Starting to Gain Experience from Push-Ups Chapter 1169 - 568

The narrow alley in the Jinshui Fish Market is lined with low, aged brick buildings on both sides.

Vendors pedal their tricycles loaded with goods, wheels bumping over the rough pavement, producing a rhythmic 'clunk clunk' noise.

Seafood stores overflow with baskets of green clams and white shrimp; bits of ice melt on the concrete, while a strong salty, fishy smell fills the entire street.

Tucked away in this rundown seaside neighborhood is a discreet black clinic bearing no sign.

In the outer waiting area, an outdated TV flickers and hums with the afternoon news broadcast.

Within, the revamped surgery room gleams under the intense glow of the shadowless lamp.

Fire Dragon lies bare from the waist up on the operating table, his chest and belly wounds exposed and raw.

His skin, scrubbed multiple times with disinfectant, shines with a chilly luster.

Three people hover around the table.

The lead surgeon, masked and capped, shows only his eyes.

Those eyes gleam with unusual intensity, keen like a hawk's, but calm and profound as a timeless well.

Meanwhile, the tool in his grasp moves as if part of his hand,

each cut and maneuver exact and rapid, without any wasted effort.

'More light, please.'

His tone, low and echoing, fills the surgery chamber.

The young helper to his left quickly tweaks the shadowless lamp, lowering the light by an inch to fully expose the injury.

The elder black market physician on the right gulps nervously.

Sweat beads trickle from his brow down his face, but he doesn't dare to wipe them away.

Today's procedure involves removing shrapnel from the patient, less perilous than last night's urgent lung operation, but still laden with risks.

The injury clearly resulted from a high-caliber bullet, with jagged edges and deep penetration into the muscles.

One wrong move could nick an artery, leading to severe hemorrhage.

Such a grave wound would make even expert surgeons in East Capital's premier hospitals hesitate to proceed.

Having worked in the black market for years, this is his first encounter with someone enduring such extreme damage and living.

The red-haired foreigner before him possesses a vitality tougher than a cockroach's.

Yet the surgeon's grip stays rock-solid.

The scalpel slices accurately along the wound's path, steering clear of vital vessels and nerves.

'Suction.'

The assistant responds swiftly; the suction device attaches at once, pulling out the oozing blood to maintain a clear view.

A edge of the first shrapnel fragment appears.

Its metallic surface clings with dark red blood, jammed firmly amid the muscle strands.

The surgeon grabs a vascular forceps, making tiny adjustments, easing it out along the initial rip's direction.

'Take it slow.'

He seems to address himself, while also easing the tense assistant nearby.

The shrapnel gets fully gripped and lifted out, landing in the steel tray with a sharp tinkling clink.

The black market doctor on the right exhales in relief, only to tense up again,

as the second fragment's location proves even more challenging.

It presses close to the rib, its path curved and mostly hidden.

The surgeon picks up a probe, carefully inserting it into the wound to gauge the shrapnel's position and depth.

Moments later, he pulls back the probe, twists his wrist, and the scalpel dives in from an astonishing angle.

Sweat drips along the assistant's temples; he stays frozen, letting the beads gather at his mask's rim.

The forceps delve in, halting briefly.

Then, in an instant, it seizes the metal firmly.

Rather than yanking, the surgeon rotates it softly and applies pressure, freeing the shrapnel from clinging tissues entirely.

This delicate twist was barely noticeable, yet the fragment now in the tray confirms the success.

The second shrapnel has been removed.

The two black market doctors release their breaths together, backs drenched in sweat.

'Stop the bleeding, clean it up, stitch it closed.'

The surgeon's voice holds firm as he starts the final steps.

The cautery zaps a few times, his wrist dances, needle pulling thread through.

Closing the wound flows smoothly, swift like a masterful display.

The last stitch secures, knotted tight.

He glances at the steady vitals on the screen, then rises slowly, declaring in a profound tone:

'We're done.'

Witnessing this, the room's two black market doctors finally ease their racing hearts.

The surgeon sheds his bloodied gown, peels off the mask, unveiling a chiseled visage.

His temples show faint silver, face grave, lips pressed in a line that suggests few smiles.

He sorts the instruments methodically, his voice cool and detached once more:

'Give antibiotics promptly, watch the drain for six hours, alert me at once if anything changes.'

'Understood, yes!'

The two black market doctors bob their heads eagerly, gazes brimming with awe:

'Your expertise is nothing short of wondrous; we respect you deeply.'

The man says nothing; he rinses his hands and pats them dry.

Then he fishes out reading glasses from his pocket, slipping them on leisurely.

Behind the lenses, his piercing gaze softens to a mild haze, hiding the inner fire completely.

He instantly appears a decade older, like any average street uncle.

He gathers his belongings, swings the door open, and steps out.

'Heavens...'

Staring at the departing figure, the young assistant mops his brow, knees still shaky:

'What kind of man is he? Absolutely astonishing.'

The older black market doctor eyes the shutting door, lost in thought: