The Godfather of Surgery

High-definition cameras were installed on the microscopes, directly recording the surgical field of view. The video featured a live comment section, though to avoid obstructing the view, the comments appeared in a designated area below the video.

Since it was an online conference where participants couldn't meet in person, everyone was unrestrained, and the comment section immediately became lively.

"What the hell? Not starting with vascular anastomosis but tendon repair? Is this person a rookie?"

"Yeah, probably a rookie."

"Getting a rookie to perform live surgery at a conference of this level? Ridiculous!"

"Maybe it's an ad since they sponsored the conference?"

"They didn't mention which hospital they're from."

"Silence!"

"Just watch their hand speed."

"A tendon repaired in seconds, perfectly aligned—rookie?"

"Does a rookie have this kind of speed?"

"This sequence isn't vessel-first but layer-by-layer. Even experts wouldn't dare do it like this."

"Get your popcorn ready!"

"He's moving on to vascular anastomosis now!"

"You can tell the skill level from vascular repair; it'll be obvious."

The last time involved a baby's finger reattachment, where the thin vascular walls slowed down hand speed. This time, with adult forearm vessels, the procedure could proceed much faster.

"Forearm vessels—can they show anything? Go to bed, nothing to see here."

"Seconds per vessel? Are my eyes playing tricks?"

"Nerves—he's suturing nerves now. Preparing to suture the median nerve."

"What?! Using fascicle sutures?"

"A five-segment reattachment and using fascicle sutures? Suicidal!"

"You're crazy—fascicle sutures?" Song Zimo asked softly.

Old Han rubbed his chin, tapping his fingers on his thigh, also puzzled. "A five-segment replantation using fascicle sutures is unwise. What is this kid thinking?"

Old Han understood that this live surgery was being watched by specialists nationwide. But Yang Ping didn't know that yet, and it was best not to tell him to avoid adding pressure.

Fascicle sutures? Hong Zhigang opened a bottle of water, took a gulp, and leaned closer. For a five-segment limb replantation, one would typically choose epineurium sutures. Nobody would use fascicle sutures because of the time it consumed.

Nerves like the median, ulnar, and radial nerves each have about a dozen fascicles. It's like dealing with a thick cable made up of multiple smaller wires. Epineurium sutures only stitch the outer sheath, while fascicle sutures stitch the outer sheath of each internal bundle.

Using epineurium sutures, you'd need about 12 stitches, but fascicle sutures multiply that needle count by over tenfold. The time difference is astronomical. If epineurium sutures take an hour, fascicle sutures could take a whole day.

A surgery lasting ten to dozens of hours would stretch into an unimaginable marathon with this technique.

Everyone watching the stream was left baffled, eager to witness this bold surgeon's downfall. Five-segment replantation already pushed industry limits, and adding fascicle sutures seemed recklessly overconfident.

The surgery continued live.

Delicate nerve fascicles were clamped by micro-forceps, and the needle seemed to follow a preordained path, never deviating. Insert, pull through, reinsert, pull through, tighten, knot.

The OR felt frozen in time; no one spoke or moved unnecessarily, fearing they'd disturb Yang Ping.

With 5,000 surgeries' worth of simulated replantation training under his belt, Yang Ping had achieved a state of complete control. His actions were precise but relaxed, each movement perfectly coordinated with no wasted energy.

His hand speed increased. Song Zimo, unable to keep up, put down the micro-scissors and let Yang Ping switch instruments himself. Without taking his eyes off the surgical field, Yang Ping swapped forceps for scissors, cut the suture, then switched back—all without error.

Suyi Xuan focused intently, striving to understand the meaning behind every motion and expression of Yang Ping.

The audience, however, exploded in disbelief:

"Holy crap, that speed! Is this video fast-forwarded?"

"It must be. Are they faking live surgery?"

"Seriously, they said it's live. Why does it look sped up?"

"It's live! Look at the assistant's hands in the same frame—they're moving at normal speed, just struggling to keep up with him."

"Oh my god, I thought he was a rookie, but he's a king!"

"It's been years since I've seen such fluid surgery. Not a single wasted movement. It's like art!"

By the time the first segment was completed, with vessels, nerves, and tendons sutured flawlessly, Yang Ping had moved on to the second segment. Five segments meant reattaching two breaks in the forearm, one in the palm, and two in the fingers, all involving dozens of blood vessels, nerves, and tendons.

The pressure in the room was palpable. Hong Zhigang nervously fiddled with his unopened water bottle. Watching Yang Ping's seamless performance on screen, he wondered—what kind of transformation had this junior undergone?

Ten years ago, when their mentor retired, Hong had schemed against Han Jianggong, forcing him out of the prestigious Sixth Hospital in Shanghai. Yet here Han's protégé had returned with unmatched mastery.

Online comments continued their fervor:

"Emergency surgery during a masterpiece like this? No way, let someone else handle it."

"Director, take the emergency! I'm not missing this!"

Even hospital administrators watched, transfixed. With journalists and officials packed into the conference room, tension was sky-high. No one dared leave their seats.

Yang Ping's stunning precision and speed had turned skeptics into admirers, leaving the entire field in awe.