godfather of surgery

Chapter 1254 Nostalgia
In an office filled with books and documents,
Professor Liang sat listlessly in his large office chair, his face deeply lined with wrinkles, his eyes holding a complex and unspoken emotion, his phone already warm in his hand.
Zhang Chunquan was the student to whom he devoted the most effort!

In this very office, they once argued fiercely over experimental data; countless nights they spent together tending the instruments, awaiting results that could change everything; he patiently taught him how to design research projects, guided him to explore the boundaries of science, and even secretly subsidized him with his own stipend when he faced financial difficulties. In his heart, Chunquan was not merely a student, but rather a continuation of his academic life, a vessel for his unfulfilled ideals. He was once so certain that this exceptionally talented and hardworking young man would surpass him, becoming a pillar supporting the future of Chinese medicine.

On the day Zhang Chunquan left the country, Professor Liang personally saw him off at the airport. Before parting, he held Zhang Chunquan's hand and said: "Study hard, take good care of yourself, and be sure to come back after you finish your studies."

Ultimately, Zhang Chunquan chose that top-notch laboratory across the ocean and never returned.

At first, they exchanged a few emails, the tone respectful but gradually growing distant, until finally, all contact ceased. Professor Liang understood that there were better platforms and more favorable conditions there, but understanding didn't mean he wasn't heartbroken. It felt like a seedling he had carefully nurtured, a precious treasure, had been uprooted and transplanted to foreign soil, and he could only watch helplessly, even a single word of pleading seeming pale and powerless.

Professor Liang couldn't remember when they last met. When Zhang Chunquan came to visit, Professor Liang was initially quite excited. However, Zhang Chunquan's words implied that he wanted Professor Liang to help him make connections with Yang Ping, hoping to collaborate with him. Professor Liang understood that this visit wasn't to see his mentor, but rather had another purpose: he came with a mission.

"Show the guest out..." Professor Liang felt as if ice water had been poured over his heart, and the smile on his face instantly froze.

He didn't know how much pain he felt when he heard him say goodbye. The two never had any contact again after that.

...Try one more time, make one last effort, for the breakthrough plan...

His fingers trembled as they swiped across the warm screen and lit it up. That international number, so familiar yet never saved in his contacts, was etched into his heart. His thumb hovered above the green dial pad, almost able to feel the texture of the virtual keys.

Just press it, just press it... and maybe you'll hear that familiar yet unfamiliar voice.

What should he say? Should he issue a command as a teacher? Or… simply, as an old man longing for his disciple, softly ask, “Chunquan, are you alright? If you’re tired, come back…”

His heart clenched painfully, a mixture of years of lingering loss, indescribable heartache, and a hint of fear—a fear he himself was unwilling to admit—of being rejected again. He could almost hear the polite but distant response from the other end of the phone, and see the deeper disappointment that conversation might have brought.

That finger, bearing countless thoughts and heavy expectations, remained suspended in the air for a long time before finally falling limply to the ground. The screen's light, dimmed from prolonged inactivity, quietly went out.

He ultimately didn't make the call.

Some wounds, once scabbed over, shouldn't be easily reopened. Some hopes, once shattered, should be buried deep in the heart.

He let out a long, silent sigh, and gently pushed the phone, now with its screen off, to the far corner of the table, as if that would seal away his turbulent emotions.

But that straight spine, which had stood upright all his life, appeared somewhat hunched under the lamplight.

……

The MIT Whitehead Biolab enjoys a prestigious reputation worldwide. Professor Chunquan Zhang is one of the co-directors of the lab. At only 38 years old, he is already a recognized top scholar in the field, with the honorary halo that countless young scientists dream of.

However, his heart was far less at peace than the scenery outside the window.

The words of the young Chen Xiao echoed in his mind, lingering for a long time.

Several Chinese science news articles were spread out on the table, all with front-page headlines about the "Breaking the Barrier" project. Those familiar place names and those impassioned sentences were like invisible needles, piercing the deepest, most untouched corners of his heart.

"Chunquan, your talent is the best I've ever seen. I sent you to the United States in the hope that you could learn the most cutting-edge things and come back in the future to help advance China's biomedical engineering!" The earnest look in his mentor's eyes as he patted his shoulder at the airport when he saw him off is still vivid in his mind.

His mentor treated him like his own son and imparted all his knowledge to him.

But he broke his promise.

The world-class resources, free and open academic atmosphere, and astonishing achievements of the Whitehead Laboratory in its early years, like a sweet spiderweb, firmly bound him. One term after another, from postdoctoral fellow to assistant professor, and now to tenured professor and laboratory director. His plan to return to China changed from "soon" to "wait a little longer," and ultimately became a long-forgotten promise he himself no longer wanted to mention. He knew that Professor Liang's heart, from initial anticipation to later inquiries, and finally to silence, had been wounded beyond repair.

Now, the "Breaking the Barrier" plan has exploded like a thunderclap in his seemingly stable and successful world. He sees his former classmates, and even younger students several years his junior, all giving up lucrative opportunities abroad and resolutely returning home to throw themselves into that battle, full of unknowns but of extraordinary significance. A long-lost feeling called "passion" is stirring within him.

Go back?
This thought surfaced so clearly for the first time, accompanied by immense fear and a painful weighing of reality. Everything he possessed in the United States—a top-tier academic standing, ample research funding, a world-class team, a comfortable family life, and the education his children received—was the result of over a decade of hard work. Giving it all up would require immense courage. Moreover, he knew all too well that his past "breach of trust" had already alienated his mentor and many colleagues back home. How would he face them if he went back?

The intense inner struggle kept him awake at night. Several times he picked up his phone, found Teacher Liang's number, his finger hovering over the dial button, but he never had the courage to press it. Guilt, self-blame, and an indescribable feeling of being close to home made him finally put the phone down in despair.

"Teacher...I..." He murmured to himself, his words turning into a long sigh. He knew that some paths, once missed at that point in time, are difficult to revisit. He couldn't be like those young students, abandoning everything and embarking on their journeys unburdened.

Just then, the secretary knocked gently and came in, placing a folder on his desk: "Professor Zhang, this is the final list of candidates for this year's doctoral admissions interviews and the evaluation report. You need to make the final confirmation and sign it."

Zhang Chunquan composed himself, sat back in his office chair, and opened the folder. Inside were more than a dozen exceptionally outstanding application materials from top students around the world, including many elites from MIT, Stanford, and Cambridge.

His gaze slowly swept over the unfamiliar names and photos. When he saw the names of several applicants who were clearly of Chinese descent, or even directly from top universities in mainland China, his fingers paused. These young faces, their eyes filled with a thirst for science and aspirations for the future, were strikingly similar to his own back then.

A complex mix of emotions welled up inside him. He couldn't go back in person to make amends, but perhaps he could do something about it.

He picked up his pen and, without much hesitation, solemnly ticked the names of those Chinese students on the final admission list. His choice wasn't entirely based on academic scores, even though they were already extremely high; rather, it carried a sense of guilt that he himself couldn't quite explain.

"Alright then." He handed the signed folder to his secretary, his tone calm, but inwardly he felt as if he had completed a silent ritual.

He knew it was insignificant, perhaps even unknown to anyone. But it was perhaps the only thing he could do at that moment, a silent and heavy form of compensation for himself and for that distant homeland.

……

Southeast Asia, Malaysia.

In the afternoon light of Southeast Asia, sunlight filtered through the palm leaves, casting dappled shadows in the garden of the Guo family mansion. This white estate, originally built during the colonial era, was shrouded in an unusual solemnity. Guo Jingyao, nearly eighty years old, stood before the French windows of his study, toying with a Qianlong Tongbao coin, worn smooth by countless years of wear—the only memento his great-grandfather carried with him when he left his hometown.

"Is everyone here?" His voice was old but still steady.

“Father, everyone is already waiting in the conference room.” The eldest son, Guo Xiuwen, responded softly, but his gaze unconsciously fell on the open document on his father’s desk—the “Breaking the Wall Plan White Paper.”

Guo Jingyao slowly turned around, the afterglow of the setting sun gilding his figure. He walked past the bookshelf, his fingers gently tracing a set of yellowed "Complete Works of Sun Yat-sen," a rare edition that his grandfather had specially purchased from Shanghai in 1925 when he founded a Chinese school in Singapore.

Inside the conference room, more than twenty members of the Guo family, spanning three generations, sat upright. In the center of the long sandalwood table, a pot of Fujian daffodils bloomed quietly.

"As you all probably already know, I went to the provincial capital of Nandu a few days ago." Guo Jingyao's voice rang out in the quiet room, each word carrying immense weight. "I brought back this plan." He held up the document in his hand, his fingertips trembling slightly.

His gaze swept across the faces of everyone present: his eldest son, Xiuwen, was calm and composed; his second son, Xiuwu, was ambitious and enterprising; and then there were his grandchildren who had received modern educations in Europe and America. Some of them were confused, some were expectant, and some were indifferent.

"I know that some of you see this as just another charitable donation," Guo Jingyao's voice suddenly rose, "but I want to tell you, this is the destiny of our Guo family, a promise flowing in our blood."

The old man's gaze drifted into the distance, as if transcending the barriers of time and space.

“In the twenty-third year of the Guangxu Emperor’s reign, our great-grandfather carried a small bag and boarded a cargo ship bound for Penang at Xiamen Port. Before leaving, he knelt under the banyan tree at the entrance of the village, picked up a handful of yellow soil and put it into a sachet.” Guo Jingyao’s voice trembled slightly. “At that time, he said: If I can make a living in Southeast Asia, I will definitely return to my hometown.”

However, this promise has been waiting for generations.

Guo Jingyao slowly walked to the wall and lifted a map covered with silk. It was a hand-drawn map of the routes by which overseas Chinese in Southeast Asia supported the War of Resistance against Japan, with donation channels and material transfer stations marked on it.

"In 1937, when the telegram about the Marco Polo Bridge Incident reached Penang, my grandfather was cutting the ribbon for a new rubber plantation." The old man's fingers gently traced the map. "He tore up the congratulatory message on the spot, climbed onto the stage, and shouted: 'China is in danger!'"

"At that time, the Chinese in Southeast Asia launched an unprecedented wave of resistance against Japan and aid to China. Street vendors selling wonton noodles donated half of their daily income; rubber tappers in the rubber plantations donated all the wages they had saved for half a year. My grandfather even sold three properties and, through the 'Southeast Asian Overseas Chinese Relief Association for Refugees in the Motherland' led by Mr. Tan Kah Kee, sent ten truckloads of medicine to the southwestern rear area."

“The one I remember most clearly is a rickshaw driver.” Guo Jingyao’s eyes reddened slightly. “He would pull his rickshaw through the streets and alleys of Penang every day, and after finishing work, he would always come to our door and take out a copper coin that was still warm from his body.”

"In 1942, the Japanese army trampled across the Malay Peninsula, and my grandfather was put on the wanted list for his active support of China. The whole family was forced to flee to a plantation deep in the jungle for refuge. Even in those darkest days, my grandfather still insisted on teaching his children to read the Three Character Classic and write Chinese characters in a thatched hut."

"Before he died, my grandfather called me to his bedside and handed me a key." Guo Jingyao walked to the safe and took out a yellowed and brittle ledger. "This is a record of all the Guo family's overseas assets. He said, 'These assets will one day be used to serve the motherland.'"

The conference room was silent; even the most restless young generation held their breath.

Guo Jingyao's voice began to choke: "In the 1980s, when I finally had the chance to return to my ancestral home in Fujian for the first time, I brought with me a portrait of my grandfather. I knelt in front of that dilapidated ancestral house for an entire afternoon."

He turned on the projector, and an old photograph appeared on the screen: a thin boy standing at the Penang pier, gazing at the sea to the northwest.

“This is me in 1939,” Guo Jingyao said softly. “Back then, I would go to the dock every day because the adults said that if you went north from there, you could return to China.”

A long silence filled the conference room. Outside the window, the sunset over the South Seas was ablaze with color, painting the entire sky crimson.

"Now," Guo Jingyao slowly stood up, his gaze piercing, "our motherland needs to break through technological barriers and upgrade its industries. Do those Westerners think they can still force us to bow down with guns and cannons like they did a hundred years ago? No! This time, we will use our wisdom, our perseverance, and our own Chinese hands to break down this invisible wall!"

He slammed his hand on the table, causing the pot of daffodils to tremble slightly.

"I have decided to initially invest 10 billion US dollars to establish the 'Breaking Barriers Fund.' At the same time, we will set up six talent recruitment centers globally, offering the best conditions to attract top Chinese scientists back to China."

"Father!" The second son, Xiuwu, couldn't help but stand up. "This is almost half of our working capital! Several major projects the group is currently undertaking will be affected!"

"Then let's pause!" The old man's voice left no room for argument. "Xiuwu, remember this: money can be earned again, but the nation's opportunities are fleeting."

Guo Jingyao returned to the main seat, placed his hands on the table, and leaned forward slightly.
"My children, our Guo family has struggled in Southeast Asia for four generations, accumulating wealth comparable to that of a nation. But the true significance of this wealth lies not in allowing us to live a luxurious life, but in our ability to contribute to our nation and our motherland when history once again stands at a crossroads."

His gaze returned to the window, to the sky bathed in the glow of the sunset, and his voice suddenly softened:

"I've always treasured the sachet my great-grandfather took with him when he left his hometown. The soil inside has almost completely evaporated, but that longing for his homeland has taken root and flourished in our hearts."

"Today, we finally have the opportunity to let this acacia tree, which has been adrift for a century, re-establish its roots in the soil of our motherland."

Tears finally streamed down the face of this weathered old man, dripping onto the yellowed ledger and blurring a century of homesickness.