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

"drop--"

On the monitor, that green waveform representing life steadily swept across the screen.

The anesthesiologist stared at the numbers on the screen, as if he'd seen a ghost, and let out a distorted scream: "Blood oxygen saturation... 91%! And it's still rising! My God, is this the kind of data a single-ventricle heart can produce?!"

91%.

The anesthesiologist was bent over, his face almost pressed against the screen. He even suspected that the expensive Siemens monitor might have malfunctioned at a critical moment. He reached out and patted the side of the unit twice, then traced the leads all the way to the child's fingertips and earlobes.

The probe was clamped tightly and did not loosen.

Although the skin on my fingertips was still cool, the ashen bluish-purple had faded, replaced by a very pale, yet vibrant pink.

The numbers didn't jump; they remained firmly fixed in place.

Ninety-one percent.

This little girl, who had just undergone heart reconstruction and had a hole artificially "carved" in her heart, had an oxygen saturation level of 91.

There is no low cardiac output, and no visceral congestion.

That "hole" that everyone criticizes is like an ingenious floodgate, which diverts the surging venous blood in an orderly manner. Although it sacrifices a little oxygenation, it prevents this fragile heart from collapsing.

The operating room was eerily quiet, with only the rhythmic sound of the ventilator blowing air.

Snapped.

A soft sound.

Helmut Bauer, a living legend of German cardiac surgery, removed his goggles. He stared at the closed chest cavity, at the incision covered by gauze.

He replayed the past two hours in his mind. Every needle insertion and withdrawal, every incision, and that stroke of genius—the "window" opening. This wasn't surgery; it was walking a tightrope, above a bottomless abyss, with no safety ropes, crossing it barehanded.

Bauer's fingers were trembling.

It wasn't because of his age, nor because of fatigue. It was a physiological tremor he felt when faced with a completely new technology that had overturned his understanding of the past fifty years.

When the operating room doors opened again, the corridor outside was already packed.

Williams stood amidst a pile of microphones, still trying to justify himself with obscure medical terminology: "...This is completely unethical! Even after the surgery is over, I must point out that such radical window-opening practices lead to..."

"This will result in the child achieving 91% oxygen saturation immediately after surgery and completely avoid low cardiac output syndrome."

An aged yet authoritative voice, like a heavy hammer, shattered Williams's incessant chatter.

The flashlight instantly turned.

Professor Bauer stepped forward. Without even glancing at Williams, he grabbed a microphone and faced the cameras of all of Europe.

"I am Helmut Bauer. I vouch for you, in my capacity as the Honorary President of the German Society of Cardiac Surgery, that what just happened inside was a miracle."

"That Chinese woman just completed a surgery that is worthy of being included in textbooks."

"The child's vital signs are currently stable. Just now, her blood oxygen saturation reached 91 percent, and thanks to the presence of the atrial decompression window, she has completely avoided potentially fatal low cardiac output syndrome."

Ninety-one percent.

When this number was announced, knowledgeable medical reporters at the scene gasped in shock.

Williams' mouth dropped open, and all color drained from his face instantly. He was a cardiac surgeon; he knew better than anyone what that number meant. In this specific disease, it was a perfect score, a miracle.

"This...this is impossible..." Williams muttered to himself, "This must be a malfunction, or a temporary one..."

The old professor raised his hands, as if depicting a grand blueprint: "Fontan fenestration, plus future interventional closure—what Dr. Ye taught us today is not only how to save Alice, but how to save all children with terminal illnesses like this! Dr. Williams, if you think this is unethical, then you should go to church and be a priest, not a doctor in the operating room."

Wow!

The entire audience erupted in uproar.

Reporters frantically shoved their cameras at Williams. The once arrogant British expert was now deathly pale, his lips trembling, unable to utter a single word of rebuttal.

In the German medical community, Bauer's words were considered sacred.

"Miss Ye! Miss Ye!"

"How did you come up with such a brilliant idea?"

"I heard you're from China? Has Eastern medicine developed to this level?"

The reporters, like sharks smelling blood, instantly abandoned Williams and surged towards Ye Zhen in layers.

The flashes were so bright they made it hard to open your eyes.

The microphone, like a black jungle, crackled with electricity, shoving directly into her face. Someone tried to grab her sleeve; someone else tried to block her way.

The chaotic, aggressive noise made Ye Zhen frown.

The aftereffects of prolonged intense concentration began to appear. Her temples throbbed, the flashing lights in front of her made her dizzy, and the faces of those people distorted in the light and shadow, like a group of sharks that had smelled blood.

She didn't want to talk.

She didn't even have the energy to say a polite remark about the rise of a major power's healthcare system. All she wanted was to find a quiet place, sit down, and have a bowl of hot soup.

Ye Zhen frowned slightly.

"Get out of the way."

Before Ye Zhen could speak, a tall figure cut in.

It's Gu Zheng.

He had somehow broken through the reporters' encirclement and stood like a black iron tower, completely blocking Ye Zhen's way.

He was dressed in civilian clothes, the collar of his leather jacket turned up, but that couldn't conceal the murderous aura he carried from the battlefield. He didn't need to shout; he just stood there, his slightly drooping, cold eyes sweeping around, and the once noisy crowd fell silent instantly, like chickens being strangled.

"Everyone."

Gu Zheng raised his head, his gaze passing over the crowd to the members of the Chinese delegation standing on the periphery, who were equally excited, and finally landing on the faces of those persistent reporters.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a commanding tone characteristic of soldiers, leaving no room for argument.

"Professor Bauer has already explained the medical issues very clearly. If you still don't understand, I suggest you make an appointment with an ENT specialist."

A low chuckle rippled through the crowd, and the atmosphere eased slightly.

Gu Zheng's tone changed in that instant; the cold, steely tone disappeared, replaced by a doting and roguish quality that made the female reporter next to him blush and her heart race.

"As for now..."

He paused, then said with a straight face:

"My wife is hungry. All talk about the future of human medicine and the East-West rivalry has to wait. No matter how important the matter is, we have to wait until she finishes this bowl of noodles."

The reporters were dumbfounded.

The translator also paused for several seconds before awkwardly translating this sentence, full of Chinese everyday life, into German.

Eat...eat noodles?

Having just set a world record—a historic moment worthy of making headlines in every newspaper around the world tomorrow—this "witch" from the mysterious East has only one request: to eat a bowl of noodles.

"that……"

Ye Zhen's muffled voice came from Gu Zheng's arms, carrying a hint of stubbornness that only Gu Zheng could understand.

"Remember to add two eggs."

She added, her voice not loud, but clearly reaching everyone's ears, "I want the sweet-filled one."

A brief, eerie silence fell over the corridor.

Then, someone chuckled first, and soon, good-natured laughter echoed throughout the entire floor. Even the shipping magnate Schroeder, an old man who had just been pulled back from the brink of despair, leaned on his cane, wiped the corner of his eye with a handkerchief, and revealed a relieved smile.

That's what a human being is like.

She is neither a god nor a witch, but an ordinary, great doctor with flesh and blood who gets tired, hungry, and craves soft-boiled eggs.

Gu Zheng grinned. His face, which usually appeared too cold and aloof, now radiated a glow of pride.

"OK."

He tightened his arms around Ye Zhen, practically half-carrying her as he walked out, completely ignoring the reporters who hadn't had enough photos yet. "Don't even mention two, plus the meal Mr. Schroeder owes, twenty would be more than enough."

The crowd automatically parted to make way.

……

The next morning.

Newspaper kiosks in Berlin were sold out.

Bild used the entire page with the headline in bold black: "The Hand of God of the Eastern Witch: A Miracle at Charité Hospital." The accompanying photo showed Ye Zhen's focused profile on the operating table, with Williams' disheveled figure leaving in the background.

The best-selling Berliner Zeitung did not use any sensational or political headlines on its front page.

They displayed a huge black and white photograph.

The photo was taken from an excellent angle, with clear distinction between light and shadow.

The backdrop is the historic corridor of Charité Hospital, with blurry crowds and dazzling flashlights.

In the very center of the image, an Asian woman in a beige trench coat has her face buried in the arms of a tall man. The man is only visible as a broad, sturdy figure, one hand shielding the camera, the other protecting the woman in his arms—a protective posture like a mountain, blocking out the noise of the world.

The headline consisted of only one line, yet it used the largest font size a newspaper could print:

The woman who even death avoids all she wants is a bowl of noodles with two soft-boiled eggs!

This photo was later hung on the walls of countless medical school dormitories and even pasted on the locker doors of many surgeons.

It represents the ultimate in coolness.

In this noisy world filled with fame, fortune, politics, and power struggles, only absolute strength allows you to calmly turn around and eat a bowl of noodles with an egg amidst the spotlight.