Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

After staring into the doctor's eyes for a few seconds, Zhang Qiliang nodded.

next.

"no!"

Zhang Qiliang nodded.

Next one.

"no!"

Zhang Qiliang continued to nod.

There must be some animal doctors in this world.

It's hard to say whether the absolute number will be too small.

But it has to be said that those who can earn that kind of money are truly not ordinary people.

At least, Zhang Qiliang didn't find a single one in this dormitory building.

--------

[BBC Live Broadcast]

The scene shifts back to the London studio, where the host turns to a special guest—a healthcare policy researcher based in Tai Yang.

"So, in your observation, how prevalent is this situation in the Da Yang medical system?"

The guest adjusted his glasses: "Based on tonight's live broadcast, none of the doctors questioned at X Province Cancer Hospital were confirmed to have 'deliberately used unfavorable methods.' Considering this gentleman's abilities—we all know he possesses lie detector-level insight—this result is highly credible."

"How do you explain this phenomenon?"

"Several aspects. First, the salary structure of doctors in Dayang has improved significantly over the past decade, especially for those within the public hospital system, whose basic income and social security have reached the upper-middle level of society. Second, the supervision and information transparency of the medical system have been strengthened in recent years. Tools such as electronic medical records, prescription reviews, and intelligent medical insurance audits have greatly reduced the room for 'intentionally harming patients for profit'."

The host followed up, "So you believe that doctors in Da Yang generally have higher moral standards?"

The guest smiled and said, “I don’t really like using labels like ‘moral standards.’ More accurately, it’s the institutional environment and the risk-reward ratio of the profession that determine behavioral choices. When a doctor’s annual income is respectable enough, the cost of violating the rules is high enough, and the probability of being caught is high enough, ‘not harming others’ becomes the rational choice. This has nothing to do with which country it is—but if a country can ensure that the vast majority of doctors are in this rational choice range, then that country’s healthcare system is indeed enviable.”

[CNN Live Broadcast]

Jack Thompson switched the camera back to his own shot, his expression complex.

"Gentlemen, I have to say something. I've been covering healthcare in the US for fifteen years and I've seen far too much—insurance companies refusing coverage, pharmaceutical companies charging exorbitant prices, and hospital bills that can bankrupt a middle-class family. We always say 'American healthcare is the best in the world,' but how many people are using insulin sparingly because they can't afford it? How many people receive astronomical bills after calling an ambulance?"

He paused.

"Tonight in Y City, a man who can throw buildings with his bare hands went around asking doctors, 'Have you ever intentionally harmed a patient?' He asked dozens of doctors, and not a single one said yes. Not a single one."

"I'm not exaggerating Yang. I'm criticizing ourselves."

Live stream chat:

"Jack is dropping the truth bomb."

"He's right. American healthcare is a scam."

"A bad doctor can ruin a family."

“I am an American doctor. I cannot imagine such censorship existing in a system.”

"As a doctor who has practiced medicine in the United States for twenty years, I watched tonight's live broadcast and was deeply moved. It's not because I envy the doctors in Da Yang for being so 'noble,' but because doctors here are being forced to become more and more like businessmen by insurance companies, hospital management, and pharmaceutical companies. When you spend six hours a day haggling with insurance companies instead of talking to patients, 'not harming people' becomes a luxury. Doctors in Y City, do you know how lucky you are?"

"Only in a country like this can fertile ground be created for the birth of quedexia!"

--------

Half an hour later, Zhang Qiliang left the dormitory building.

But this time, Zhang Qiliang did not leave the hospital.

Instead, they went straight into the inpatient department.

Thirteenth floor, hospice care department.

This is a ward specifically for terminally ill patients—those who have no hope of recovery and only have a few months or even weeks left to live.

The goal here is not to cure the disease, but to minimize the suffering and maximize the dignity of patients in their final days.

The corridor was quiet, with the occasional nurse pushing a medicine cart passing by, the sound of the wheels rolling over the floor deliberately minimized. Most of the ward doors were ajar, with warm yellow light shining from inside.

Zhang Qiliang walked to the nurses' station.

"How many patients are there tonight?"

The nurse on duty had already looked up – such a large group of people pouring in couldn't possibly go unnoticed.

In fact, there are plenty of smart people in this world.

Zhang Qiliang's most likely course of action has long been clearly outlined in dozens of research centers.

Therefore, the contingency plan was also very clear.

Unlike the staff of government agencies and various dormitories, after Zhang Qiliang entered the inpatient ward, he was only allowed to continue to be accompanied by two self-media anchors who had undergone countless covert reviews, as well as hosts from several international media outlets such as CNN, BBC, NHK, and AFP—and their photographers.

Despite the large number of foreigners present, the on-duty nurse recognized Zhang Qiliang at first glance.

This is the true value of being the world's number one in terms of attention.

“Ten…seventeen.” Her voice was a little tight. “Seven of them…may be in the next few days.”

Zhang Qiliang nodded.

He walked slowly down the corridor.

The doors to each ward were half-open, revealing the beds, bedside tables, IV stands, and the bodies on the beds, worn down to mere skeletons by the disease.

The first ward was empty.

The bed was covered in messy bedding, and there was a half-full glass of water on the bedside table with the straw leaning against the rim.

The nurse was changing the sheets, moving very gently, as if afraid of waking something.

"Where is he?" Zhang Qiliang asked.

The nurse looked up, recognized him, and paused in her movements.

"...He passed away in the early hours of the morning," she said. "Very peacefully, with his family by his side."

Zhang Qiliang nodded.

The door to the second ward was open, and people were talking inside.

It was a middle-aged man's voice, deliberately kept low, but speaking quickly: "Dad, don't worry, I've taken care of the mortgage, you don't need to worry about it..."

An old man lay on the bed, as thin as a sheet of paper, with sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones.

His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out; he could only look at his son with his cloudy eyes.

The son's eyes were red, but he kept smiling.

"The doctor said your test results have improved a lot in the past two days, and you'll be able to go home soon..." His voice trembled slightly when he said the word "go home".

"Hello, sir." Zhang Qiliang entered the room.

"Hello..." The middle-aged man turned around, his pupils suddenly contracting: "Ah, it's you!"

"Hmm." Zhang Qiliang nodded, continuing to look at the old man on the bed: "Can the old man hear me?"

The old man nodded vigorously.

"So you recognize me?"

The old man continued to nod.

His lips moved a few times, as if he wanted to say something, but only a faint, breathy sound came from his throat.

The middle-aged man quickly moved closer, put his ear to his father's mouth, listened for a while, then straightened up, his eyes red-rimmed, but he forced a smile: "My dad said he knows you. A couple of days ago, when he was in good spirits, he even praised you to the patient in the next bed."

"They say what you did is very gratifying, that those corrupt officials should be dealt with this way, and that finally someone in this world is standing up for the people..."

As he spoke, his voice lowered, probably realizing that the person in front of him didn't need such flattery.

“Hehe,” Zhang Qiliang chuckled, “Old man, I’d like to ask you a few questions—let me preface this by saying it might be a bit offensive, but if you don’t like it, I won’t bother you any longer.”

The old man's eyes lit up immediately.

Those eyes, which had already become mostly cloudy, seemed to be ignited by something at that moment.

His breathing quickened, and his fingers twitched slightly, as if he were trying to grasp something.

—Standing before me is a deity who can even cure intellectual disabilities!

“Then I’ll ask,” Zhang Qiliang stepped closer so the old man could hear him clearly: “…In your life, have you ever done anything immoral or unethical?”

This is no small offense!

However... let's assume there was a prior agreement...

"You've come to the right person!" The middle-aged man didn't mind at all, and even smiled. "My dad has been an honest and upright man all his life. Everyone in the neighborhood speaks highly of him."

He started counting on his fingers.

“A few years ago, the water pipe in Aunt Li’s house across the street burst. In the middle of the night, my dad rushed over in his slippers and helped fix it until the early hours of the morning, soaking wet. Aunt Li wanted to pay him, but he said something like, ‘We’re neighbors, why should I pay you?’ He absolutely refused.”

“There’s also Old Sun downstairs. He has trouble walking, and my dad helps him buy groceries every few days. He’s been doing this for years. Every time he buys groceries, he picks out the best ones and brings them upstairs, keeping the bruised and battered ones for himself. Old Sun’s son brings him a pack of cigarettes during holidays, and he’ll talk about it for half a month, saying that the man is too kind.”

As the middle-aged man spoke, he began to use more gestures.

“The winter before last, a stray cat came to our neighborhood. It was skin and bones and was rummaging through the trash cans for food. My dad saw it and brought a sausage from home. After that, the cat came every day, and my dad fed it every day. He even went to the market to ask the fishmonger for fish offal, cooked it, and mixed it with rice. People said he was addicted to raising cats, but he was stubborn and said, ‘I just felt sorry for it.’”

"And also... twenty years ago, the work unit allocated housing... my dad... my dad..."

"My dad... shamelessly... fought for a better set of clothes..."

Fortunately, the middle-aged man remembered who was standing in front of him, and at the last moment, he managed to choke back the words "donated three months' worth of retirement pension to the disaster area" and "voluntarily swept the stairwells for ten years after retirement".

Zhang Qiliang listened with a smile, his eyes fixed on the old man the whole time.

Perhaps realizing the importance and the possibility, the old man thought about the first question for a full three minutes before shaking his head seriously.

107 All property

“…Okay,” Zhang Qiliang looked intently into the old man’s eyes for a few seconds beside the bed, “…The second question is, are you willing to use all your assets to solve your illness?”

The old man seemed a little confused.

Seeing this, the middle-aged man quickly explained, "My father... doesn't have much property left. His savings have been almost entirely spent on hospitalization, and the apartment his work unit allocated to him has been sold. Now... relatives and friends have chipped in a little. You may have heard what happened earlier, and I'm not afraid to admit it, but my company helped me with an advance on this month's mortgage. If we're talking about assets... maybe all he has left is the old, dilapidated house that nobody wants and a few acres of land... but we can't sell those..."

"Hmm," Zhang Qiliang looked at the old man, "Are you willing?"

The old man nodded vigorously.

Zhang Qiliang raised his hand.

Everyone, including the viewers in front of the live broadcast camera, clearly saw that a layer of faint black mist emanated from the old man's body. It swirled, churned, gradually solidified, flew into Zhang Qiliang's hand, and burrowed into his palm.

After doing all this, Zhang Qiliang turned around directly.

"Where should I hand over the money?" came the urgent question from behind.

“Medical Insurance Center,” Zhang Qiliang answered, glancing at the uniformed officer beside him who had remained silent but had been following him the whole time: “Right?”

"You're right."

Leaving the ward and stepping into the corridor, Zhang Qiliang entered the third ward.

The door to the third ward was ajar, and an elderly woman was staying inside.

She lay on her side, facing the window, breathing shallowly and rapidly. The oxygen mask was pressed against her thin face, with gauze padding the edges to prevent damage to her skin.

On the bedside table was an unopened box of pastries, next to a family photo—in the photo, she had jet-black hair and was smiling, showing her teeth.

Two middle-aged men were sitting by the bed, one standing at the head of the bed and the other sitting at the foot of the bed, while a woman was tidying up the things on the bedside table.

Upon seeing Zhang Qiliang walk in, the group paused for a moment before standing up almost simultaneously.

"...You...ah, it's you...you've come?" The eldest son spoke first.

Zhang Qiliang nodded, which was considered a greeting.

Walking to the bedside, Zhang Qiliang leaned down slightly.

"Grandpa, can you hear me?"

The old lady slowly opened her eyes.

Those eyes were already quite cloudy, but they immediately lit up the moment they saw the face in front of them.