569: Chapter 569 The Ghostly Healer, Fang Cheng is an Honest Kid!

Chapter 569: Ghost Hand miraculous doctor, Fang Cheng is an honest kid!

The alleys of the Jinshui Fish Market were very narrow, with low old brick houses on both sides.

Hawkers delivering goods on tricycles rolled their wheels over the bumpy road surface, making "clank, clank" sounds.

Inside the seafood shops, crates of green clams and white shrimp were stacked, and ice shards melted on the cement floor, the fishy and salty smell drifting all over the street.

Deep in this old coastal urban area, an unbranded underground clinic was hidden.

In the outer waiting room, an old television was crackling and broadcasting the noon news.

In the innermost remodeled operating room, the shadowless lamp was dazzlingly bright at this moment.

On the operating table, Huolong was naked from the waist up, with his chest and abdomen wounds wide open.

The skin, repeatedly wiped with disinfectant, emitted a cold glow.

Three figures surrounded the front of the table.

The chief surgeon wore a mask and a cloth cap, revealing only a pair of eyes.

Those eyes were exceptionally bright, sharp like an eagle, yet as deep and waveless as an ancient well.

Meanwhile, the instruments in his hands seemed to grow on his fingertips.

Every surgical movement was precise and neat, without the slightest redundant attempt process.

"Give me a little more light."

His voice was very deep, echoing through the entire operating room.

The young assistant on the left hastily adjusted the shadowless lamp, pressing the beam down by an inch to clearly illuminate the wound.

The slightly older black-market doctor on the right subconsciously swallowed a mouthful of saliva.

Sweat trickled down his temples, but he did not dare to move, only letting the sweat droplets drip onto the edge of his mask.

Although compared to last night's riskier lung surgery, the positions of the two shrapnel pieces extracted for the injured person today were much shallower, it was still extremely perilous.

Because the wound was obviously torn by some kind of large-caliber high-explosive bullet, the edges were extremely irregular, and the shrapnel was deeply embedded inside the muscle tissue.

A slight carelessness could cut the artery and trigger massive bleeding.

Such a terrifying injury, placed in any Grade 3, Class A hospital in Dongdu, even if director-level physicians consulted, would not dare to easily make an incision.

Having been a black-market doctor for so many years, he could say it was the first time he had seen someone injured like this and still able to survive.

The red-haired foreign devil in front of him had a vitality even more tenacious than a cockroach.

But the chief surgeon's hands were as steady as a rock.

The scalpel accurately cut in along the path of the cleaned wound, avoiding all important blood vessels and nerves.

"Suction."

The assistant immediately applied the negative pressure suction device, quickly taking away the oozing blood to maintain a clear field of vision.

The first piece of shrapnel revealed a ferocious corner.

The metal surface was stained with dark red blood clots, tightly stuck between the muscles.

The chief surgeon switched to vascular forceps, adjusted the angle minimally, and loosened it bit by bit along the original tearing direction.

"Don't rush."

This sentence seemed to be said to himself, or perhaps to comfort the nervous assistant beside him.

The shrapnel was completely clamped out and thrown into the stainless steel tray, making a crisp, light sound.

The black-market doctor on the right breathed a sigh of relief, then immediately raised his heart to his throat again.

Because the position of the second piece was even trickier.

It closely clung to the ribs, the trajectory was bent, and its full appearance was almost invisible.

The chief surgeon switched to a surgical probe, cautiously probing into the wound to confirm the specific direction and depth of the shrapnel.

A few seconds later, he withdrew the probe, flipped his wrist, and the scalpel re-entered at an unimaginable angle.

Immediately after, the tweezers probed in, pausing for an instant.

The next second, the metal was steadily clamped.

The chief surgeon did not directly pull it out hard, but first gently twirled it to completely detach the shrapnel from the surrounding adhered tissue.

This movement was subtle to the extreme, and it was almost impossible to tell he was moving.

But the second piece of shrapnel, smoothly extracted and falling into the tray, proved everything.

The two black-market doctors breathed a sigh of relief almost simultaneously, feeling that their backs were soaked.

"Hemostasis, debridement, suturing."

The chief surgeon's voice remained steady as he began the closing work.

The electrocoagulator sounded shortly a few times, his wrists flying, holding the needle and guiding the thread.

The entire process of suturing the wound flowed like clouds and flowing water, as fast as an artistic performance.

With the last stitch falling, the knot was tied.

He raised his head to glance at the stable vital signs on the monitor, only then slowly straightening his body and speaking in a deep voice:

"It's over."

Seeing this, the two black-market doctors acting as assistants finally let their hanging hearts drop.

The chief surgeon took off the blood-stained surgical gown and removed his mask, revealing a well-defined face.

His temples were already somewhat gray, his expression solemn, and the lines of the corners of his mouth were tightly drawn, as if he rarely smiled year-round.

He arranged the used instruments into categories, his tone returning to his usual indifference:

"Administer antibiotics on time, observe the drainage tube for six hours, and call me immediately if there is any abnormality."

"Yes, yes!"

The two black-market doctors nodded repeatedly, their eyes full of awe:

"Your craftsmanship is truly miraculous; we admire it from the bottom of our hearts."

The man did not reply, only washing his hands and wiping them clean with a towel.

Then he fished out a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and put them on leisurely.

As the lenses pressed down, those eagle-sharp eyes instantly became mild and turbid, the sharp light in his eyes almost completely obscured.

The whole person seemed to age ten years all at once, turning into an ordinary middle-aged uncle seen everywhere on the street.

He tidied up his things, pushed the door open, and walked out.

"Oh my god..."

Gazing at the man's back, the young assistant wiped away a sweat, his legs still somewhat weak:

"Who on earth is this person? Too fierce."

The slightly older black-market doctor looked at the re-closed door, thoughtful:

"I feel that his knife technique just now is very much like a certain person."

"Who?"

"Ghost Hand."

"Ghost Hand?!"

The young assistant was stunned, obviously never having heard of this moniker.

"That is a ruthless character who washed his hands of the golden basin and retired from Jianghu more than a decade ago."

The black-market doctor lowered his voice, his tone carrying a trace of inexplicable excitement:

"Back then in the entire underworld of Dongdu, the top and most mysterious black-market physician was known as the Living Hua Tuo, the Ghost Hand miraculous doctor."

"Legend has it that those hands of his could kill people invisibly, and could also forcefully drag dead people back from the hands of King Yama."

"Aside from him, I can't think of anyone else in this world who could have such superb skills."

...

The corridor lights were dim and yellow, and the wall paint was mottled.

Lin Fusheng raised his head, his gaze crossing the corridor and looking toward the outer reception room.

The old television on the wall was playing the noon news.

The screen showed aerial footage of a building rooftop, covered everywhere with bullet craters and strung with warning lines, resembling a battlefield ruin.

Two people were sitting on the sofa.

A young Yingjun, wearing a simple sportswear, with a tall and upright figure, was intently staring at the screen.

Another wore black-framed glasses, looked like a middle-aged man, refined and courteous, like a professor in a university.

When the gaze fell on that young man, the tightly drawn lines of Lin Fusheng's face softened slightly.

"Uncle Lin."

Hearing footsteps, Fang Cheng immediately turned his head, stood up, and called out.

The professor also got up, with anticipation in his eyes:

"Old Lin, was the surgery successful?"

"His life is considered saved."

Lin Fusheng nodded, walked over to the water dispenser, and poured a cup of water:

"The lung lobe part was properly handled yesterday, and the two pieces of shrapnel removed today are not a big problem. As long as there is no subsequent infection, he should be able to wake up within three days."

"Thank you for your hard work."

The professor breathed a sigh of relief and thanked him sincerely:

"If you hadn't acted this time, we wouldn't have known who to ask for help, and the clue would definitely have been cut off just like that."

In his heart, Fang Cheng was actually somewhat surprised.

Last night, when he heard the professor say that the invited chief surgeon was Lin Fusheng, he felt very surprised.

Unexpectedly, this Uncle Lin, who usually only helped neighbors with Bone-setting and Tuina Massage in the trauma clinic, could actually perform such an extremely perilous surgery, and his technique was even more superb than professional physicians.

"Cut the crap."

Lin Fusheng, however, did not appreciate it. After taking a sip of water, his tone turned cold:

"If you hadn't said this person is related to A-Cheng, I wouldn't have touched this muddy water at all."

The professor opened his mouth, did not retort, and just lowered his head with a bitter smile.

In that smile, there was a bit of helplessness, as well as the guilt of unsettled old accounts.

While speaking, Lin Fusheng's gaze fell on the television screen.

Subtitles scrolled at the bottom of the screen, and the host sat upright, broadcasting in a deep voice:

"...On the evening of May 23rd, a vicious terrorist attack occurred at the Silver Wing Building on Jinhai Road."

"During the military's pursuit of suspects, an armed helicopter unfortunately crashed due to operational error..."

"Currently, both military and police forces have jointly established a special investigation group to conduct a rigorous search of the city and offer rewards for relevant clues, hoping that informed citizens will actively provide information..."

Lin Fusheng stared at that ruin on the TV for a few seconds.

Then he turned to look at the professor, his tone low and carrying a clear warning implication:

"Old Ye, I don't care what action you are planning, or if you want to investigate those people, anyway, stay away from A-Cheng."

"He is an honest kid; don't drag him onto that dead end road of yours."

The professor's mouth twitched slightly, and he couldn't help but complain inwardly.

A guy like Fang Cheng who blows up others with his fists at every turn is still an honest kid in your eyes??

You know, right now it's not me leading him, but clearly me assisting him and acting on his orders.

In front of this former old friend, the professor appeared thwarted everywhere, completely lacking his usual calm and composed appearance.

Standing aside, Fang Cheng did not reply, but also understood Lin Fusheng's meaning.

Although Uncle Lin didn't ask questions, he probably already guessed seventy or eighty percent in his heart.

As he was thinking, Lin Fusheng suddenly turned his head to look at him.

"What have you been busy with recently? You haven't come to the shop to sit for a long time."

The aloofness that kept people a thousand miles away on his face instantly dissipated, turning back into that amiable neighborly elder:

"Is it because you think my place is dilapidated and I didn't pay you a salary, so you don't want to come over to do unpaid labor?"

"How could that be, Uncle Lin."

Fang Cheng smiled and brushed it off casually:

"There are quite a few things at work recently, so I really can't spare the time."

"No matter how busy work is, you must pay attention to rest and not ruin your body."

Lin Fusheng did not pursue the matter further, just patting his shoulder:

"Come over to sit when you have free time. I'm not a black-hearted boss and won't force you to work. When you're not around, I always feel like I'm missing someone to talk to."

He paused, his tone adding a few notes of earnest advice:

"A-Cheng, those skills of Tuina Massage and Bone-setting that I taught you, don't let them get rusty; those are skills to make a living and save lives."

Hearing this, Fang Cheng's heart stirred slightly.

To be honest, he really hadn't visited Master Lin's trauma clinic much recently.

Mainly because the underworld around Jiangbei was calm and peaceful, unlike before the New Year when disputes were endless and various Gangs were in utter chaos.

There were fewer people fighting and brawling, so patients needing treatment for fractures and injuries from falls and blows were also fewer.

Instead of doing nothing in the shop, it was better to practice other skills at home by himself to gain more experience points.

But these words, he definitely couldn't say them out loud.

"I remember, Uncle Lin."

Fang Cheng promised with a smile:

"My hands are just feeling a bit itchy, wanting to loosen someone's bones. I'll go over in the next couple of days when I'm free."

As he spoke, he took out the car keys from his pocket:

"Let's go, I'll send you back to Jiuchang Street."

"No need, I can just take a taxi back myself. Don't delay your important business..."

"I'm also getting ready to go home, it's just on the way."

Without allowing any argument, Fang Cheng reached out, took the cloth bag from Lin Fusheng's hand, and walked towards the door first.

Lin Fusheng glanced at him, a trace of warmth welling up in the depths of his eyes, and did not refuse again, only shaking his head helplessly.

Before going out, Fang Cheng turned back and made a telephone gesture toward the professor who stayed in place.

The professor understood tacitly, nodding gently to indicate that he would keep an eye on Huolong's condition and notify him immediately once there was news.

...

The black Range Rover SUV drove out of Jinshui Fish Market and merged into the traffic flow of the main road.

Outside the window, jagged billboards and high-rise buildings continuously flew past backwards.

The car was very quiet, even appearing somewhat gloomy.

Lin Fusheng sat in the passenger seat, his brows slightly furrowed, as if pondering something.

Fang Cheng held the steering wheel, his gaze fixed ahead, and didn't initiate conversation either.

The engine sound was deep, and the car drove forward steadily.

When the car drove onto the cross-river bridge leading to the Jiangbei district, Lin Fusheng finally broke the silence.

"A-Cheng, are you now... hanging out with him?"

Lin Fusheng did not name names, but Fang Cheng knew that he was talking about the professor.

"Consider so."

Fang Cheng gently turned the steering wheel, and the car smoothly hugged the lane.

"That person is extremely shrewd; the twists and turns in his brain are more numerous than a maze."

Lin Fusheng leaned against the seat back, looking at the retreating river view outside the window, his tone flat, as if talking about an irrelevant person:

"Back then, he and I argued many times because of our incompatible philosophies. You getting too close to him, you'd better keep your wits about you."

"Thank you for the reminder, Uncle Lin."

Fang Cheng looked straight ahead and said slowly:

"But he is standing on my side now; on this point, I trust him."

Lin Fusheng sighed and didn't dwell on this topic anymore, only turning to look outside the car window, his voice dropping a few degrees:

"Last night's incident, related to the military?"

"Just personal grievances, not what you think."

Fang Cheng's tone was calm, brushing it over briefly.

Lin Fusheng fell silent.

He knew Fang Cheng didn't want to say much, so he didn't pursue it further.

Everyone has their own path to walk, and some things are not for him as an elder to interfere with.

The inside of the carriage fell into silence again, with only the sound of tires rolling over the road surface echoing.

After a long time, as if having made up his mind about something, Lin Fusheng suddenly spoke:

"A-Cheng, do you want to hear about what your dad was like when he was young?"

Fang Cheng's fingers holding the steering wheel paused slightly, then he nodded:

"Okay."