354: Chapter 354 Pills (Part Two)

"As for Mother's side—"

He glanced at Tao Zhe on the screen.

"Mother is currently at the sixty-seventh hour, with only five hours left before the seventy-two-hour window closes. Within these five hours, I want to hear the medical team's opinion on whether the ningshen pill can be used and how it should be administered."

Tao Zhe nodded.

"Team Leader, based on Tianheng's calculations and my own judgment—the ningshen pill can be used."

"Of course, the final decision still rests with you, Team Leader."

Su Mingyuan closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, he said:

"After my father has finished taking the pill, administer it to my mother immediately."

Tao Zhe didn't say anything more. He gave a nod on the screen.

"Understood."

Su Mingyuan stood up, holding the celadon bottle in his hand, then picked up the white porcelain bottle and placed it in the inner pocket of his jacket.

Sun Liang also stood up.

"I'll go with you. When the pill enters the body, there might be some reactions—what we call the 'Medicinal Catalyst Backlash.' Given your father's condition, I need to be there to watch over him."

Su Mingyuan pushed open the conference room door.

In the corridor, Security Chief Zhao Ming was standing outside waiting.

Security Chief Zhao Ming didn't speak; he simply followed behind Su Mingyuan as they walked toward Ward 1207 together.

Ward 1207.

His father lay on the bed.

To his right was a full set of monitoring equipment, and on his left hung three IV bags—two bottles of nutritional fluid and one of painkillers. The tumor in the head of the pancreas was already compressing the common bile duct; his father's skin was a pale yellow, and even the whites of his eyes were yellowed.

Seeing Su Mingyuan enter, his father lifted his eyelids slightly.

He was in better spirits today than yesterday—yesterday he had spent most of his time in a lethargic stupor, but today he was lucid enough to recognize people.

"You're back," his father said.

His voice was very faint, pausing after every word.

"Yes." Su Mingyuan walked to the bedside.

His father glanced at Sun Liang, who was following behind Su Mingyuan.

"Who is this?"

"Dad, this is Master Sun," Su Mingyuan said. "He brought some medicine for you."

His father gave an "oh" and didn't ask further.

He had been like this his whole life. When Su Mingyuan was a child and he took him for vaccinations, Su Mingyuan would ask what kind of shot it was, and his father would simply say, 'The doctor told you to get it, would they harm you?' He never questioned doctors. He believed that doing what a doctor told you was only natural.

Sun Liang walked to the bedside, checked the father's complexion, then reached out to take his pulse at the wrist.

He held it for about ten seconds.

Then he nodded.

"It can be used."

Su Mingyuan unscrewed the celadon bottle.

He turned the bottle mouth downward and poured out a pill.

The pill was deep red and slightly larger than a soybean. It had a faint luster on its surface, looking less like a Medicinal Pill and more like a polished agate bead.

Sun Liang had said to use half a pill.

Su Mingyuan glanced at Sun Liang.

Sun Liang took a small knife out of his pocket; it looked like an ordinary fruit knife, but the blade appeared extremely sharp.

Sun Liang sliced the pill on the small bedside table.

The moment the pill was cut open, a faint, warm fragrance wafted out.

It didn't smell like medicine.

It was a fragrance that was hard to describe—like the hot soup his grandmother used to simmer on the stove when he was a child, or the scent of the earth after the first rain of spring.

His father's nose twitched.

His groggy eyes cleared up a bit.

"What's that smell?" he asked.

"Medicine," Su Mingyuan said.

He pinched the half-pill.

"Dad, open your mouth."

His father opened his mouth.

Su Mingyuan placed the half-pill into his father's mouth.

The pill dissolved the moment it touched his tongue.

His father only had time to let out a soft "mm."

Then his eyes widened.

On the monitor, the heart rate line, which had been beating steadily, suddenly began to accelerate—from seventy-two beats per minute to eighty-five, to ninety-eight, to one hundred and ten.

The blood oxygen saturation rose from ninety-one to ninety-three, ninety-five, and ninety-seven.

Blood pressure rose from 102/68 to 116/75.

On the electronic screen by the bed, several indicators were simultaneously moving toward the healthy range.

His father's face.

Su Mingyuan stood by the bed, watching his father's face.

His father's face had originally been pale yellow, with loose skin and sunken eye sockets.

Now—

The yellow was receding.

It started receding from the forehead. That sickly yellow layer seemed to be pushed down bit by bit by something, past the brow bone, past the eyes, past the cheekbones, down to the chin.

With every inch it receded, the skin revealed underneath was a pale pink, full of color.

Ten minutes.

A full ten minutes.

His father's entire face had restored from yesterday's 'terminal patient' appearance to—not quite a healthy person's look, but the look of someone who was 'still sick, just not as severely.'

The father himself didn't notice this change. He only felt a warm current inside his body—flowing from his throat to his stomach, and from his stomach to his limbs. Wherever it flowed, the dull pain that had persisted for four months subsided slightly.

He closed his eyes, enjoying this warm current.

"Comfortable," he said.

After speaking, he opened his eyes again and looked at Su Mingyuan standing by the bed.

"Son—what kind of medicine is this?"

Su Mingyuan didn't answer.

Because at that moment, the ward door was pushed open.

Dr. Zheng walked in.

He had seen the father once during his rounds at eight o'clock this morning. At that time, the father's condition had no essential difference from the previous two days—late-stage pancreatic cancer, jaundice, lethargy, and pain management. Dr. Zheng had changed a bottle of painkiller for him and then went to see other patients.

At nine-thirty, a nurse gave him a call, saying the family in 1207 requested a doctor to come take a look.

Dr. Zheng set aside what he was doing and came over.

He pushed open the door.

His first reaction was—he had entered the wrong room.

He stepped back out and glanced at the room number.

1207. Correct.

He pushed the door open again.

This time he saw clearly—the person lying on the bed was indeed Elder Su, his patient. But this person's complexion—it was completely wrong.

Dr. Zheng had worked in the hospital building for twenty-seven years. He saw dozens of patients every day. He was more than familiar with the 'face of a late-stage pancreatic cancer patient'—yellowed skin, sunken eye sockets, protruding cheekbones, bluish lips, the whole person looking like a piece of crumpled paper.

The Elder Su he had seen this morning looked exactly like that.

Now, the Elder Su before him—

"This..."

Dr. Zheng walked to the bedside.

He picked up the medical chart hanging at the head of the bed.

On the chart were the vital signs recorded by the nurse half an hour ago—heart rate 72, blood pressure 102/68, blood oxygen 91%.

He looked up at the monitor.

The real-time data displayed on the monitor—heart rate 108, blood pressure 116/75, blood oxygen 97%.

Dr. Zheng's hands began to shake.

He was a calm person. In his thirty years at the hospital, he had experienced all sorts of scenes—massive hemorrhages, cardiac arrests, multi-organ failure, and compound injuries from car accidents. His hands never shook when he handled those situations.

But this time.

This time his hands were shaking.

He put down the medical chart, then picked it up again.

"Impossible," he said.

His voice was very low, as if he were talking to himself.

"This... this... this is impossible..."

He turned to look at Su Mingyuan.

He had realized from the first day this 'Mr. Su' entered the hospital that this person had a special status—the entire floor being cleared, the motorcade outside, the cleaners who didn't look like cleaners—he had seen it all. But he was a doctor; he didn't ask about the identities of the patient's family. He only cared about treating the illness.

But now, he had to ask.

"Mr. Su," he said, "What... what did you give your father?"