Chapter 366: Deciding Superiority and Life or Death

The blade descended; the metal, forged and polished a thousand times, sank into the focal point of multiple reflections with no visible resistance, evoking an unnatural sense of unreality.

Only when red followed the silver trail and seeped out did Benny, far across the room, lean forward with a sharp, first-time-blood inhalation.

Kup didn't remember if he'd described the general treatment process last night. But whether or not he had, a father imagining such a procedure being performed on his own child could hardly remain calm.

Soon, he had no time for idle thoughts.

"Gauze."

Before his mind could turn, a white cotton textile was seized and placed into the outstretched hand, just as rehearsed.

He even felt no reminder was needed—so long as Kraft emitted a single affirmative or dissatisfied grunt, he would instinctively know what to hand over.

Under pressure from the gauze, bleeding was preliminarily controlled; the severed surface of the thick scalp became visible, the frontalis layer twitching faintly in view, releasing a warm, rust-iron scent that stirred memories deep in his mind of his first use of the Page Hammer.

The shaved, bluish scalp was clamped and pulled apart, exposing the periosteum below, then further incised and bluntly dissected with the blade's back.

The entire process resembled peeling away a resilient membrane from a spherical surface—and indeed, it was. Blood seeped from the separation, rising to the surface where it was wiped and absorbed by cloth; bleeding points unresponsive to pressure were cauterized with heated thin metal wires.

When the gray-white skull bone appeared, Kup glanced at the hourglass—one-third of the fine sand had flowed away. Perhaps because the exposed area was larger, progress was slightly slower than ideal.

Next came the specially crafted bone saw provided by the Xigo family—this tool made the operation appear considerably more civilized than using a carpenter's chisel, though only slightly; the main improvement lay in efficiency.

Especially when the surgeon had clear expectations of cranial thickness, it greatly reduced concerns of applying too little or too much force, slowly and evenly sawing out a square bone plate roughly five fingers wide along the bone surface amid the grating, agonizing sound.

Minutes later, the bone plate loosened. A retractor was inserted into the gap, and with a faint "click," it was carefully removed and placed into boiled, cooled saline solution for preservation.

After opening the window to the brain, what met the eye was the old acquaintance—the dura mater. Previous hematoma removal procedures had been confined to this layer, but this time they would go much deeper.

A smaller, thinner scalpel was swapped in, the dura mater incised in a cross shape, its edges sutured and flipped outward.

The gray-pink, moist, furrowed soft tissue—the frontal lobe. 至此, the surgery entered the true realm of the brain, the center of all thought, revealed for the first time in a living form.

"Prepare." Kraft whispered.

Though mentally prepared, the sensation's emergence still caused discomfort.

Repeated exposure had not desensitized him; instead, it sharpened his perception, making him almost feel he could see the thing itself.

Vast, soft, like a colossal soft-bodied organism unfolding, permeating every inch of space, evoking a contradictory sensation between revulsion and intricate splendor.

Kraft's movements accelerated in sync. In the depths beyond light's reach, a faint pulsation could be sensed—the blood's source of power mapping through complex vascular branches to the neural core, warning them they were nearing a highly vascularized zone.

By this point, even from the closest assistant position, details were nearly impossible to discern.

The primary instruments had been replaced with forceps no thicker than a steel needle, separating the tissues enveloping the brain's and skull base's tiny, dense vessels, clearing space.

Then, a retractor with a long handle and broad blade was inserted, gently lifting the brain tissue, slowly raising the frontal lobe to expose the space beneath.

"Silver clips!"

Before Kup could react, fluid surged from the blind spot of illumination, rapidly filling one corner of the surgical field.

Without waiting, Kraft handed the retractor to Kup, freeing his left hand to pick from the instrument tray—the required object: a tiny silver clip, similar in shape to a staple but far smaller.

The forceps in his right hand had already plunged into the dark, red-black blur, clamping a bleeding point invisible to the eye—the flow of fluid instantly halted.

The silver clip slid along the fine forceps, locked into place. Cotton strips followed immediately, absorbing residual oozing.

"Good—it's just a small vein."

Raising the frontal lobe by only two finger-widths consumed several times the time of all prior work; the hourglass had flipped twice without notice, and half the surgery time had passed.

His hands began trembling, his left arm especially so—he could only operate intermittently during moments of stability; any observer could see he was no longer suited for fine manipulation.

Fortunately, only one and a half people could see what he was doing.

Sweat beads continuously slid from his hairline, stinging his corneas. Kraft simply closed his eyes. No reminder was needed—the limit was approaching, waiting for him at a perceptible threshold.

The retractor was handed back to the assistant; Kraft gripped the forceps with both hands, reaching toward the gray-white tumor nestled deep within the sella turcica.

It had hijacked the pituitary gland, stealing its function to serve its own ends, controlling systemic changes with a mass less than one ten-thousandth of the body's.

Remove a fraction less, and it would recur; remove a fraction more, and the pituitary would be damaged—death would come faster.

If the surgeon here were an ordinary person—even a seasoned veteran—it would be doomed to fail; no, under these conditions, they might not even reach this step.

But here stood no ordinary man; the most difficult step of the surgery had already been completed for him.

"Hold steady. Prepare."

As practiced yesterday, his spirit-body actively contacted the pain entrenched within—the anguish erupted violently, striking his rational defenses, instinctively urging him to tear apart the veil separating this world from the other.

But what the surgery required was the opposite. He had to control the manifestation of this pain, shaping the force of rending layers like a canal controlling a flood—turning it into a gentle stream, precisely channeled to the target location.

The struggle between madness and reason, between release and control—he won again.

An exquisitely precise fissure formed at the perfect spot, severing the boundary between tumor and pituitary, between life and death.

The forceps clamped the tumor, extracted it effortlessly, and placed it upon the white gauze in the tray; a soybean-sized cotton ball was pressed against the wound to staunch bleeding—all completed in a single breath, swift as the instant a swordsman decides victory.

The patient's breathing was steady, condition stable, deep in sleep.

The fourth flip of the hourglass was nearing its end—a fortunate surgery. Kraft even had enough energy left to meticulously suture the dura mater, reattach the bone flap, then hand the task of scalp suturing to Kup and sever his spiritual perception.

Perhaps it was accomplishment, or perhaps the fleeting afterglow of adrenaline—amid the tidal waves of side effects and exhaustion—he still stood firmly before the operating table until the ceiling suddenly entered his vision at a strange angle.

?? Tomorrow is the college entrance exam. I especially wish all examinees good luck. Also, those considering applying for clinical medicine should think carefully before proceeding.

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