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

The image on the projection screen was still shaking when, without warning, a thick, dark red burst forth from the grayish hue, instantly filling the already extremely narrow field of vision.

That red, even through the blurry screen and unclear image quality, still exuded a chilling, bloody aura.

It's a ruptured artery.

On the operating table, this condition has a specific term—catastrophic hemorrhage.

The experts in the meeting room, who had been leaning back in their chairs with scrutinizing or even mocking expressions, instantly sat up straight. The previous chorus of coughs and the rustling of papers falling silent. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the blood-stained screen, and many instinctively held their breath.

The old professor sitting in the front row had his gold-rimmed glasses slip halfway down his nose. He didn't bother to steady them, his upper body stiffly leaning forward, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair tightly.

He's an expert. Precisely because he's an expert, he understands the despair in this scene.

A mere six-centimeter incision is meant for delicate work like embroidery in a keyhole. Now, with the patient's vision completely obscured by the gushing blood, it's like a blind man riding a blind horse, approaching a deep pool in the middle of the night. In this situation, even the most skilled surgeon's first reaction would be to widen the incision to stop the bleeding, but that takes time. And the patient clearly doesn't have that time.

Thirty seconds of shock, three minutes of brain death.

This is a hopeless situation that cannot be salvaged.

Just when everyone had mentally pronounced the surgery a death sentence, the blood-stained hand on the screen moved.

There was no frantic, haphazard sucking, nor any attempt to stuff the unseen tear with gauze.

Ye Zhen's left index finger, like a fish that can precisely catch its prey even in murky water, probed into the depths of that pool of scarlet blood with extreme composure and even a strange rhythm. Her movements were so steady that it gave one the illusion that she was not facing a gushing artery, but picking a flower in her own backyard.

Immediately afterwards, the hemostat in his right hand was swiftly lowered, following the guidance of his left index finger.

For a moment, the scene seemed to freeze.

"Click".

A crisp, metallic clanging sound, amplified by the huge speakers on both sides of the venue, clearly reached everyone's ears. The sound was crisp and clean, without a trace of hesitation.

The jet of blood that had been gushing wildly on the screen stopped abruptly after that crisp sound.

It was as if an invisible hand had forcefully pressed the pause button.

From bleeding to exploration, and then to the application of hemostatic forceps.

The entire process took only two breaths.

The president of Siemens Healthineers was still in that open-mouthed position, the expensive Cuban cigar in his mouth had somehow fallen out and landed right on his expensive wool trousers. The dark red cigarette butt burned through the fabric, emitting a burnt smell.

He didn't even frown; he just stared blankly at the screen, uttering a meaningless monosyllable: "God..."

How is that possible?

In a situation where vision is completely lost, how can one accurately determine the bleeding point and perform clamping based solely on the fleeting moment when the fingertip touches the pulsating blood vessel? This requires not only a thorough understanding of anatomical structures but also an almost animalistic intuition.

The venue was eerily quiet.

All the mockery, disdain, and contempt from before have now turned into a deathly silence. Only the heavy breathing of hundreds of people fills the air, like the strained working of bellows, muffled and oppressive.

Ye Zhen stood beside the podium. Her red dress stood out starkly in the dim light, like a burning fire, yet as cold as a block of ice that had stood for a thousand years.

She didn't look at the screen; her gaze swept over the group of still-dazed foreign faces in the audience. She spoke in impeccable Berlin-accented German, her voice perfectly calm and even:

"In the Western medical system, surgery is often called the 'art of the eye,' and you believe that 'seeing is healing.'"

"But in the East, we have more faith in our fingertips."

She raised her hand, her long, slender, white fingers lightly touching the air, as if touching the hearts of everyone present.

"When your hands are familiar enough with the 13,000 anatomical points of the human body, the texture of every muscle, and the elasticity of every blood vessel, then the temperature of the blood, the elasticity of the tissues, and the frequency of the arterial pulsation will become your eyes."

"Even with my eyes closed, I know where the knife should land."

"That's called having connections to the highest levels."

In the corner, Xu Wenqiang's face trembled with excitement. His fists, which had been clenched in anger, were still clenched, but now they were clenched in excitement. He looked at the foreign experts around him who usually looked down on Chinese doctors and were now craning their necks like roosters with their throats choked, and the resentment in his heart instantly vanished.

That was so damn satisfying!

This is technological superiority! This is the power from the East!

What defines a master craftsman? This is it!

The recording on the screen continued, and without the interference of questioning, every action in the footage was magnified infinitely.

The experts no longer cared about lunch, nor whether the video was real or fake. They were like a group of first-year medical students, staring greedily at the screen, afraid of missing a single detail.

"Is that pericardial detachment? God, in that tiny gap the size of a fingernail?" someone couldn't help but exclaim.

"Look at her needle holder! That angle... she's doing a vascular anastomosis! My God, she's doing blind suturing!"

Exclamations of amazement rose and fell; the once-cold academic hall was now surprisingly lively.

The scene has progressed to its most crucial moment.

The deformed heart has been corrected. Next comes the ultimate challenge of the entire surgery: how to complete the complex heart reconstruction and suturing through a mere six-centimeter incision.

This is a problem that is currently troubling the entire cardiothoracic surgery community, and it is a solution that all the experts present could not come up with even after racking their brains.

Everyone held their breath, their bodies involuntarily leaning forward. The Siemens CEO didn't even care about his still-smoking trousers; he wished he could just lie down on the curtain.

In the video, Ye Zhen's hand is holding a suture needle.

The needle tip gleamed coldly as it was steadily aimed at the heart muscle.

That was an incredibly skillful needlework.

Just when everyone's appetite was at its peak, in that breathtaking, highly anticipated moment—

The screen suddenly stopped moving.

Without any warning, without a curtain call, without giving anyone any mental preparation, the screen froze instantly.

The air in the room seemed to freeze.

It felt like listening to the climax of a masterpiece when a string suddenly snapped; or like watching a race car about to cross the finish line when its engine suddenly stalled.

uncomfortable.

It's incredibly frustrating.

Hundreds of gazes shot towards the podium like sharp swords in an instant.

Ye Zhen's finger was pressed on the pause button on the player. Her movement was light, yet it carried an undeniable resolve.

She raised her wrist and glanced at the slightly worn Shanghai brand watch on it. The second hand on the dial had just skipped the last mark, pointing precisely to 12:10:00.

"Smack."

She closed her notebook and tidied up the empty desk on the podium.

Then, she looked up.

Facing hundreds of bloodshot, eager, and even somewhat angry eyes below the stage, Ye Zhen's face remained expressionless. There was neither triumphant boasting nor apologetic fear.

She simply glanced around the room indifferently.

"I'm sorry, everyone."

Her voice was cold and clear, echoing in the deathly silent hall.

"Ten minutes are up."