832: Chapter 827 I'll drag you down with me even as a ghost

The sensor door to the elevator lobby opened.

Shen Yan walked out first, his expression as usual; even the rainwater on his coat seemed to be under his control.

Chen Guangke followed close behind, tightly clutching the black briefcase, his expression like a guard savoring the smoke after a hard-won victory.

The one walking last was an old man in oil-stained clothes.

Feng Quji was still carrying half a bottle of unfinished low-quality white liquor, and his Liberation shoes left gray-black footprints on the smooth marble floor.

Ning Ke's cigarette-holding fingers froze mid-air.

That long stretch of ash finally succumbed to gravity and fell onto his gleaming, handmade Italian leather shoes.

He actually managed to invite this plague god back?

Ning Ke narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping over Shen Yan to land directly on Feng Quji.

Although the old man looked like a homeless person who had just crawled out of a dumpster, the wildness emanating from his eyes made people's skin tighten even from seven or eight meters away.

It was the scent only found on ruthless individuals who had truly seen blood and risked their lives.

"President Shen, and this gentleman is?"

Ning Ke asked knowingly, his tone containing three parts probing and seven parts surprise.

Shen Yan stopped and stepped aside to make room.

"The company's Chief Materials Officer, Old Feng Quji."

Feng Quji raised his eyelids and glanced at Ning Ke, his look suggesting he was examining a piece of substandard scrap material.

"A money-grubber?"

The old man tucked the liquor bottle into his embrace and snorted.

"You reek of copper. Stay away from me, don't taint my blueprints."

Ning Ke's facial muscles twitched twice. In his many years in Jinghai, fewer than five people dared to confront him so directly.

But at this moment, not only was he not angry, a chill shot up his spine.

This old man's aura was more than a level above that smooth-talker Liang Zexu.

Shen Yan ignored Ning Ke's awkwardness and merely nodded slightly.

"President Ning, may I speak with you separately? Old Feng needs rest."

With that, he gestured for Chen Guangke to take Feng Quji directly to the top-floor suite that had already been prepared.

Watching the elevator door slowly close, Ning Ke tossed the cigarette butt into the nearby disposal column and crushed it forcefully.

"Shen Yan, oh Shen Yan, where on earth did you learn how to recruit people?"

He muttered to himself, his initial three parts of disdain for this collaboration with Old Feng completely vanishing.

Top Floor, Special Care Medical Room.

This was a private medical area Shen Yan had built at great expense, originally prepared for any sudden emergencies involving family members, equipped entirely with top-tier imported gear.

The air was filled with a faint smell of disinfectant mixed with the light fragrance of orchids.

Feng Quji sat on the leather medical chair, twisting and moving uncomfortably, as if there were nails under his backside.

He had an instinctive aversion to such high-class places; they made him feel like livestock awaiting slaughter.

"What are you looking at? I'm not sick!"

Feng Quji snapped at the doctor wearing gold-rimmed glasses in front of him, trying to pull down his sleeve.

The doctor, named Zhao Yiming, was a renowned master of neurosurgery in Jinghai. Normally, getting an appointment with him required a three-month wait, but today Shen Yan had pulled him out of bed with a single phone call.

Zhao Yiming looked at the dirty old man before him, his brow furrowed enough to crush a mosquito, but out of respect for Shen Yan, he could only patiently explain.

"Sir, President Shen said your right arm has an old injury. If it's not treated, it will affect fine motor skills in your hand."

"Affect my ass! I've been flipping ladles for over ten years; my hands are rock steady!"

Feng Quji was stubborn, but his right hand, dangling by his side and trembling constantly, betrayed him.

Shen Yan pushed the door open and walked in.

He had changed into a clean shirt, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, and he held a freshly printed report in his hand.

"Old Feng, if you don't heal this hand, you'll only be able to drool over that blueprint."

This sentence struck Feng Quji's weak spot like a heavy hammer.

The old man instantly quieted down, like a rooster whose neck had been grasped.

He knew better than anyone that the D-Country blueprint demanded almost psychotic levels of precision; off by one micrometer and it was scrap metal.

With his current trembling hand, he couldn't even accurately adjust the dial on a lathe.

"Can it be fixed?"

Feng Quji's voice lowered, carrying a sliver of uncertain hope mixed with the fear of being disappointed.

He had secretly visited many clinics over the years, but those doctors would shake their heads after just a glance, saying the nerves were necrotic and beyond saving.

Shen Yan handed the report to Zhao Yiming, tapping a spot on a CT image.

"It's not nerve necrosis."

"It's a microscopic metal fragment left over from the explosion back then, lodged in the gap between the ulnar nerve and the radial bone. As you age, bone hyperplasia has encased the fragment, compressing nerve conduction."

Zhao Yiming pushed up his glasses, carefully examined the film for a long time, and his expression suddenly changed.

"This... how is this possible?"

Ordinary X-rays and CT scans couldn't reveal such a subtle difference unless one had X-ray vision or knew the extent of the old injury intimately.

Shen Yan remained calm; this was, of course, the system's doing.

On the way back, the system not only revealed Feng Quji's weakness but also generously provided a detailed 'Precision Human Body Repair Plan.'

"Doctor Zhao, no major surgery is needed."

Shen Yan's voice wasn't loud but carried unquestionable authority.

"Use that newly introduced minimally invasive particle knife to make a 0.5-millimeter incision at this location, strip away the hyperplastic tissue, and remove the fragment."

Zhao Yiming opened his mouth, wanting to argue that a layman was instructing an expert, but looking at the location Shen Yan pointed to, he felt increasingly alarmed.

That location was extremely tricky, precisely in the blind spot of the nerve plexus; if Shen Yan hadn't pointed it out, even ten examinations might not have revealed it.

"Prepare for surgery."

Zhao Yiming took a deep breath, set aside all his disdain, and turned to instruct the nurse to prepare the instruments.

Feng Quji looked at Shen Yan, a complex light flashing in his cloudy old eyes.

"Kid, if you ruin my hand, even as a ghost, I'll drag you down with me."

Shen Yan didn't reply, just handed him a clean towel.

"Bite down. It's going to hurt."

Because the location was too sensitive, general anesthesia could not be used to test nerve response.

The surgery began.

A slender mechanical arm slowly probed into Feng Quji's scarred arm under Zhao Yiming's operation.

There was no scene of blood splashing; there was only a pinprick-sized incision.

But the pain was soul-piercing.

It was as if someone was pushing a red-hot wire bit by bit into the bone marrow along the blood vessels, and then violently stirring it.

Feng Quji bit the towel fiercely, the veins on his neck bulging like earthworms, and sweat instantly soaked his yellowed undershirt.

But he didn't utter a sound.

Not even his arm, which was being cut, showed any instinctive twitch.

This was the willpower of a top Artisan.

He possessed a nearly cruel level of control over his own body.