godfather of surgery

Chapter 1464 The Real Student

Chapter 1464 The Real Student

Before the door was even opened, a series of hurried footsteps could be heard from inside, and then the door was suddenly pulled open.

"father!"

Da Bao pounced on him, hugging his legs with his little arms and rubbing his face against his pants. Yang Ping almost lost his balance, grabbing the doorframe with one hand and ruffling his son's hair with the other: "Did you study today?"

"Yes!" Da Bao looked up, his eyes sparkling like two little stars. "Mom asked me to recite ancient poems, and I recited three!"

Which three songs?

“Quiet Night Thoughts, Spring Dawn, and… and…” Da Bao scratched his head, his little brows furrowing. “There’s another one I forgot the name of, but I can recite it… ‘The bright moonlight shines before my bed, I suspect it is frost on the ground…’”

"That's 'Quiet Night Thoughts,' you just mentioned it." Yang Ping smiled, picked him up, and carried him into the living room.

Xiao Su poked her head out from the kitchen, still holding a spatula in her hand, with a little flour on her forehead: "You're back? The food will be ready soon, go wash your hands first."

Yang Ping placed Da Bao on the sofa and went into the kitchen. Xiao Su was stir-frying vegetables in the pan, the aroma filling the air, mingling with the hum of the range hood to create a strange harmony. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder: "You've worked hard."

Xiao Su gently tapped the back of his hand with the handle of the spatula: "Go wash your hands, don't make a mess, or the oil will splatter."

Yang Ping smiled and let go of her hand. He walked to the sink to wash his hands. The warm water washed away the smell of disinfectant. He came out after washing his hands.

"How was your day?" Xiao Su asked as she served the food.

"It's alright," Yang Ping said. "Sisi wrote a letter."

Xiao Su paused for a moment, the spatula hovering in mid-air, before continuing to pour the vegetables into the plate: "That little girl?"

"Yes, he's fifteen years old. He won a gold medal at the International Biology Olympiad and was admitted to the eight-year program at Nandu Medical University without taking the entrance exam."

Xiao Su turned around, looked at him, her eyes filled with emotion and tenderness: "She really did it."

“She did it,” Yang Ping said, with a hint of pride in his voice, like a teacher talking about his best student. “When I replied, my tone was a bit stern, reminding her that being a doctor requires medical ethics, composure, and resilience.”

“You,” Xiao Su shook her head, but the corners of her mouth curved up, “You’re strict with everyone, but even stricter with yourself. That young girl finally won the gold medal, can’t you say a few nice words?”

"We'll talk about nice things later." Yang Ping took the plate from her and walked to the dining table. "It's better to let her know how difficult this path is than to let her stumble later."

Xiao Su followed behind him, carrying a bowl of pork rib soup: "You're always right."

Dinner was cozy, but also noisy. Da Bao sat in his high chair, spoon in one hand and a piece of pork rib in the other, his face covered in sauce as he ate, looking like a little bear stealing honey. Xiao Su wiped his mouth while nagging, "Eat slowly, no one's going to take it from you."

"Dad's ribs are the best!" Da Bao mumbled, with half a piece of meat still stuffed in his mouth. "A hundred times better than the ones at kindergarten!"

Yang Ping picked up a piece of meat for him: "How about Dad makes you an 'iterated version' of braised pork next time?"

"What is iteration?" Da Bao tilted his head, his eyes full of curiosity.

“It’s like…” Yang Ping thought for a moment, trying to explain in a way that a five-year-old could understand, “It’s about making it taste better. For example, the first time you make it, the taste is 60 points; the second time you make it, you learn a new method, and the taste becomes 80 points; the third time you improve it again, and it becomes 90 points. Each time it’s better than the last time, that’s iteration.”

Da Bao nodded as if he understood, then said seriously, "Then Daddy should get a perfect score next time!"

"Okay, one hundred points." Yang Ping agreed with a smile and put another piece of egg on his plate.

Xiao Su sighed, but the corners of her mouth curved: "You two, father and son, one dares to speak, and the other dares to agree."

After dinner, Yang Ping played with building blocks with Da Bao for a while. They built a castle, and Da Bao insisted on putting an Ultraman on top of it, saying it was to "protect the princess." Yang Ping asked him where the princess was, and Da Bao said, "The princess is in the kitchen, she's Mommy."

Yang Ping laughed so hard he almost knocked the castle over.

Halfway through the story, Da Bao fell asleep, his little head resting on the pillow, a little drool still at the corner of his mouth, his hand tightly clutching the Ultraman toy. Yang Ping gently covered him with the blanket, took the Ultraman from his hand, placed it on the bedside table, kissed him on the forehead, and then left the room.

Xiao Su was tidying up her toys in the living room, putting the building blocks into boxes one by one. Seeing him come out, she asked, "Asleep?"

"He's asleep." Yang Ping sat down on the sofa and rubbed his temples. "I told him three stories today, and he fell asleep before he even finished the third one."

"That's because your stories are too boring," Xiao Su said with a smile. "Last time I told him a dinosaur story, he listened to it twice before he fell asleep."

Yang Ping opened his phone and saw a message from Tang Shun: "Professor, I have sent you the first draft of the thesis framework to your email. Please take a look when you have time."

He replied with an "okay," then leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. The leather of the sofa was a little cool, but the cushions were soft, like a gentle embrace.

Xiao Su walked over, sat down next to him, and rested her head on his shoulder. Her hair had a faint scent of shampoo.

"Are you tired?" she asked softly.

“A bit,” Yang Ping said. “There’s been a lot going on lately, and we’re working on multiple projects at the same time. It’s the most critical time right now, and many directions are unclear. They’re not sure about the outcome. There’s also a sixteen-year-old brainstem glioma patient who is currently undergoing treatment, and the results are not very certain.”

Xiao Su was silent for a while, her fingers unconsciously stroking the back of his hand. Her hand was soft and warm, but not as smooth and delicate as before. "Back then, you weren't sure about Sisi either, right?" she finally spoke, her voice very soft, as if asking a question she already knew the answer to.

Yang Ping opened his eyes and looked at the chandelier on the ceiling. The light was soft, like a small moon hanging in their own little patch of sky.

“Yes, I wasn’t sure,” he said. “This was the first time K therapy had been used on a human, and I had no idea if it would work. But if I hadn’t said ‘no’ back then, she might not have made it through. She was only nine years old, and her eyes were already a little unfocused. If I had explained the data and probabilities to her, she wouldn’t have understood or listened. What she needed was a definite answer, even if it was one I made up.”

"And now?" Xiao Su asked, "Why don't you give that sixteen-year-old boy a definite answer too?"

Yang Ping turned his head and looked at her. Her eyes were bright under the light, as if encouraging him, or perhaps reminding him.

“Because it’s different now,” he said.

Xiao Su held his hand without speaking. Sometimes, silence is more powerful than any words. Her grip tightened, as if conveying some kind of energy.

“But you still want to try,” she said, not in a question, but in a statement.

Yang Ping didn't answer, but just stared at the chandelier for a long time. Then he said, "Of course."

Xiao Su smiled, leaned on his shoulder, and closed her eyes.

The next morning, as soon as Yang Ping arrived at his office, Tang Shun knocked on the door and came in, carrying a stack of documents and looking somewhat serious.

“Professor,” Tang Shun said in a low voice, “the initial review comments from Cell have come back.”

Yang Ping took the tablet from him and quickly glanced through the reviewers' comments. Of the three reviewers, two gave "major revisions" and one gave "rejection," citing reasons such as "insufficient in-depth exploration of the mechanism, lack of in vivo validation data, and insufficient impact of glycosylation modification on activity to support its clinical translational value."

Tang Shun said, "The one who rejected the paper is a leading expert in the field of neural regeneration, and his opinion is crucial. If he doesn't budge, this paper is basically doomed."

Yang Ping put down the tablet. "We need to conduct supplementary experiments, perform in vivo verification, and use a spinal cord injury model to verify the promoting effect of recombinant proteins on axonal regeneration. We can accept any opinions, but we should not be swayed by anyone's opinions."

"Is there enough time?" Tang Shun asked, his brows furrowed. "We've already submitted it to the newsletter. If the main paper takes too long, our priority might be affected. Besides, establishing an animal model takes at least three weeks, plus behavioral assessments, histological staining, immunofluorescence..."

“Two weeks.” Yang Ping turned around, his gaze resolute, like a piece of steel tempered through countless trials. “Weber’s mammalian cell version has 40 percent higher activity than the E. coli version. This advantage is enough to support our argument. Have Weber speed up the purification process, Mainstein prepare for mass spectrometry analysis, and you are in charge of establishing the animal model. I want to see preliminary data within two weeks.”

"Two weeks?" Tang Shun's eyes widened. "Normally it takes a month. Do you know how rushed this is?"

“I know,” Yang Ping repeated. “Some things don’t have to be done by the book. We can find better ways through improvement. We need higher efficiency. If things are always like this, I will never improve efficiency.”

Tang Shun looked at him, hesitant to speak. He wanted to say that it was too risky, that the ethics committee wouldn't approve it, that pushing into clinical trials with insufficient data was gambling with his career. But when he looked into Yang Ping's eyes, he saw something familiar in them—that stubbornness that once someone has set their mind on something, they refuse to turn back.

Finally, he simply nodded: "Okay, I'll arrange it right away."

After Tang Shun left, Yang Ping sat in his chair, staring at the reviewer's comments on the computer screen. The reviewer who rejected the paper had used sharp words, like a scalpel: "The authors' concept of 'unknown factors' lacks sufficient theoretical support. While the effect of glycosylation modification on activity is interesting, it is insufficient to prove its clinical translational value. We suggest that the authors supplement sufficient in vivo experimental data and explore its mechanism of action in depth; otherwise, this journal cannot accept this paper."

His phone vibrated; it was an email from Sisi. He opened it—a 500-word review article on the immune response after spinal cord injury. The writing was still somewhat immature, and the wording was inaccurate in some places, but the viewpoints were clear, and the logical chain was complete. Several points even caught his eye; she mentioned the latest research on microglia phenotypic conversion, which was exactly the direction he had been paying attention to before, and this was the key to overcoming the reviewers' doubts.

The young girl was very talented; with her limited medical knowledge, she was able to find a glimmer of clarity amidst the chaos and ambiguity.

Yang Ping looked at the screen, a slight smile playing on his lips. That fifteen-year-old girl, at her desk a thousand miles away, had inadvertently touched a crucial switch with her childish yet earnest penmanship—a switch she probably didn't even realize herself had made.

He replied with a short email: "The viewpoint is good, but the evidence is insufficient. Please add three supporting references and resend them to me. Also, pay attention to the difference between the surface markers of microglia and macrophages, and do not confuse them. Don't think that your paper is bad or imperfect. It is often imperfect, rough, and unbearable at the beginning, but that's okay. We must learn to iterate, and through continuous and rapid iteration, make the direction more and more correct, the details clearer and clearer, and the results infinitely closer to perfection."

After sending the email, he stood up and walked towards the laboratory.

Sunlight streamed through the windows in the corridor, casting long shadows on the floor. He recalled a statement his professor had made to him many years ago when he was still an undergraduate: "The essence of medicine is to find certainty in uncertainty."

He didn't understand then, but he does now. Every treatment is a gamble, every surgery a risk. But as long as you stand there, as long as you're willing to try, there's still hope. And hope, sometimes, is more important than any medicine.

Yang Ping quickened his pace and pushed open the laboratory door. Weber was already busy in the cell culture room, wearing protective clothing and goggles, his pipette precisely drawing up the clear liquid; Mainstein sat in front of the computer, the screen displaying rows of mass spectrometry data peaks, his fingers flying across the keyboard; Tang Shun was marking a mouse, a colorful thread tied to its tail, quietly curled up in its cage.

Everyone looked up at him.

"Let's begin," Yang Ping said.

Inside the laboratory, the sounds of instruments hummed and swayed—the deep rumble of the centrifuge, the rhythmic ticking of the PCR machine, the steady whirring of the airflow from the laminar flow table—like a silent symphony, flowing gently through the air. Outside the window, the ginkgo leaves rustled softly in the wind, as if cheering on the battle, or perhaps whispering an ancient story.

In a corner of the city, a fifteen-year-old girl sits at her desk, diligently revising her paper in front of the computer screen. Little does she know that a research direction she casually mentioned might become the key to a major breakthrough.

All she knew was that she had to study hard so she could see him.

She has never forgotten this promise. Just like when he said "no" by her bedside when she was nine years old, she believed him, and has believed him ever since.

Faith lasts forever.

When she goes to see him in her white coat, he will be able to become her true student; he is getting closer and closer to that day.