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

It was exactly 9:00 AM.

The doors to the Mayo Clinic’s main auditorium open from both sides.

The 1,200 seats were packed, with dozens more crowding the aisles, all overflowing from the second lecture hall. The red indicator lights on the closed-circuit television were lit in the corner, the camera pointed towards the podium.

Ye Zhen entered through the side door.

A white shirt, black trousers, hair pulled back in a low bun and secured with a black hair clip. No foundation, no lipstick, and flat black leather shoes.

He only had a kraft paper document bag and a hard case containing film in his hand.

As she took those few steps onto the stage, the hushed conversations in the room paused for a moment. The buzzing resumed, even more chaotic than before.

"Is that her?" someone exclaimed in a low voice in English.

"She looks under thirty."

"I thought it was one of her students coming to set up the projector."

Ye Zhen placed the file folder on the podium and turned on the projector. The old-fashioned document camera hummed, and the white light from the bulb shone onto the screen.

She pulled out the first film and placed it on the projector.

An angiographic image of a heart appeared on the screen.

The left ventricle was significantly dilated, with weakened ventricular wall motion. The ventricular septal defect was clearly visible after contrast agent flushing. The preoperative date and patient number are marked in the lower right corner.

Ye Zhen picked up the microphone.

There were no small talk, no self-introductions, not even a polite "thank you for the invitation, Mayo."

The first sentence, spoken in perfect American English, resonated throughout the room.

"This heart was given a death sentence by three top hospitals in Europe."

The entire venue fell into a deathly silence.

She changed the film. The same heart, followed by angiography one month after surgery. The ventricular wall motion was normal, the occluder was in stable position, and the left ventricular ejection fraction increased from 31% to 58%.

"The owner of this heart is now riding a bicycle on the streets of Berlin."

Ye Zhen put the microphone back on the stand, freeing her hands to change the film one by one.

"My report today is divided into three parts. The first part is the methodology."

A hand-drawn mechanical analysis diagram appeared on the screen. The coordinate axes were clearly labeled, curves were drawn with different colors of ink, and the derivation process of the formulas was written next to the data points.

"The core of the Chinese standard is not experience, but mathematics."

She picked up the pointer and pointed to the key nodes on the diagram.

"The timing of occluder release depends on the ratio of ventricular end-diastolic volume to the transvalvular pressure gradient in the aorta. This ratio must fall between 0.7 and 0.85, and the release angle error must not exceed plus or minus three degrees."

One frame of film after another.

Fluid dynamics model. Ventricular volume compensation formula. Vascular resistance equation. Functional relationship between cardiopulmonary bypass time and myocardial protective fluid concentration.

Each parameter has a corresponding calculation process. Each decision node is marked with the judgment criteria and threshold range.

This isn't about some vague, abstract feeling of surgery; it's about a complete mathematical system that we've painstakingly developed.

In the front row, a professor from Harvard Medical School bent down, pulled out a notebook from his briefcase, and quickly took notes after removing the pen cap.

In the third row, old Cohen's hands remained on his knees. Half a minute later, he took out a pen from his breast pocket and opened his hard-cover notebook.

Ye Zhen didn't even look at the audience.

His attention was entirely focused on the film. With each new frame, his explanations were precise and concise, without a single superfluous word.

Part One is over.

Part Two: Clinical Data

A standardized data summary table was projected onto the screen. Forty-six children were listed, categorized by age, weight, and diagnosis. Preoperative indicators, intraoperative data, and postoperative follow-up were all presented in the format of top international academic journals.

Ye Zhen's pointer stopped at row 37 of the table.

"In this case, acute femoral artery thrombosis occurred six hours after the operation."

A quiet commotion arose from the audience.

"The reason is that the postoperative compression hemostasis was delayed by three minutes, coupled with four high-risk factors: the child's young age, small blood vessels, mild dehydration, and high platelet aggregation tendency."

She neither covered it up nor skipped over it.

"The child's limb was successfully saved through an emergency thrombectomy. Follow-up to date shows that the limb's circulation is normal."

Next, the film was changed to the English abstract of the "Four-Level Limb Circulation Inspection System after Interventional Procedures".

"This improved positioning was established within 48 hours of the onset of the complication. It has been validated in 78 subsequent surgeries, reducing the time to detect postoperative circulatory abnormalities from an average of 42 minutes to less than 7 minutes."

Stephen sat in the center of the first row, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was tense, and his eyelids twitched involuntarily.

She actually exposed her own vulnerabilities to everyone, and even revealed the patching process and verification data.

Those who wanted to use this to attack her have completely lost their leverage.

After finishing the second part, there was a sparse applause from the audience. Ye Zhen ignored it and went straight into the third part.

"Crisis Management Standards"

The first film she posted was a screenshot of an electrocardiogram (ECG) monitor waveform.

"This six-year-old child experienced atrioventricular block during the release of the occluder. His heart rate dropped to forty beats per minute."

The entire audience lowered their breathing.

"According to standard procedure, the occluder must be withdrawn immediately. However, the child's cardiopulmonary function is unlikely to support a second surgery."

The next film is an angiographic image showing the location of the occluder within the heart chambers. The path of the conduction bundle is hand-drawn in red ink, precisely marking the location of the compression point.

"I didn't withdraw. I chose to rotate the occluder five degrees clockwise."

The indicator stick is at a point on the diagram.

"This five-degree rotation causes the edge of the umbrella disk to move one millimeter away from the surface of the His bundle. Conductivity is restored."

There was a deathly silence in the audience for a full four seconds.

Then a sudden voice came from the middle.

"My God."

The young doctors in the back row were frantically scratching their pens on the paper.

Ye Zhen then demonstrated the treatment process for vasospasm and postoperative thrombosis. Each case was broken down to the second-level timeline—the second the abnormality was detected, the second the judgment was made, the second the operation was performed, and the second the indicators returned to normal.

This is by no means metaphysics; it is a standardized project that can be learned, replicated, and promoted.

The last film was placed on the projection table.

A group photo of forty-six sick children. Some are standing, some are being held by their parents, and some are waving from wheelchairs.

Every little lip is a healthy pink.

Ye Zhen turned off the projector.

"Report concluded."

three seconds.

The applause started from the back row near the door. At first, it was sparse and hesitant. Then the middle area joined in, followed by the left and right wings.

The sound grew louder and louder like waves, almost lifting the roof off.

A few people in the front row stood up, and then a whole group of people stood up and applauded.

Stephen remained motionless. He crossed his arms and leaned firmly against the back of his chair.

Ye Zhen picked up the microphone.

"Now it's time for questions. We'll proceed in the order of registration."

The first person to stand up was a young professor of cardiac surgery at Stanford University.

"Dr. Ye, your sample did not include premature infants weighing less than three kilograms. Can the Huaxia standard be extended to this group?"

Ye Zhen replied very decisively.

"Not at the moment. My data do not support extrapolation to extremely low birth weight infants. This requires further clinical validation, preferably through a multicenter collaboration."

The young professor nodded and sat down.

The second question came from the Cleveland team. A middle-aged man in his forties stood up, his tone hard.

"Modifying the occluder intraoperatively violates the integrity standards for medical devices. The FDA would never approve such a procedure. How do you resolve the compliance issue?"

Ye Zhen took the microphone down from the stand.

"If compliance means watching a child face death—"

She paused for a moment.

"—Do you choose compliance, or do you choose to save your life?"

The entire audience erupted in uproar.

Some people clapped their hands vigorously, some shook their heads repeatedly, and some quickly jotted down the sentence in their notebooks.

The middle-aged man opened his mouth, but couldn't refute it, so he sat down dejectedly.

Over the next forty minutes, seventeen questions were posed in quick succession. These included postoperative anticoagulation protocols, algorithms for selecting occluder sizes, and team training mechanisms. Ye Zhen answered each question in turn, using data to support her points and frankly admitting that there were no definitive answers yet for those without data.

When the eighteenth questioner stood up, the entire room fell into an eerie silence once again.

Raymond Cohen. Seventy-two years old, a retired leading figure from the Cleveland Clinic.

He slowly straightened up, without using a microphone, but his loud voice was enough to carry to every corner of the large classroom.

"Dr. Ye."

Ye Zhen faced him.

"I only have one question."

He paused.

"If tomorrow, the FDA officially notifies you that Huaxia Standard will never be approved in the United States, what will you do?"

In the hall that seats 1,200 people, even the noise from the air conditioner could be heard clearly.

Ye Zhen didn't hesitate for even a second.

"I will continue to save people."

Her voice wasn't loud, but the microphone clearly delivered every syllable to the very last row.

"Whether or not the application is approved does not determine whether a child will live or die."

Cohen stood there, his notebook drooping slightly.

Five seconds.

He sat down.

The Cleveland Clinician leaned over and glanced at Cohen's notebook. The first page, which had been filled with densely written outlines of difficult questions, had been crossed out with a thick black line.