Surgery Godfather

Chapter 2149: Chapter 1797:

It seemed to be saying: Oh, you’re here.

"How many steps has it taken?" Yang Ping quietly asked Fritz.

"Seven steps." Fritz’s voice was also soft, "The best today was seven steps. That’s two more than last week."

Yang Ping squatted down to look at M7 at eye level.

M7 tilted its head, then reached out a hand through the cage bars, fingers spread open.

This time, Yang Ping didn’t hesitate. He extended his hand and held M7’s fingers. The monkey’s fingers were thinner than a human’s, its palm rough and slightly cooler, but had a decent grip. It grasped Yang Ping’s fingers and shook them, like a handshake, or a greeting.

Fritz watched from the side, saying nothing but with a slight smile at the corners of his mouth.

Yang Ping released his hand, stood up, and turned to Manstein.

"The paper was accepted?" he said.

Manstein nodded: "Accepted!"

"Professor," Manstein said, "this paper should be yours, it’s your theory, I just conducted the experiment."

"Without your experiment, the theory is just a theory," Yang Ping said.

"Without your theory, my experiment is just a cat chasing a dead mouse."

The two of them shook hands, neither willing to let go first.

A doctoral student, who appeared at the animal room door without them noticing, captured the moment on his phone.

"I’m keeping this photo for when we win the Lasker Award,"

Manstein said.

Yang Ping laughed, "Save it for when we win the Nobel Prize."

On the day the Medical paper went online, Yang Ping specifically chose Friday morning.

Not because he wanted to create any news buzz, but because Friday mornings are the busiest for the Medical editorial office, so if there were any issues, they could be addressed immediately.

Manstein was sitting in Yang Ping’s office, with two computers side by side on the desk. Yang Ping’s was logged into the submission system’s editorial backend, while Manstein’s displayed the paper’s online page.

"Ready?" Yang Ping asked.

"Ready," Manstein said.

Yang Ping clicked the "publish" button.

Refresh!

The paper’s page appeared, with a white background, black text, and blue links. In the top left corner was the Medical’s logo—a simple design derived from the Chinese character for "medicine." Below the title was the list of authors, with Manstein’s name at the top, and below the list, in small print:

"This paper is dedicated to all spinal cord injury patients, and to the scientists who refuse to give up on them."

Manstein stared at this line in silence for a long time.

The person beside him asked, "When did you add that?"

Yang Ping leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling.

"Manstein, let me ask you a question."

"Ask away!" freёwebnoѵel.com

"Why did you do all this? Give me the honest answer."

Manstein opened his mouth, wanting to say "for science," but didn’t, because he knew that wasn’t true. Science was just a means, not the end.

"Do you really want the truth?"

"Of course!"

Manstein said, "It’s neither for science nor for those eager to stand up, not just one project, all research really is about satisfying my own curiosity. I really want to figure out what’s going on, whether things can change. If I succeed, I’ll be very happy, feel a great sense of accomplishment. It’s just that simple. Let’s put it this way, this is my interest, like winning in a game, it’s the same feeling. I’ve never thought about doing it for science or the patients, never!"

"Then why did you write that line?" Yang Ping asked.

Manstein awkwardly said, "Everyone writes that kind of stuff. Isn’t it meant to express ideals and justice, to guide young researchers’ values?"

Many researchers nearby looked at Manstein, thinking he was really candid.

Yang Ping couldn’t help but laugh too; this was the truth. Many scientists, before achieving results, really just enjoy exploring the unknown world, never having considered grand things like the advancement of world science, simply because it’s enjoyable, simply liking the exploration of the unknown.

On the weekend, Yang Ping made good on his promise to treat everyone.

This time it wasn’t Cantonese or Hunan cuisine, but hot pot, decided by a vote from Manstein’s entire team.

August, who flew in at the last minute, managed to swing Clara and Hans’ votes with three servings of shrimp dumplings, combined with his vote, narrowly beating Fritz’s proposal of German pork knuckles, three to two. As team leader, Manstein had the final say, but he wisely chose to abstain.

"I don’t get involved in this political struggle," he said.

"This is democratic voting, not a political struggle," August retorted.

"To me, it’s the same,"

The hot pot restaurant was recommended by Tang Shun, a hidden gem in the alleys of Nandu Old City District, reputedly a 30-year-old institution. Yang Ping reserved a private room in advance, with two round tables, each with a large copper pot.

When Manstein entered the private room, he looked fairly calm. But as soon as the waiter brought the soup base, his composure disappeared.

The pot was divided into two halves. One side was a milky white broth with goji berries and red dates floating in it, while the other was a vibrant red broth with a layer of chilies and Sichuan peppercorns. The red broth was boiling, and the bubbles released a rich, aggressive aroma, like some ancient warning.

"Yuan Yang Pot!" Yang Ping introduced, "The clear broth is yours, and the red broth is ours."

Manstein pointed at the red broth, "How spicy is that?"

"Not spicy!" August replied quickly, having eaten hot pot at least ten times, he considered himself a China expert.

"Last time you said Mapo Tofu wasn’t spicy, I almost ended up in the hospital."

"That was Mapo Tofu, this is hot pot, they’re different."

"How are they different?"

"The spiciness of Mapo Tofu is inside the tofu, you only know when you bite into it. The spiciness of hot pot is in the soup, you can see it."

Manstein thought about it, finding the logic absurd yet strangely undeniable. He picked up his chopsticks and took a piece of tripe from the red soup.

Everyone watched him.

After three chews, Manstein’s expression changed from "cautious" to "confused," then from "confused" to "shocked," and finally to a complex expression Yang Ping had never seen before, seeming to mix pain, surprise, regret, and addiction all at once on one face.

"How was it?" August asked.

Manstein didn’t answer. He picked up the beer in front of him and drank half the glass in one go.

"Give me another piece," he said.

The whole table burst into laughter, Yang Ping laughed the hardest, tears almost coming out.

After the laughter subsided, Manstein put down his chopsticks and looked at Yang Ping.

"Professor, there’s something I want to say to you."

"Go ahead!"

"When the day for human trials comes, the day the first batch of volunteers is enrolled, I want you to be there."

Yang Ping paused while picking up food.

"Why?"

"Because you are the origin of this theory," Manstein said, "that day you received my message. You said naming wasn’t important. You said ’Manstein’s Spinal Cord Original Cell Repair’ was good enough, your name didn’t matter. But do you know what you mean to me?"

Yang Ping looked at him but said nothing.

"You are the only person who never gave up on me on this path," Manstein said, "all these years, Professor. When everyone said I was crazy, you said ’keep going.’ When everyone said I was on the wrong track, you said ’try again.’"

His voice trembled a little.

"So on the day of the human trials, I want you there. Not because you’re Professor Yang Ping, but because you’re the one who replied to my message on the sky bridge."

The room was silent.

Even the bubbling sound of the hot pot seemed to quiet down a bit.

Yang Ping put down his chopsticks, picked up his beer glass, and clinked it with Manstein’s.

"Alright," he said, "I’ll be there."

They finished their drinks.

Then Manstein took another piece of tripe.

This time he didn’t ask for water or beer. He chewed it, swallowed, and then said something that made the whole table burst into laughter again:

"August was right, this really isn’t spicy."

"Didn’t you just say it was spicy?" August said.

"That was the first bite. The first bite is spicy, the second is fragrant, the third is addictive. Science is like this too."

Yang Ping raised his glass: "To science!"

"To science!" eight voices echoed.

Nine glasses clinked together, producing a crisp sound like some ancient, untranslated agreement.

The hot pot continued to boil. The red broth and the clear broth in the same pot, clearly distinct yet sharing the same temperature.