A Surgeon Who Uses Martial Arts [EN]: Chapter 332

64. Compression (2)

Jun-ho stood by the duty room window, gazing out.

The dark sky contrasted sharply with the heavy, white snowfall.

*Was it an exaggeration to see his own situation reflected there?*

Black death.

And the white doctor’s gown confronting that death.

Jun-ho contemplated the symbolic meaning of the scene before him.

“You’re not usually one for sentimentality, are you?”

The duty room door opened with a familiar voice.

It was Kyung-soo, his classmate from four years ago, standing beside him.

The image of Seo Jin, like a wounded wolf, lonely and distant, was nowhere to be found.

For the past year, Kyung-soo had become quite sociable.

It was one of the small changes Jun-ho had brought about in the Seoul medical community.

“Seeing you spaced out like that, I’m getting a rare glimpse of your human side. I like it a lot.”

“Anyone would think I’m a robot normally if they heard that.”

“Robot isn’t entirely wrong. A work robot and a study robot, right?”

Kyung-soo stretched and changed the subject.

“Time really flies. This month, we’ll be done with residency.”

“Yeah. It still feels like yesterday we were interns, and now our training is already over.”

Jun-ho nodded in agreement.

It had already been almost two years since he safely completed his dispatch duty in Daejeon and returned to Seoul.

*Was there a plus sign attached to time?*

Jun-ho, who was a second-year resident, had become a fourth-year resident in the blink of an eye.

He had already taken the first part of the specialist exam.

The second part was in two days.

If he passed the second exam as well…

He could become a real neurosurgeon then.

“You’re going to do a fellowship, right? Have you decided on a subspecialty?”

Kyung-soo asked cautiously.

A fellowship involved further training at the hospital for 1-2 years after obtaining a specialist license.

You would choose a specific professor and intensively learn one specialty under that professor.

There were a total of seven specialties to choose from.

Cerebrovascular.

Brain Tumor.

Cervical and Lumbar Spine.

Stereotactic Neurosurgery.

Pediatric Neurosurgery.

Hand Surgery.

Trauma Surgery.

“I don’t know where to go. I feel like I’ve lost my way.”

A sigh escaped Jun-ho’s lips.

The sigh turned into white breath, riding the wind and rising into the sky.

Jun-ho’s gaze was wistful as he watched the breath trying to become a cloud.

“You’re talking like you’ve got it so bad. Lost your way? Wherever Seo Jun-ho goes *becomes* the way.”

“Thanks for the thought. Have you decided on your specialty?”

“Me? I’m thinking of specializing in cerebrovascular.”

“Didn’t you say you were going to specialize in cervical and lumbar spine? That you’d open a clinic later and rake in the money.”

Jun-ho said teasingly, but it was true that Kyung-soo had said he would specialize in cervical and lumbar spine.

Among the neurosurgery subspecialties, cervical and lumbar spine was the only one that made money.

This was because its treatment area somewhat overlapped with orthopedics, which was very popular among patients.

Even if you opened a clinic in the neighborhood and word spread, you could make a decent amount of money with physical therapy and manual therapy.

“Did you change your mind? What’s the reason?”

Jun-ho’s gaze rested on Kyung-soo. Kyung-soo hesitated for a long time before answering.

“Well… I don’t really know what came over me. I’m just drawn to cerebrovascular.”

“There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world.”

“That’s why I said I don’t understand myself either? Tell me if you know.”

Kyung-soo chuckled.

Jun-ho laughed along with Kyung-soo.

“You still haven’t given up your ambition?”

“What ambition?”

“It’s not like I’ve only known you for a day or two. Do you think I don’t know your dark intentions?”

Kyung-soo’s words spread through Jun-ho’s heart like ripples on a calm lake.

The reason why he couldn’t easily choose a subspecialty.

It seemed Kyung-soo knew that reason.

*Isn’t this why people are afraid of those close to them?*

Because everything you haven’t shown, everything you don’t want to show, gets exposed.

“There’s still plenty of time, so think about it slowly. The answer might be closer than you think.”

Kyung-soo lightly placed his hand on Jun-ho’s shoulder and left the duty room.

Even after that, Jun-ho stared blankly at the scenery outside the window.

As if the answer he was looking for might exist beyond that scenery.

* * *

The next day, morning, rosette number 3 in the operating room [Operating rooms are often named or numbered for identification].

Jun-ho stood at the surgeon’s position, looking down at the patient.

The patient’s name was Joo Hong-min.

He was 27 years old.

The patient on the operating table was a whopping 190 centimeters tall [approximately 6 feet 3 inches].

His palms were as heavy and sturdy as pot lids, and his huge feet looked to be at least 300mm in shoe size [approximately US size 13].

The patient, under general anesthesia, was motionless.

Under the shadowless light, the patient’s face looked as white as wax.

“He definitely has the physique of a basketball player. I’m sure I’d get my butt kicked if I fought him.”

The staff member across from him said with a jest.

Park In-chul.

A third-year resident and Jun-ho’s direct junior.

His nickname was BYC, taken from the initials of In-chul’s surname and given name.

To think that the stuttering first-year resident had already become a third-year resident and was now his first assistant.

Jun-ho once again felt the passage of time.

“But, senior.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t your specialist exam tomorrow? Do you really need to perform such a difficult surgery?”

In-chul asked with a look that he didn’t understand Jun-ho’s actions.

“What does the exam have to do with the surgery?”

“Well… I feel like if the surgery doesn’t go well, it might affect the exam. Senior Kyung-soo even cleared out his surgery schedule on purpose.”

“In-chul, you should think about succeeding, not failing.”

“I know that too, but…”

In-chul glanced at Jun-ho and continued.

“Today’s surgery… I don’t think it’s a surgery that you can perform *yet*.”

In-chul’s point wasn’t wrong either.

The surgery Jun-ho was performing today was a pituitary adenoma [a benign tumor of the pituitary gland].

The pituitary gland is an organ located inside the sphenoid bone that regulates the secretion of various hormones.

The reason why the patient’s height and limbs were unusually long.

It was because a benign tumor in the pituitary gland had stimulated hormone secretion.

For reference, pituitary adenomas were usually operated on by professors.

No. It was natural for professors to perform the surgery.

The reason Jun-ho was an exception was…

Jun-ho’s surgical skills were so exceptional that they defied common sense, and Dong-hoon, the professor in charge of the brain tumor department who was supervising today’s surgery, was hiding ulterior motives.

Buzz.

Just then, the operating room door opened, and two middle-aged surgeons approached the operating table.

One was supervising professor Dong-hoon, and the other was someone Jun-ho had never seen before.

“This is Professor Jo Soo-hwan from the otolaryngology [ENT – Ear, Nose, and Throat] department. Say hello.”

“Hello, Professor.”

“Hello.”

At Dong-hoon’s introduction, Jun-ho and In-chul bowed to Soo-hwan.

Soo-hwan didn’t respond.

He just stood next to Jun-ho and stared intently at him.

“Are you the surgeon today?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Hey, do you have a grudge against me? Why are you making me assist a resident?”

Soo-hwan said with a dissatisfied voice, glaring at Dong-hoon.

“Jun-ho, he’s our neurosurgery ace. You might change your mind after assisting him.”

“Wouldn’t it be faster to switch the positions of you and the resident than to change my mind?”

“Just indulge me a little. I’m trying to nurture some junior talent.”

Dong-hoon pleaded with Soo-hwan.

But Soo-hwan’s eyes were still full of displeasure.

He seemed to feel that assisting a resident was beneath his dignity.

Due to its anatomical characteristics, pituitary adenoma surgery approached the surgical site through the nose without incising the head.

Therefore, otolaryngology professors often participated in the surgery.

“I’m getting more upset because you’re being petty. How can you tell me that a resident is performing the surgery *after* I arrive in the operating room?”

“Would you have assisted if I had told you in advance?”

“You’re a complete con artist.”

Soo-hwan shook his head and then stared at Jun-ho again.

“I’m assisting because Dong-hoon asked me to. But you better do the surgery right. I don’t go easy on residents from other departments.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“You answer well.”

Soo-hwan took his place next to Jun-ho.

The atmosphere in the operating room became tense as Soo-hwan took a disapproving stance.

In-chul, standing across from him, kept rolling his eyes, looking anxious.

The scrub nurse next to In-chul was in the same situation.

Her legs were trembling slightly.

Working with a professor from another department was nothing more than an awkward and uncomfortable experience.

But Jun-ho didn’t care.

What mattered was skill.

And when it came to skill, Jun-ho was confident that he was second to none, even among most professors.

Because for the past two years.

He hadn’t wasted his time.

“How are you going to do the surgery?”

Soo-hwan asked in a prickly tone.

As if he had been waiting for it, Jun-ho recited the surgical procedure.

Soo-hwan’s brow furrowed as he listened to the story.

“You’re going to completely remove the adenoma?”

“Yes. Adenomas often recur. It’s best to remove them completely during surgery.”

“Do you think I don’t know what *you* know? The problem is whether you have the ability to do that.”

“……”

“The adenoma is quite large, 3x3cm [approximately 1.2 x 1.2 inches]. You know that the optic nerves are distributed around the pituitary gland, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then you also know that if you make a mistake, the patient’s vision will be affected?”

Soo-hwan’s gaze towards Jun-ho was fierce.

Soo-hwan was speaking with his eyes.

*Give up the surgery now.*

*It’s not too late yet.*

But Soo-hwan only knew one thing and not the other.

That Jun-ho was the kind of person who grew more fiercely the more he was trampled on.

It was the same in the Murim world [a genre of Korean fantasy fiction].

When Jun-ho declared that he would avenge his father’s enemy, Jeok Il-do.

Everyone tried to stop him.

How could you possibly punish a heinous killer who had reached the realm of ultimate evil?

However, despite the contempt and indifference of those around him, Jun-ho eventually sent Jeok Il-do to the afterlife.

Although Jun-ho also lost his life in the process.

In any case, the negative reactions and disregard from those around him were nothing more than fuel to burn Jun-ho’s passion.

Through that fuel, Jun-ho became even hotter.

“Hey, why are you trying to discourage him before the surgery? I don’t know if you came to assist or to scare him.”

Dong-hoon, who had been silent, joined the conversation.

Even Dong-hoon’s voice was unpleasant now.

“It’s not just about scaring him. He needs to know exactly what he’s doing, right?”

At Soo-hwan’s offensive, Jun-ho smiled with his eyes and said.

“You’ll think completely differently when you see me perform the surgery.”

“Well, well. You’re even more arrogant than Dong-hoon. Well, fine. As long as you can take responsibility for what you said.”

The fierce war of words ended, and the curtain rose on the full-scale pituitary adenoma resection.

Just before the surgery, Jun-ho lightly tilted his head from side to side and loosened his wrists.

He had been hiding about 50 percent of his skills, but today he thought he would unleash the rest without reservation.

Soo-hwan’s disregard was….

Could be suppressed with skill.

“I will now begin the pituitary adenoma resection.”

Jun-ho’s voice spread softly throughout the operating room.