Chapter 231: Surgical Preparation

A nurse wearing a mask, her eyes still quite beautiful, said: "We have all types of surgical instruments, all sterilized and stored in a sterile instrument case."

"Then, do you have needles?"

"Needles? What kind of needles? Sutures? We have every size, and at least three sets of each."

"Not those needles." The repairman paused, then gave up trying to explain: "Forget it, I'll use my own." He walked back to his suitcase and pulled out a rolled-up cloth bundle.

Glancing at the white, fat man who was grinning as if he didn't know his own death was coming, the repairman asked: "Do you want the surgery today, or pick another day? Maybe Thanksgiving? Christmas?"

The white, fat man, caught off guard, frowned: "Aren't we going to study it first?"

"If you're willing to let me study for ten years before I'm confident enough to proceed."

"Can I last that long?"

"That's exactly why I set this timeline," the repairman said, indifferent.

He'd just follow the diagnosis others had made. He had no desire to waste brain cells finding flaws in this old fat man—after all, the man wouldn't listen to his advice anyway.

White, the man who normally acted with ruthless decisiveness, deciding life or death with a word, now found himself uncertain.

He'd never met someone so bold—unless that person's power surpassed his own, or their rank was higher. Otherwise, every lowly thug trembled before him.

He knew the man's identity: a servant at a continent hotel. Just a servant—no other special status.

As long as he wasn't one of the High Table's people, the affairs of lowly servants could easily be classified as personal grudges. As long as he didn't foolishly send men to kill inside the hotel and break the taboo, the continent hotel wouldn't avenge them.

So he wondered: what was this man's real backing?

But the white, fat man, thinking alone, couldn't arrive at any conclusion.

And lacking medical knowledge, he dared not go to a proper hospital to ask doctors whether this man's claims were feasible. His only remaining options were to believe or disbelieve the black doctor he'd "invited."

Yet from the man's uncooperative attitude, he clearly wasn't trustworthy. Should he bury him and find someone else?

Maybe he should kidnap a few famous doctors from the medical centers and force them to operate on him—it'd be safer. But how much longer could he hold out? The white, fat man struggled.

The repairman hadn't learned mind-reading, so he couldn't know what the fat man was thinking. But from subtle facial expressions, he could still see the man's inner turmoil.

In the end, the white, fat man chose to compromise. He'd brought this black doctor here precisely because the man's medical skill was exceptional.

This was the same man who had reattached a subordinate's severed hand—completely, perfectly—and restored it to full function, proving his skill wasn't inferior to the famous doctors at the medical centers.

Bringing in someone from the medical center carried risks, and there was no guarantee they'd cooperate willingly. But someone like this, already entrenched in the underworld, would more easily accept his situation and choose a mutually acceptable outcome.

After weighing the pros and cons, the white, fat man rose, supported by two Misses beside him, and said: "If you're confident, let's do the surgery today. I've waited long enough."

The repairman gave a cryptic smile—none too kind.

But the white, fat man had seen too many kinds of people, experienced too much. He still had confidence—he held all the cards.

The two arrived before an inflatable mobile operating room; several nurses immediately stepped forward to help the surgeon and patient change into surgical attire.

They might have once held licenses as doctors or nurses, but had been revoked; or for other reasons, were barred from returning to the normal medical system. That's why they were here—for the generous hush money and pay.

Though the lead surgeon had barely glanced at the medical records before deciding to operate today, such behavior was unreliable. But none of them had other things to do—wasn't it better to finish early and go home? So no one complained.

Regardless, they all had clinical experience—they knew when to act. As long as they didn't mess up, success or failure belonged to the lead surgeon.

After everyone changed clothes and passed through the disinfection corridor, they entered the inflatable sterile operating room. The white, fat man lay down on the operating table himself, ready for anesthesia.

The anesthesiologist began explaining the procedure: "General anesthesia will take fifteen to twenty minutes. Intubation will be required and may cause discomfort. Please note, Mr."

Since this wasn't a formal surgery, no consent forms were needed. The anesthesiologist walked over with a syringe, ready to begin anesthesia.

But the repairman stopped him: "Spinal anesthesia is enough."

"But this is a major surgery..."

"If I'm operating, I call the shots. If you're so capable, then you do it—I'm out." The repairman spoke with authority.

This attitude left others flustered. But the fearless, ignorant one—the white, fat man lying on the table—didn't think the doctor's words were odd. He nodded, signaling the others to comply.

His decisiveness stemmed partly from a "might as well" mentality. He'd already chosen to believe him—now he had to believe all the way.

So, with help from the group, the white, fat man lay on his side, pulling his knees up to his chest in a shrimp-like curl—just to expose the spine for easier injection.

But locating the precise injection point beneath layers of fat wasn't easy—especially since this anesthesiologist wasn't a top expert, but someone who'd botched things and been expelled from the medical system.

Finally unable to watch, the repairman snatched the syringe from his hand and performed the spinal anesthesia himself. Then he tossed the used syringe carelessly into the used-item collection tray.

Spinal anesthesia takes one to two minutes to take effect. But even that wouldn't guarantee a smooth operation. The repairman couldn't use super-speed openly under everyone's eyes.

So he needed to ensure the patient wouldn't move during surgery—yet remain conscious...

To that end, he unrolled the cloth bundle he'd brought in: inside were a row of traditional Chinese acupuncture needles.

The repairman, self-taught, had never received formal training in either traditional Chinese or Western medicine. His method was always: whatever works, use it—no strict adherence to procedure.

Just the fact that he used an electric soldering iron to stop bleeding told you how unorthodox he was.

Acupuncture and meridians were also within his research scope—especially when combined with Western knowledge of nerves and circulation, allowing him to develop his own unique methods.

After just a few long needles were inserted, the white, fat man no longer felt anything below his neck. Aware but paralyzed, he couldn't help but feel a surge of dread.

(End of chapter)