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

InterContinental Hotel, downtown Rochester.

The receptionist took the green Chinese passport, opened the identity page, and her gaze lingered on Ye Zhen's face for a couple more seconds.

On the right-hand newspaper rack, there was a copy of the New York Times that had just been delivered that day. The bottom half of the front page featured a black-and-white photo of Ye Zhen taken at the Beicheng Military Region General Hospital.

I am younger than I appear in the newspaper.

Suite on the twelfth floor.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, you are greeted by a view of downtown Rochester. Heading north along the main road, the iconic Mayo Clinic buildings stand in the twilight.

The first thing Gu Zheng did upon entering was to check for security.

He walked around the suite, knocked on the partition wall, checked the window latches and the louvers of the ventilation ducts, and then turned to inspect the route around the perimeter of the building.

When he returned to the room, Ye Zhen had already spread the thirty medical records from her briefcase all over the large walnut desk, arranged by risk level.

Gu Zheng walked over and placed the paper bag he was carrying on the corner of the table.

Inside were hot sandwiches bought downstairs and a cup of steaming milk.

He didn't disturb her thoughts, but pulled up a chair and sat not far away, quietly watching the pen in her hand quickly move across the paper.

In the evening, in the academic exchange hall on the third floor of the Mayo Clinic main building.

Although it was ostensibly an informal tea party, it was actually a reconnaissance exercise among top experts in the North American medical community. Almost all of the top 20 cardiac surgeons in the United States were present.

There is one minute left before the notification time.

The two heavy, carved wooden doors of the reception hall were pushed open from the outside by the waiter.

The previously noisy conversation in the hall paused briefly. Dozens of people turned their attention to the doorway simultaneously.

Ye Zhen walked in with very steady steps.

A well-tailored navy blue suit jacket, paired with a pure white shirt, and jet-black hair simply pinned up at the back of the head with a plain wooden hairpin.

She wore no adornments or jewelry, except for a silver ring on her left ring finger that gleamed faintly under the light.

There was no panic as if they were making their first appearance on the international stage, nor any awkwardness or deliberate flattery.

Gu Zheng lagged half a step behind her, wearing an extremely ordinary dark gray casual jacket. His hands hung naturally at his sides, and his steps were light yet exuded absolute control.

He didn't take the coffee offered by the waiter, nor did he exchange pleasantries with anyone; he simply stood protectively behind Ye Zhen.

After a brief silence, the whispers in the hall suddenly grew louder.

Harrison put down his cup and hurried over.

"Dr. Ye, you must be tired from your journey. Let me introduce you to some of your colleagues—"

Before he could finish speaking, an overly loud voice abruptly interrupted from the left.

"Harrison, you don't need to worry about this."

Raymond Cohen walked over at a leisurely pace, carrying a bone china coffee cup.

The 72-year-old man had his silver-gray hair combed back perfectly with hair gel. He was followed closely by three attending physicians from the Cleveland Clinic, making quite a spectacle.

He stopped three steps away from Ye Zhen and looked her up and down.

Then, he turned his head and spoke in an extremely exaggerated, deliberately drawn-out English, loud enough for half the people in the hall to hear clearly.

"Too young. I thought someone who could write to that standard would at least be an experienced scholar."

A few low chuckles immediately rose from the surroundings, some in agreement, others watching with amusement.

Cohen completely ignored Ye Zhen and continued to attack Harrison.

The tone shifted to that of an elder lecturing a younger person.

"By the way, Harrison. Does your guest speak English? Or do we need to find a translator for her urgently? Tomorrow's report is very important, and I don't want any ridiculous misunderstandings caused by language barriers."

As soon as she said that, at least a dozen people around her turned around and looked at Ye Zhen, holding their cups, waiting to see how this Chinese person who had come from afar would deal with such public humiliation.

Ye Zhen picked up a cup of black coffee from the tray of a passing waiter.

She lowered her head, took a sip, swallowed, and then turned her face away.

She completely ignored Cohen's arrogant face and spoke directly to Harrison.

Speaks fluent and standard American English with no accent.

"Professor Harrison, last week your hospital published a paper in the New England Journal of Medicine on brain perfusion strategies during neonatal aortic arch repair, and your team is listed as an author."

Harrison was stunned.

Ye Zhen spoke at a steady pace, carrying the imposing presence unique to her professional field.

"The literature mentions that selective anterograde cerebral perfusion can effectively protect the nervous system. I would like to explore whether, in practice, you ultimately used a perfusion temperature of 25 degrees Celsius or 28 degrees Celsius?"

A look of extreme surprise flashed in Harrison's eyes.

He had prepared a whole host of excuses, but now he had completely forgotten them.

"Twenty-five degrees!" Harrison's voice rose two octaves. "In three recent clinical cases, we found that once the temperature exceeds twenty-six degrees, excessively high perfusion temperatures can actually increase the risk of cerebral edema—"

"But temperatures below 25 degrees Celsius can cause irreversible cold damage to the myocardium." Ye Zhen didn't pause, naturally taking over the conversation. "In controlling the circulatory arrest time, have you forcibly compressed the time for bloodless visualization to within 40 minutes?"

Harrison's breathing became heavy, and he clenched his fists tightly.

The two then engaged in a frank and open academic discussion face-to-face.

He spoke at an extremely fast pace, constantly throwing out all sorts of obscure anatomical terms and top-notch medical data.

No translators were involved in the entire process.

Throughout the entire process, Ye Zhen never once turned her head to look at Cohen beside her.

This kind of disregard is more lethal than any verbal retaliation.

Cohen held his coffee cup, his sneer gradually freezing, until he finally collapsed completely.

He could understand what they were talking about, and because he could understand, he knew that every question Ye Zhen raised pointed directly to the most cutting-edge barriers in current cardiac surgery.

The three Cleveland Clinic doctors behind him had long since stopped watching the drama unfold. After exchanging glances, the youngest one couldn't help but pull out his notebook from his suit pocket, uncap the pen, and begin rapidly recording the data from the conversation between the two.

Cohen caught a glimpse of this scene out of the corner of his eye and glared fiercely at the young man.

The young attending physician shrank his neck and lowered his hand holding the pen, but he stubbornly refused to put the notebook back.

Just then, two reporters with miniature recorders quietly squeezed forward, trying to record this highly valuable academic dialogue.

Gu Zheng, who had been standing silently behind Ye Zhen, moved.

He merely turned halfway around, his tall frame blocking the reporter's path.

He didn't speak or make any extra movements.

The sheer killing intent honed on the battlefield and his imposing presence were enough to freeze the two reporters in place.

The two reporters felt a chill run down their spines. After hesitating for two seconds, they shoved the recorder back into their bags and slunk back into the crowd.

Ten minutes later, before the tea party was over, Cohen, his face ashen, was the first to walk toward the door.

As he pushed open the double doors, he stopped and turned back to stare intently in Ye Zhen's direction.

The young attending physician with the notebook chased after them outside, lowering his voice.

"Professor, she definitely has real talent. Shall we proceed with the Q&A session tomorrow as planned?"

Cohen slammed his coffee down on the recycling counter in the hallway, making a jarring clinking sound.

"Proceed as planned." The old man's voice was icy and hard. "I want to see if she can still pretend to be so composed tomorrow."