The Godfather of Surgery

"Mission complete, reward: 2400 points."

Yang Ping couldn't believe how quickly he had earned thousands of points. His confidence surged. It seemed that he could rely on finger replantation to accumulate his first pot of gold. He had originally thought that there would be no opportunity to perform replantations, but now it seemed that wasn't the case. His plan began to take shape in his mind.

Yang Ping entered the system space again and went to the store to purchase a few basic skills. He decided to strike while the iron was hot and completed the training.

With that, his points were almost depleted, leaving only about a thousand. Things were looking tight.

Song Zimo, Zhang Lin, and the anesthetist nurse sent the patient back to the ward, and the others dispersed, each reflecting on the surgery.

In the changing room, Director Han and Yang Ping, both dressed in surgical gowns, sat on a long bench, leaning back to rest. Director Han pulled out a cigarette and handed it to Yang Ping. "Do you smoke?"

Yang Ping shook his head and smiled. "Thanks, Director, I don't smoke. My tolerance for alcohol isn't great either. If this were decades ago, I definitely wouldn't have passed the interview for this position. I might have been able to manage the iron ball, but the alcohol, it's just a mess."

Director Han burst out laughing. "What a pity! The doctor team loses one more drinker, and China loses another doctor. It's a double loss!"

Han took a sniff of the cigarette, then put it away, seemingly deciding not to smoke after all. He might have been worried about second-hand smoke affecting Yang Ping. He leaned back in his chair again. "Replantation of severed fingers isn't that common in the People's Hospital. I'm curious, how did you get your microsurgery skills?"

"Director, I don't really know why, but when I'm under the microscope, I feel very comfortable, just like performing surgery with my eyes directly on the patient," Yang Ping's face turned a little red.

"You should take the time to train the others and raise their skill levels. A single flower blooming doesn't make spring, only when a hundred flowers bloom does spring arrive," Director Han said meaningfully.

Yang Ping nodded. "I understand, Director. I'll actively communicate with everyone and improve together."

Director Han gave him a thumbs-up. "Good spirit!"

"Oh, and if you encounter any difficulties or have any requests, don't hesitate to bring them up. If you have any ideas, feel free to share them anytime, whether they are mature or not. You can call me 'Old Han' privately. Tian Yuan, Song Zimo, and the others all call me that. It's more casual that way. Sanbo's platform is huge. You can show off your talents freely here," Director Han closed his eyes, clearly tired.

The two of them had a quick meal in the hospital cafeteria. Yang Ping was eager to get back and rest.

To get home, he had to cross a pedestrian bridge. The bridge was wide and lively, with stalls lining both sides.

There were fortune-tellers, sellers of small accessories, phone screen protectors, and even antique dealers—it was like a small flea market.

"Expert appointments? Need one?" A bald man chewing gum subtly pulled Yang Ping aside.

Perhaps Yang Ping hadn't walked across the bridge enough times, so the bald man didn't recognize that he was a doctor. Yang Ping glanced sideways, and the bald man pulled out a stack of appointment slips from his pocket. "Sanbo, Nandu Medical University's hospital, Traditional Chinese Medicine University's hospital, People's Hospital, Chinese Medicine Hospital—all have appointments. This one's from a national doctor. You go to the hospital to register, and if you can't get an appointment in three months, I'll... I'll eat poop while doing a handstand..."

Yang Ping waved his hand and shook his head. "Brother, with that big bald head of yours and all the dragon and tiger tattoos on your body, who would dare buy your tickets?"

The bald man looked confused, scratching his head as if he had just realized something.

An elderly man with a beard sat on the ground with a shabby cloth spread out, displaying piles of Chinese medicinal herbs. A piece of canvas was set up with big words written in traditional characters: "Passed down through 18 generations, herbs cure diseases instantly."

"This is impressive!" Yang Ping squatted down.

"What can you treat?" The old man, who was clearly a young man in his thirties with a beard, spoke quietly.

"From minor issues like impotence, premature ejaculation, small breasts, freckles, and toenail fungus, to major ones like hepatitis and tumors. Traditional Chinese medicine, no side effects. If it doesn't work after three doses, we refund you." The man added.

"Refund? You're setting up a stall here. How do you refund?" Yang Ping was skeptical.

"Don't worry, I sit here every day. People in this area all know my name. My ancestors were royal physicians. The 18th generation inherited the secret skills. See, these hospitals may be big and impressive, but many patients who can't be treated go to me. If I didn't have the skill, I'd have been chased away long ago."

"A true expert among the people."

"These results could win a Nobel Prize if they were publicly known."

Meanwhile, another young man was quietly offering phone screen protection for one yuan each. Yang Ping had already had at least ten screens put on his phone by the time he was done.

The sound of a gong being struck caught his attention.

A disabled man, his legs amputated at the knees, used his hands to crawl a few steps before sitting down to strike a copper bowl. The bowl was already filled with money—some one-yuan, some ten-yuan, and even a hundred-yuan bill.

In front of him was a red paper with large brush-written words detailing a tragic story: "Work accident, fell from a building, boss ran away, parents hospitalized, wife ran off with someone else, daughter can't afford college."

Whether it was true or not didn't matter. The man had it tough, exposed to the wind and sun. Yang Ping pulled out some change and tossed a ten-yuan note into the copper bowl.

The man bowed repeatedly, his eyes gleaming as they focused on the red bill in Yang Ping's hand.

"Stop bowing, your legs will fall off," Yang Ping said, pointing at the man's fake legs.

"Damn, you exposed me?"

Yang Ping pulled out another ten-yuan note and tossed it into the bowl, saying nothing. It wasn't easy for anyone.

"Antiques, from the Qing Dynasty. Only one thousand." An old scholar adjusted his glasses.

"Do you have any Tang Sancai? I'm buying in bulk," Yang Ping asked, touching a ceramic piece.

The old scholar hesitated before shaking his head. "No."

Yang Ping's phone vibrated. It was a message from Song Zimo: "Dr. Yang, have you eaten?"

"Just finished."

"Can you come to the lab?" Song Zimo sounded a bit embarrassed.

The orthopedic lab, called a "laboratory," was essentially a large room for training operations.

Inside were microscopes, arthroscopes, and other equipment used for training young doctors. These training materials were expensive and hospitals generally couldn't afford them. Only top-tier hospitals like Sanbo would invest in such resources.

It was rare for them to interact unless it was a formal occasion. Today, Song Zimo had called him personally. What was going on?

Yang Ping returned to the department. At the end of the corridor was a large room, the lab. The door wasn't fully closed, just slightly ajar, and a faint light leaked out. Yang Ping gently pushed the door open.

Inside, Song Zimo was sitting at a microscope, practicing.

The diligent second-generation rich kid—just like the saying goes: "Not only are they wealthier than you, but they also work harder than you."

When he heard someone enter, Song Zimo turned around. "Come, come, Senior Brother. I'm fast and steady when practicing, but today, during surgery, I've been too fast with too much force. My hand's not steady, and I can't get the speed right. What should I do?"

"Senior Brother?" Below the associate director and chief physician, Song Zimo was the undisputed eldest senior brother in the department.

Hearing that made Yang Ping feel both honored and surprised.

"What's going on? You're not resting? Still practicing?" Song Zimo gave up his seat. Yang Ping sat down and leaned his eyes close to the microscope.

In his field of view, on the fixing board, a 0.05mm simulated blood vessel was perfectly sutured—a very standard match.

Song Zimo was truly a genius.

These simulated blood vessels were expensive training supplies. Only hospitals like Sanbo, willing to spend money, could afford to build such labs.

Famous hand surgery hospitals like Jishuitan, 401, and 89 hospitals all had their own labs, with many rabbits and mice in training.

Connecting rabbit ears and rat tails was more realistic but inefficient. With these artificial blood vessels, you could take as many as you wanted, of all sizes, and practice as long as you needed—provided the hospital had the money to support it.

Now, Song Zimo was practicing with a 0.05mm blood vessel—about the size of the blood vessels in a newborn's fingers. The blood vessels in the baby's finger that Yang Ping had reattached earlier were even finer.

"Today, during surgery, I couldn't speed up

. I had to go very slow. If I sped up a little, my hand wasn't steady, and my movements became too large. How do I fix that?" Song Zimo scratched his neck, looking frustrated.

Actually, he was already quite impressive. A 0.05mm blood vessel sutured so perfectly.

But he was up against Yang Ping.

What could be done?