The alley of the Jinshui Fish Market is very narrow, flanked by short old brick houses.
Vendors on tricycles delivering goods, their wheels rolling over the uneven pavent, making a "clunk clunk" sound.
In the seafood shops, baskets full of green clams and white shrimp are stacked; ice fragnts lting on the concrete ground, the salty fishy odor perating the whole street.
Deep within this old coastal district, lies a hidden black clinic without a sign.
In the waiting room outside, an old TV is crackling and buzzing with the midday news.
Inside, the transford operating room, the shadowless lamp shining blindingly bright.
On the operating table, Fire Dragon is stripped to the waist, with his chest and abdon wounds gaping open.
His skin, repeatedly wiped with antiseptic, glows with a cold sheen.
Three figures surround the table.
The surgeon wears a mask and a cloth cap, revealing only a pair of eyes.
Those eyes are exceptionally bright, sharp as an eagle’s, yet deep and tranquil like an ancient well.
anwhile, the instrunt in his hand seems to be an extension of his fingers,
every surgical motion is precise and swift, leaving no unnecessary attempts.
"Give so more light."
His voice is deep but resonant throughout the operating room.
The young assistant on the left promptly adjusts the shadowless lamp, the beam pressed down an inch, clearly illuminating the wound.
The slightly older black market doctor on the right instinctively swallows.
Beads of sweat on his forehead slide down his cheeks, yet he dares not even wipe them.
Although today’s task is to extract shrapnel from the injured person, less risky than last night’s high-risk lung surgery, yet still fraught with danger.
Because the wound was obviously torn by so large-caliber bullet, its edges wildly irregular, deeply embedded in the muscle tissue.
A slight mistake could sever an artery and cause massive bleeding.
This kind of terrifying injury, placed in any top-tier hospital in East Capital, even senior surgeons wouldn’t dare to operate lightly.
He’s been a black market doctor for so many years, and it’s the first ti he’s seen soone survive such a severe injury.
The red-haired foreigner in front of him, his life force is even more tenacious than a cockroach.
Yet the surgeon’s hand remains as steady as a rock.
The surgical knife cuts precisely along the wound path, avoiding all important blood vessels and nerves.
"Suction."
The assistant reacts quickly; the negative pressure aspirator imdiately adhered, swiftly drawing away the seeping blood, keeping visibility clear.
The first piece of shrapnel shows a corner.
The tal surface is covered with dark red bloodstains, tightly wedged between muscle fibers.
The surgeon switches to a vascular clamp, adjusting minimally, loosening gently following the original tear direction.
"Don’t rush."
It sounds like he’s talking to himself, also comforting the anxious assistant beside him.
The shrapnel is fully clamped out, and dropped into a stainless steel tray, making a crisp light sound.
The right-side black market doctor breathed a sigh of relief, then imdiately felt a tightness in his throat again,
because the position of the second piece is even trickier.
It is tightly against the rib, its trajectory twisted, almost invisible in full.
The surgeon switches to a surgical probe, cautiously probing into the wound, determining the orientation and depth of the shrapnel.
A few seconds later, he withdraws the probe, his wrist flips, and the surgical knife re-enters at an incredible angle.
Sweat trickles down the assistant’s temples, he dares not move, only allowing the sweat drops to bead at the edge of his mask.
The tweezers probe inside, pause for a mont.
In the next second, the tal is securely clamped.
The surgeon didn’t just pull it out, but gently revolved and exerted tension, letting the shrapnel completely separate from the surrounding adhesive tissues.
This motion was subtle to the extre, hardly visible, but the shrapnel in the tray proved it all.
The second shrapnel is extracted.
The two black market doctors almost simultaneously let out a breath, feeling their backs are soaked.
"Hemostasis, debrident, suturing."
The surgeon’s voice remains steady as he begins the closing work.
The electrocautery snapped a few tis, the wrist flew, needle driving thread.
The process of stitching the wound was like flowing water, fast as an art performance.
With the final stitch set, a knot was tied.
He looked up at the stabilized vital signs on the monitor, then slowly straightened, speaking in a deep voice:
"It’s over."
Seeing this, the two black market doctors in the room finally let their suspended hearts settle.
The surgeon took off his blood-stained surgical gown, removed the mask, revealing a sharp-featured face.
His temples already slightly grayed, a solemn expression, the corner of his mouth pulled tightly, seeming to rarely smile.
He categorized the used instrunts neatly, his tone returning to its usual indifference:
"Antibiotics administered on ti, observe the drainage tube for six hours, call imdiately if there’s any abnormalities."
"Yes, yes!"
The two black market doctors nodded repeatedly, their eyes full of reverence:
"Your skills are truly miraculous, we admire you from the bottom of our hearts."
The man didn’t respond; he just washed his hands and dried them with a towel.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of reading glasses, putting them on unhurriedly.
Once pressed by the lenses, those eagle-sharp eyes instantly turned gentle and cloudy, almost completely concealing the inner spark.
The whole person seed to age ten years at once, turning into an ordinary uncle commonly seen on the street.
He packed his things, pushed the door open, and walked out.
"My God..."
Looking at the man’s back, the young assistant wiped off his sweat, legs still sowhat weak:
"Who exactly is this person? He’s incredible."
The slightly older black market doctor watched the door close again, pondering:
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