper with both hands, and looked as if he were receiving a top-level instruction.

Watching that slender yet incredibly determined figure disappear at the end of the corridor, Zhao Tiancheng's legs could no longer support his weight, and he silently slid down the cold wall onto the gleaming terrazzo floor.

At this moment, no one gave him another glance.

His world was collapsing.