A Surgeon Who Uses Martial Arts [EN]: Chapter 283

Chapter 54: Dispatch (3)

A young man gazed up at the main building of Daejeon Shinwon University.

The young man’s name was Kim Dae-hui.

He was a first-year resident in neurosurgery.

Dae-hui’s gaze lingered on the main building, his expression troubled.

His feelings were a tangled mess.

He felt relieved, worried, guilty, and scared all at once… It was a confusing jumble of emotions.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Dae-hui scratched the back of his head, hesitant.

He couldn’t bring himself to move.

Just twenty minutes ago, Jun-hoo had practically thrown Dae-hui out, insisting he forget about the department and rest for the day.

Jun-hoo’s insistence was so firm that Dae-hui couldn’t argue.

He had no choice but to obediently leave the hospital.

What on earth is Jun-hoo thinking?

How is he going to handle all that work by himself?

Dae-hui still couldn’t quite grasp Jun-hoo’s unusual suggestion.

Of course, he appreciated the consideration.

But that didn’t mean he wanted to see Jun-hoo sacrifice himself, taking on all the burden alone.

Should I go back to the ward?

Or should I just say, ‘Screw it,’ and enjoy the day off?

After much internal debate, Dae-hui turned away from the main building and headed for the exit.

He desperately needed a day of rest.

He craved it like a thirsty man craves water.

For the past three months, ever since starting his neurosurgery residency,

Dae-hui had been on duty every single day.

He was trapped in what felt like an endless cycle of constant work, a grueling schedule that should have been abolished long ago for being inhumane.

The justification was always the same: the department was severely understaffed.

And the seniors had already endured their own stretches of relentless duty.

How could a first-year resident possibly argue against those seemingly unshakeable points?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The further he walked from the hospital, the faster his heart beat.

The anxiety that he was crossing a point of no return grew with each step.

But what else could he do?

At this rate, he felt like he’d collapse from exhaustion.

The first place Dae-hui went after escaping the hospital’s clutches was a restaurant.

He ordered his ultimate comfort food: pork bone potato stew (gamjatang), which he’d been avoiding due to the watchful eyes of his seniors.

He devoured every last bit of meat from the bones.

He gnawed off all the chewy cartilage.

Wiping his messy hands with a wet wipe, he mixed rice into the remaining soup and emptied the entire earthenware pot.

Dae-hui felt happier than he had in ages.

If someone asked him to define true happiness,

Dae-hui would answer without hesitation: eating pork bone potato stew.

After satisfying his hunger, he strolled through a nearby park.

No one was looking for Dae-hui.

Dae-hui was free.

Beeeeeep.

As he walked, his cell phone rang. He checked the number and saw it was Hyuk-jae, a third-year resident.

His heart sank.

Judging by the persistent ringing, they had probably realized he’d left the hospital.

The unpleasant memories and simmering resentment threatened to resurface.

But Dae-hui shook his head, determined.

He silenced his cell phone and kept walking.

Even if I get chewed out tomorrow…

I need this rest today.

Jun-hoo told me to rest, so I’m resting. And I trust Jun-hoo to explain the situation.

Dae-hui was leisurely walking along the stream when he spotted a public bathhouse (jjimjilbang) and decided to go inside.

Perhaps because it was early, the bathhouse was nearly empty.

The only other customers were Dae-hui and an old man who seemed like a permanent fixture.

Dae-hui sank into the hot tub, letting the rising steam envelop him.

He felt his entire body begin to unwind.

At this point, he didn’t care what happened next.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the hospital.

Jun-hoo, in the on-call room, was tackling the department’s backlog of work at an astonishing pace.

Tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap.

He typed so rapidly and extensively that the keyboard seemed to emit a constant, overlapping sound.

It was as if the keyboard itself was crying out in protest.

Not only that,

but afterimages trailed Jun-hoo’s fingers as they flew across the keyboard.

His fingers seemed to be performing a high-level martial art on the keys.

The culmination of the Ambidextrous Amber technique.

The seventh form of the Howol Twelve Movements.

Having mastered the most crucial hand-related martial arts, Jun-hoo’s hand movements had reached a new level of refinement.

He possessed both incredible speed and delicate precision.

Throughout his work, he received calls from the emergency room and the ward, but they posed no significant obstacle.

Since no one was around to witness it, Jun-hoo used telekinesis to bring the receiver to his ear and effortlessly issue instructions.

Was fate giving him a grace period to adjust on his first day?

The cases he handled didn’t require him to physically examine the patients.

As he’d promised Dae-hui, Jun-hoo systematically eliminated the department’s pending tasks, dealing with them swiftly and efficiently.

Of course, this was only possible because it was Jun-hoo.

The vast medical knowledge he’d acquired from memorizing his mentor Jae-hyun’s thesis.

A typing speed of 4,000 characters per minute for charting.

Extensive practical experience in various fields.

Because Jun-hoo was a resident in name only, no amount of departmental workload could overwhelm him.

How could a mere puppy compete with a tiger?

“Haaah.”

Jun-hoo yawned and stretched.

Then, he began to assess the state of the Daejeon Neurosurgery Department, the aspect he was most curious about.

He wanted to understand just how dire the situation in Daejeon was, the reason everyone described it as such a challenging place.

The department had a total of eight professors.

Specializing in cerebrovascular issues, brain tumors, cervical and lumbar spine, stereotactic neurosurgery, pediatric neurosurgery, and so on.

Each professor was assigned to a specific area.

Meaning that if the professor in charge was unavailable, no one else could perform emergency surgeries in that specialty.

But the resident allocation was even worse.

There were 70 patients in the ward, including the intensive care unit, but only four residents on duty, including Jun-hoo.

Compared to the six residents at the Seoul headquarters, this was a critically low number.

Another absurd detail.

Despite the limited staff, the number of surgeries performed in Daejeon wasn’t significantly different from Seoul.

This was undoubtedly due to the hospital’s role as a regional trauma center, but it also highlighted the overwhelming workload.

Hell wasn’t a distant concept.

This place where Jun-hoo was stationed was hell itself.

After thoroughly evaluating the department’s condition, Jun-hoo stroked his chin.

Now he understood why Director Si-deok had specifically chosen him for this assignment.

He must have calculated that someone like Jun-hoo would be capable of enduring the Daejeon dispatch.

Jun-hoo stood up from his chair.

He had completed all the pending tasks, and no new ones had emerged.

With his newfound free time, he decided to clean the on-call room.

He opened the window wide and dusted the refrigerator and bookshelves with a duster.

The dust motes, illuminated by the sunlight, shimmered like tiny gems. Energized, Jun-hoo swept the floor and cleaned the refrigerator.

But as he was about to mop the floor as a final touch,

an unpleasant sight caught his eye.

The mop handle was broken in half.

Jun-hoo understood the hidden message immediately.

I’m already overwhelmed with work, and you’re neglecting even basic tasks…

This place is a complete disaster.

Jun-hoo shook his head and left the on-call room. He washed the mop in the bathroom, returned to the on-call room, and mopped the floor.

Squeak.

After perfectly cleaning the floor and settling back into his chair, the door to the on-call room swung open.

A young man with a sturdy build and broad shoulders entered.

Jun-hoo recognized him instantly.

The owner of the broken mop.

“What? Are you the new resident who’s been dispatched here?”

The young man scrutinized Jun-hoo with narrow, sharp eyes.

“Yes. My name is Seo Jun-hoo, a second-year from Seoul.”

“Okay. I’m Hyuk-jae, a third-year. You started cleaning as soon as you arrived?”

“Yes. It was a bit dirty.”

“Well, not bad…”

Hyuk-jae surveyed the clean on-call room and crossed his arms.

“Don’t you think you’re being disrespectful?”

“Me? Disrespectful? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It’s not appropriate for a junior to sit comfortably while a senior is standing. Don’t you agree?”

Jun-hoo was taken aback by Hyuk-jae’s words.

Could there really be someone this old-fashioned (kkondae) in the world?

Even Jun-hoo wasn’t sure he could overcome Hyuk-jae’s outdated attitude, even with his superior medical knowledge.

“Then please, have a seat, senior.”

“This guy’s hilarious. You should stand up. Why would I sit down?”

Hyuk-jae scoffed.

Jun-hoo countered Hyuk-jae’s demand.

“The person who’s tired should rest. Why should the person who’s resting make things harder on themselves? Your logic doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, are you talking back to me now?”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, senior. Is this how the Daejeon branch treats its juniors?”

A subtle anger laced Jun-hoo’s voice.

Jun-hoo was the strongest man on Earth.

He wasn’t afraid of someone like Hyuk-jae.

“Ha… you cheeky bastard. You don’t know your place. You think I can’t touch you just because you’ve been dispatched here?”

Hyuk-jae scowled and stepped closer to Jun-hoo.

As the distance between them narrowed, a tense atmosphere filled the room.

Hyuk-jae spoke first.

“Hoo. I’ll let it slide since it’s your first day. Anyway, where did Dae-hui go? That crazy bastard keeps ignoring my calls.”

“I told Dae-hui to take a break. He seemed exhausted, so I sent him home for the day.”

“Huh? What? Say that again.”

Hyuk-jae clicked his tongue, finding Jun-hoo’s response utterly absurd.

A fresh rookie, newly dispatched, was sending his junior home to rest as he pleased?

Was that even possible?

In Hyuk-jae’s eyes, Jun-hoo was completely out of his mind (dorai).

“Dae-hui is not in the ward today.”

“Hey, you crazy bastard. Who in this department isn’t having a hard time? Everyone is working themselves to death, but they endure it.”

“…”

“And who’s going to manage the ward without Dae-hui? I’m already getting bombarded with complaints because the charts and orders are piling up.”

“I’ve already taken care of all the pending work. I don’t have any surgeries scheduled, so I can cover the duty until tomorrow morning.”

“Bullshit. Do you even know how many pending tasks there are? You’ve already finished them?”

“Check it yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Hyuk-jae’s anger reached its boiling point at Jun-hoo’s annoying tone and behavior.

If you placed a pot of water on his head, it would instantly boil over.

But Hyuk-jae barely managed to suppress the urge to physically assault him.

He forced himself to be patient.

He would give anyone a pass for being cocky on their first day; it was one of Hyuk-jae’s generous rules.

“Get up.”

Hyuk-jae settled into Jun-hoo’s chair.

Admission and discharge records.

Discharge summaries.

Progress notes.

Surgical records, and so on.

Surprisingly, all the records for every patient in the ward and intensive care unit were meticulously completed.

There were no typos, no errors in medication regimens, no contraindication violations, and no dosage issues.

Even the treatment and examination orders were neatly organized.

The amount of work that Dae-hui would have struggled to finish by midnight was completed before noon.

It was a speed that defied belief, even after witnessing it firsthand.

Jun-hoo’s work processing speed was terrifying.

It was overwhelming, on a completely different level, and almost miraculous.

Damn it! I can’t let this happen.

I’m a third-year resident; I can’t back down in a way that makes me look incompetent.

Hyuk-jae widened his eyes and scrutinized the charts again, determined to find some flaw in Jun-hoo’s work, no matter how small…

But it only made his eyes dry and sore.

There wasn’t a single mistake in Jun-hoo’s work.

‘That son of a bitch. He’s actually good at his job.’