337: Chapter 337 Hua Tuo No. 2: Remote Brain Tumor Resection

Beijing in September, the sky was clear and washed clean.

The remote surgery center of Tiantan Hospital's neurosurgery department was hidden deep within this century-old hospital. It took passing through three security checkpoints and changing clothes twice to enter this space of less than eighty square meters. The walls were light gray, the floor was covered with anti-static tiles, and the air was filled with a faint scent of disinfectant.

But the most eye-catching feature was the huge circular screen wall directly in front.

Twelve 85-inch display screens were spliced together, displaying two scenes in real-time. On the left was the operating room of Kashgar People's Hospital in Xinjiang. Under the shadowless lamp, a Uyghur girl lay quietly on the operating table. Her head had been disinfected, part of her dark brown hair had been shaved off, and precise positioning lines were drawn. On the right was a 3D reconstruction image of the girl's brain, with the tumor location marked in red—left parietal lobe, 3.2 cm in diameter, adjacent to the language center, like a ticking time bomb.

Below the screen was a silver-gray console.

On it, two control sticks stood quietly.

That was the main control end of the Huatuo-2—a seven-degree-of-freedom force feedback manipulator. The silver-white metal surface gleamed with a cold light, and each joint had precise sensors that could capture the slightest movement of the operator's fingers.

Fifty-five-year-old Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect sat in front of the console.

He was the director of the neurosurgery department at Tiantan Hospital and a top expert in brain tumor surgery in China. In his thirty-year career, he had performed over five thousand craniotomies with a success rate of over 98 percent. But at this moment, his hands were on the control sticks, his fingertips slightly pale.

Behind him stood a dozen observing doctors. There were old experts over fifty, and young residents who had just graduated from medical school. But at this moment, everyone held their breath, and no one made a sound.

Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and opened them again.

"Remote link confirmed, latency 0.1 seconds. Huatuo-2 self-check complete, accuracy 0.01 millimeters. Haptic feedback system normal."

His voice was calm, but one could see a slight tremor in the hands gripping the control sticks.

He spoke into the microphone:

"Kashgar, Beijing is ready. You may begin."

In his headset, the voice of the lead surgeon in Kashgar, Ayiguli, came through. Forty-five-year-old Ayiguli was the director of the neurosurgery department at Kashgar People's Hospital, a Uyghur who had worked on this land for twenty years. Her voice trembled slightly, but her tone was firm:

"Beijing, Kashgar received. Patient anesthesia complete, vital signs stable. Wishing you success."

Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect gently pushed the control stick.

Four thousand kilometers away, in the Kashgar operating room, under the shadowless lamp, the mechanical arm of Huatuo-2 slowly descended.

It was a silver-white mechanical arm, its seven joints as flexible as a human arm. At the tip, a scalpel with a diameter of 0.3 millimeters reflected fragments of light under the lamp.

The blade tip fell precisely on the drawn incision line.

Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect felt slight resistance at his fingertips—that was the tactile sensation of skin tissue, soft but elastic. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling this real tactile sensation coming from four thousand kilometers away.

"Haptic feedback, normal."

He said.

The mechanical arm went deeper.

Skin, subcutaneous tissue, cranial periosteum, skull, dura mater—each layer of tissue left a different sensation at Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect's fingertips. The skin was soft, the bone was hard, and the meninges were tough.

On the big screen, the 3D image displayed the position of the instrument in real-time. A green dot was slowly approaching the red tumor.

Fine beads of sweat oozed from Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect's forehead.

The circulating nurse walked up gently and wiped them away with gauze.

The tumor was adjacent to the language center; if the error exceeded 0.5 millimeters, the girl might lose the ability to speak. Not might, definitely.

Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect's right hand adjusted the angle slightly, while his left hand stabilized the posture of the mechanical arm.

The resistance from the haptic feedback changed. From the softness of brain tissue, it turned to the texture of tumor tissue—slightly hard, like a soft-boiled egg.

"Confirmed arrival at tumor boundary."

He whispered.

Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect's fingers began to make micro-adjustments.

At the end of the mechanical arm, the micro-scalpel began to peel away the tumor. With every cut, he could "feel" the change in the hardness of the tissue—this was the unique haptic feedback system of Huatuo-2, a global first.

Between the tumor and normal brain tissue, there was a boundary as thin as a cicada's wing. A good surgeon could distinguish this boundary by feel, like distinguishing the membrane between the white and the shell when peeling a boiled egg.

But that was when the hand was beside the patient.

Four thousand kilometers away, across fiber optics and satellites, could he still feel it?

Yes.

The tactile sensation at Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect's fingertips was clearer than when he performed the surgery himself. Because the mechanical arm did not tremble, the 0.01-millimeter accuracy was ten times more stable than a human hand.

Behind him, the doctors held their breath.

Three minutes.

Five minutes.

Eight minutes.

The tumor was completely peeled off.

The silver-white mechanical arm gently clamped it and placed it into the specimen tray.

Zhang Mingyuan, Academician of the US National Academy of Sciences, Former Intel Chief Process Architect slowly let go of the control sticks and let out a long breath.

His back was soaked with sweat.

"Kashgar, tumor resection complete. Check the wound, prepare for hemostasis."

In the headset, Ayiguli's voice carried an obvious tremor:

"Beijing, wound is clear of obvious bleeding. Tumor completely resected. Patient vital signs stable."

In the Beijing operating room, applause suddenly erupted.

Someone took off their glasses and quietly wiped the tears from the corners of their eyes.

The door of the operating room was pushed open.

The girl's parents rushed in, grabbed Ayiguli's hands, and kept saying something in Uyghur. The mother was a farm woman in her forties, her face full of traces of wind and frost, her hands covered in calluses. The father stood silently beside her, but his eyes were red.

The translator was a young Uyghur nurse; she whispered:

"They said, thank you. Thank you to the doctors in Beijing, thank you to Starlight's robot."

The girl was pushed out. She hadn't fully woken up from the anesthesia, but she could already open her eyes. Those were clear eyes that belonged to a twelve-year-old child.

She saw her parents, moved her lips slightly, and made a faint sound:

"Apa."

Uyghur for mother.

The mother covered her mouth, tears streaming down.

The father finally couldn't help it, turned around, his shoulders trembling violently.

Two o'clock in the afternoon, London.

The editorial office of The Lancet is located on the banks of the River Thames, a Georgian-style brick building. Editor-in-Chief Richard Horton's office is on the third floor, and the London Eye can be seen slowly turning outside the window.

Sixty-five-year-old Horton is a legend in the medical field. Having helmed The Lancet for twenty years, he has seen countless medical breakthroughs that have changed the world. Heart transplants, test-tube babies, gene editing—every time, he sat in this position, reviewing the papers that would rewrite history.

But at this moment, he was silent, looking at the surgery video that had just been sent to his computer screen.

The video was forty-seven minutes long. He watched the first ten minutes and then skipped directly to the tumor peeling segment.

The mechanical arm's movements were more precise than the best surgeon he had ever seen. More importantly, that control across four thousand kilometers, with a 0.1-second latency, was almost imperceptible.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his brow.

Then he picked up the phone and called the editorial director:

"The next cover, it's this."

He paused and wrote a line on a sticky note:

"Starlight Moment in Surgery: The Future of Telemedicine Is Here"

Rochester, Minnesota.

The CEO office of the Mayo Clinic is on the seventeenth floor of the Gonda Building. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the entire downtown Rochester—this small city that exists because of Mayo, quiet and orderly.

Gianrico Farrugia stood in front of the window, holding a technical brief that had just been printed.

Sixty-two-year-old Farrugia is Italian, has run Mayo for eight years, and has taken this top hospital to new heights. He has seen countless advanced medical devices, but the numbers on this brief made him silent.

Huatuo-2 Technical Parameters

Degrees of Freedom: 7 axes (human arm 7 degrees of freedom)

Positioning Accuracy: 0.01 mm (human hand stability limit 0.1 mm)

Haptic Feedback: Yes (world's only)

Remote Latency: 0.1 seconds (satellite + fiber optic hybrid link)

He turned around and looked at the people at the conference table.

That was Mayo's procurement committee, six people, all core decision-makers of the hospital.

"How much to buy it?"

The procurement director shook his head:

"Starlight hasn't quoted yet. But I heard they prioritize domestic hospitals. Foreign orders have to wait in line."

Farrugia was silent for three seconds.

"Then offer double the price. No, triple."

Cleveland, Ohio.

The same scene.

Tomislav Mihaljevic sat behind his desk, looking at the same technical brief.

Fifty-eight-year-old Mihaljevic is the CEO of the Cleveland Clinic, the world's number one cardiac hospital, which receives patients from over one hundred countries every year.

He said to his assistant:

"Send a formal purchase order to Starlight. They set the price."

The assistant hesitated:

"Boss, we haven't budgeted for this..."

Mihaljevic interrupted him:

"The budget can be adjusted. If you miss this kind of equipment, you won't get it again."