Chapter 192

It was a sound, dense as a summer downpour, pelting the high-tier balcony windows, the atmosphere surging with fervor.

Krapft, drowsy and half-asleep, jolted awake just as the host uttered several familiar terms—he snapped upright, eyes wide, taking in the entire main hall from his elevated overlook.

Crowds surged along the stepped tiers, the inner circles growing ever tighter, scholars vying for the heated air trapped near the center. They did not enjoy this environment, but no other spot offered closer proximity to the lowest level. Thus, the more comfortable but distant upper private booths remained empty.

The overwhelmed event staff, upon hearing they did not require a front-row view, nearly thanked them as they handed over the balcony key.

"Time's up." Krapft saw a tall figure approaching from the outer edge, carrying a large wooden crate. "Are you coming to watch?"

"Yes."

To facilitate monitoring her condition, Yin Feng was also brought to the Rivers University dormitory. Since her second treatment, she had remained perpetually drowsy, missing several meals, yet her appetite had not diminished with her reduced activity. The snacks and drinks Krapft had instructed her to take along had, without her noticing, been mostly consumed.

Before Krapft could remind her, she had already crammed the pastry into her mouth in two bites and leaned toward the balcony window, easily recognizing the next protagonist.

No effort was needed to identify him—wherever his luminous hair shone, the black-robed crowd automatically parted, clearing a path as if candlelight pushed back dark tides.

Another thought, one she could not explain and utterly at odds with the doctor's usual image, took root in her mind: it felt more like some transparent giant forcing its way through the crowd, its vast form towering nearly to the chandelier's crystal pendants.

The sensation was too intense to ignore or dismiss as mere aura; in a daze, she even thought she could see its shape—majestic, striding through the entrance, its body passing through people and stairways, untouched by the throng; the emotionally charged audience admired and praised the golden oak-leaf badge.

The crowd, including her and Krapft, were but faint specks adrift on the sea's surface, their lives ending at the water's edge, ignorant of the shadows beneath.

【Fear】

Fear directed at the wrong object. It cleared her mind slightly—Yin Feng could not understand why she felt this toward Krapft, as if it did not stem from reason or emotion, but from some thought transmitted directly into her.

The indistinct whispers returned to her ears; this time, she seemed to grasp their meaning—not through indirect translation, expression, or reinterpretation of words, but directly, intuitively: flee this place, escape from the figure carefully cradling the glass container.

That was impossible. She gripped the windowsill, bit her tongue lightly, trying to break free from the feeling—only to unexpectedly taste blood, realizing she had bitten too hard and split her tongue.

"It's starting." Krapft took the other side of the window, idly rubbing half a biscuit, crumbs falling continuously. He could not suppress his tension—even though he had witnessed this same procedure many times in the Harbor of Comfort, with patients from the most familiar group—a dockworker injured on the job and neglected by folk remedies.

The patient was ready, lying in the prepared position.

The improved inhaler was a double-valve glass bottle, resembling early ether nebulizer devices; the patient breathed through one valve, while gas entering through the other passed through liquid in the round chamber, vaporizing into a mist before reaching the mouth. This allowed for smaller, more uniform doses, but required more time to achieve anesthesia.

Surrounded by onlookers, the patient inhaled nervously. The room fell silent, all eyes fixed in doubt and anticipation—he felt an irresistible drowsiness, eyes slowly closing as he sank into sleep.

When the full set of metal instruments was laid out, the silence reached its peak; even breathing was held back, waiting for that moment. The only sound was the faint, crisp tinkle of small forceps tapping against the alcohol-soaked cotton bottle, then the blade lifted from the tray and pressed against the patient's skin. Too far away to see clearly.

Just as Yin Feng suppressed the inner whispers, another murmur arose beside her—this time, a real voice, from the group closest to the operating table, spreading outward.

"Anesthesia successful."

No wound needed to be seen; this had been common in the Harbor of Comfort clinic—astonishment at a breathing patient showing no reaction to bone-and-flesh excision, whispered in reverence, passed quietly among those too awed to keep it to themselves.

Krapft bent low, focused on his work, moving swiftly and cleanly—speed was unavoidable under current conditions. He had explained: under precise control, the shorter the wound exposure, the better the healing.

Yet watching, it still made one think of him wielding sword and blade. Krapft admired the precision with which he handled the human body. "I heard this is a minor surgery—just removing the gangrene, mostly confined to the distal phalanges."

"What?"

"Distal phalanges." Krapft affirmed, spelling it out. This was part of recent lessons—Krapft had mentioned the case study and added these terms to her learning scope.

Yin Feng ignored him. She had no mental energy left to ponder what the word meant, or why Krapft was suddenly studying things far beyond normal progress.

The inexplicable whispers ended, replaced by faint phantom pain—sometimes like an unknown part of her body being pulled, sometimes concentrated at the back of her neck and shoulders.

She tightened her grip on the windowsill, trying to distract herself from the pain—but it had no effect. This pain was unlike her usual headaches or stomachaches, where pressing the spot offered relief; it clung to her spirit like those whispers, stubbornly gnawing into her soul.

Instinctively, she wanted to scream, to moan—but she understood the importance of this gathering, and forced herself to remain silent. The surgery must proceed, and it must succeed.

Perhaps her earlier decision had been wrong—not to have touched those things. She could no longer recall what happened after drinking the liquid; her memory held only vivid, kaleidoscopic dreams, a dim moon, and something that answered her fervent wish—its meaning transcending the mundane, self-evident.

【I do not regret it】

She did not wish to spend her life as a meaningless speck, drifting helplessly through experiences witnessed by others, unable to choose her own path—even if that path might have been ignorant and happy, ending without ever seeing what lay beneath the water's surface.

Krapft was still talking—about the surgeon's skillful technique, how one might learn it, and so on.

Using intricate, precise methods to save a fading speck, extending its pitiful, fragile, destined-to-end brief existence. The tall doctor, holding delicate instruments, leaned over the table.

In her hazy consciousness, the illusion of the invisible, transparent giant returned—it seemed to rise on the unstable ground, bending its limitless waist to gaze down at the patient on the table. Vastness and minuteness, the shadow beneath the water, fixed its gaze upon the speck—absurd beyond belief, then instantly shattered and gone.

The surgery ended quickly. When she had just begun to adapt to the pain and looked up, Krapft was already wrapping the wound with gauze.

An elderly man, white-haired and bearded, wearing the same oak-leaf badge, stepped onto the stage, took the patient's healthy hand, and asked the man, whose eyes were still half-closed:

"Do you feel any pain?"

He clearly did not yet understand—he let Professor Fernan swing his limbs, then slowly realized where he was, waking as from a dream:

"No… is the surgery starting…?"

The word "no" echoed through the hall, bounced back from the walls, allowing those still disbelieving to savor it a second time. Noise drowned out the rest of his words; the patient, bewildered, stared blankly at his tightly bandaged hand amid countless questions.

Krapft cheered, releasing his grip, joining the chorus of voices. Biscuit crumbs fell, scattering over scholars who, unconcerned, leaned forward and climbed onto chairs to see over the crowd.

Yin Feng, too, finally released the windowsill, brushing off the crumbs that had somehow stuck to her.

Then her motion froze. She frowned, opening her palm to examine the sharp, gritty particles—nothing like biscuit crumbs.

Not baked, brittle grain. They were jagged, rough—splinters torn from the hard wooden frame, twisted and ground to fragments.