8 Winning the Grand Prize

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Luo Hao had never bought a lottery ticket; to him, it was no different from the foolish act of playing rock-paper-scissors and always choosing first, essentially just throwing money away. Except when the system gave it for free. No matter what he got, it was bound to be something good.

“Luo Hao, is there a problem with the patient? What’s going on?” Lin Yuming asked, noticing Luo Hao had suddenly paused for a few seconds without moving, concerned something unexpected had happened.

“It’s nothing, nothing. It’s done now,” Luo Hao smiled faintly, squinting his eyes as he applied pressure and bandaged the bleeding site, then gestured for others to carry the patient onto the stretcher.

Instead of rushing to check the system’s reward, Luo Hao escorted the patient back to the ward.

After hooking up the cardiac monitor, Luo Hao observed the patient's blood pressure and heart rate were stable. He then spoke briefly with the patient’s family before leaving.

“Little Spiral, when did you learn interventional surgery? Puncture surgery is simple—I’d believe you if you said you can do it just by watching twice—but interventional surgery is quite difficult,” Lin Yuming asked seriously as they left.

Luo Hao thought for a moment. “Uncle, I don’t know if you believe in talent.”

“Talent?” Lin Yuming found Luo Hao’s words hard to believe. After all, Lin was a veterinary medicine graduate, while Luo Hao had completed an eight-year integrated program from Peking Union Medical College, scoring vastly higher on the college entrance exam.

If he questioned it now and Luo Hao said something unpleasant, Lin Yuming felt he wouldn’t have a rebuttal.

Perhaps he just couldn’t understand the world of geniuses, like facing the last difficult math problem during the college entrance exam.

“The surgery went well. The patient should be fine. How about you? Feeling okay?” Lin Yuming changed the subject.

“It was just one surgery, under ten minutes of stitching, and I was wearing a lead apron. Don’t worry, Uncle,” Luo Hao smiled broadly.

Lin Yuming gave Luo Hao's shoulder a hearty pat.

Though Luo Hao looked delicate, he was quite sturdy; Lin felt like he was patting a brick wall, his hand aching.

The boy had grown up; Lin Yuming felt somewhat gratified.

He tossed Luo Hao a bunch of keys. “If you don’t want to go home, spend a few hours in my office. I can’t sleep well there, so I’ll grab some sleep at home.”

“Alright,” Luo Hao replied.

He glanced back at the monitor, gave a few instructions to the obstetrician, and then headed straight to the medical affairs office.

Opening Director Lin’s office door, Luo Hao lay down on the bed. In the upper right corner of his vision floated a treasure chest, glowing with a tempting golden light.

When playing mobile games, treasure chests often appeared, and many mobile games had become pay-to-draw card games.

As for the contents, who really cared?

He hadn’t expected the sharp-eyed system to use the same trick.

After thinking for a moment, Luo Hao finally focused his mind and began the draw.

The treasure chest responded to his thoughts, emitting multicolored brilliance, surrounding Luo Hao in rows of square rewards.

A flickering light quickly darted across the prizes.

Though dazzling, Luo Hao showed no interest; he carefully examined each reward, eager to discover what the system had given him.

The closest icon on the left rear was a symbol of ancient copper coins with four characters beneath it: “Wealth and Treasure.”

Holy crap!

Luo Hao was stunned.

He had assumed the system’s rewards would be various medical skills or related content.

He had never expected an option for “Wealth and Treasure.”

Luo Hao froze for two seconds.

In those two seconds, the light circled twice before bursting into radiance as countless flowers rained down.

Had he just hit the jackpot?!

Game developers' money-grabbing tactics were all similar; although Luo Hao didn’t play games, this move was too obvious, utterly unmasked.

Next, would it ask him to top up his account? Luo Hao wondered.

Soon the light slowed amid the sea of flowers and finally settled over all the rewards.

Luo Hao was speechless.

Of course, the system didn’t crash; it wouldn’t just hand him everything at once.

After the brilliance faded, among the dazzling flowers, all other rewards dimmed, leaving only two glowing brightly before Luo Hao.

The words “Energy Conversion” appeared.

The other one was much dimmer and, before Luo Hao could examine it, flew toward him and merged into his body.

Fortunately, the system provided a “manual,” and Luo Hao carefully studied “Energy Conversion.”

The explanation was somewhat complex; it took him about ten minutes to realize it was a passive ability.

It converted X-rays and other radioactive substances into energy usable by carbon-based lifeforms without altering the life form itself.

Did that mean if he appeared in any apocalypse scenario, pollution feared by others would be a boon for him?

Though contact with radiation was rare in modern society, interventional surgery was among the special fields exposed to it.

Not bad—very practical!

Luo Hao was quite pleased with this passive skill from the system.

Next…

Just as he praised the system, the second ability proved it was somewhat unreliable.

“Acting Level 4.”

Luo Hao stared at this skill, deep in thought.

Was the system seriously malfunctioning? Why would a passive skill like this exist?

He could accept “Wealth and Treasure”—after all, life in society, especially a commercial one, required money.

Acting!?

Was he supposed to become an actor?

Ridiculous.

A useless skill. Luo Hao was a bit unhappy.

But it didn’t matter; the passive Energy Conversion skill alone was worth it.

After fiddling with the system all night, Luo Hao was tired.

Since he couldn’t experience passive skills directly, he wasn’t in a hurry. After reviewing the system interface once more, he prepared to rest.

…

It was a sleepless night.

Luo Hao was a sound sleeper, the type who fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

But tonight, someone must have drunk some energy drink; before Luo Hao could fall asleep, the phone on Lin Yuming’s desk suddenly rang.

Startled, Luo Hao sat up abruptly, his heart pounding, a dreadful feeling washing over him.

“Hello,” Luo Hao answered.

“Little Spiral, go to the emergency department,” Lin Yuming’s voice came through.

“Okay.”

Luo Hao didn’t ask why.

He didn’t change clothes either and ran straight to the emergency room.

The emergency department was brightly lit; even at midnight, people constantly walked back and forth in the corridors.

In terms of activity, only KTVs and barbecue stalls in the city could rival the emergency department at this hour.

Turning a corner, Luo Hao immediately spotted Lin Yuming speaking with two police officers—an older man and a young one.

Had a medical worker been assaulted? Luo Hao pursed his lips and quietly stood in the corner, watching.

After the conversation, Lin Yuming wasn’t tense. Seeing Luo Hao arrive, he waved him over.

“Director Lin, what’s happened?” Luo Hao asked softly.

“Two men from the obstetrics and gynecology department got into a fight; one was injured, possibly a ruptured spleen.”

Obstetrics and gynecology, two men. So much meaning packed into that simple sentence.

“Oh?”

“I called you here so you could see how to handle these situations,” Lin Yuming said. “Watch carefully so you won’t be flustered if it happens again.”

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Luo Hao obediently followed Lin Yuming, watching him coordinate with the police, retrieve surveillance footage from the obstetrics corridor, and promptly rule out medical staff responsibility.

It seemed Luo Hao had just completed an interventional surgery, and his uncle was displeased, wanting to keep him in the medical affairs office.

Luo Hao quickly grasped Lin Yuming’s intention.

He didn’t say much, just followed behind him, observing.

“Prepare for surgery,” a doctor in his early thirties said after examination and reviewing the ultrasound.

“Today’s just unlucky. Maybe it’s because I have outpatient tomorrow, so this is my farewell?” the doctor complained.

“Jiang, is it busy upstairs?”

“There are two appendicitis patients still waiting; other doctors are operating. Look,” Dr. Jiang shook his foot, still wearing shoe covers and slippers, “I just finished removing an appendix and caught the emergency consultation.”

“Luo Hao, go help out,” Lin Yuming thought quickly and assigned Luo Hao to assist.

Without suspicion, Luo Hao helped the general surgery attending doctor transport the patient.

The hospital had fallen on hard times and didn’t have a chief resident position anymore.

Internal and external medicine had chief on-call physicians; emergency consultations were coordinated by chief on-call doctors contacting department heads.

Only general surgery had a secondary line because one on-call doctor alone couldn’t perform an appendectomy.

Surgery wasn’t a one-person job.

The patient’s vitals were stable, and since the incident occurred in the hospital and they came straight to emergency, there was no delay.

Ultrasound showed moderate abdominal fluid, likely bleeding, requiring exploratory laparotomy.

Because the patient was sent immediately to the emergency department and received prompt treatment, neither Dr. Jiang nor Luo Hao felt rushed.

The stretcher returned to the ward; nurses prepared for surgery.

The patient had no family present, so Luo Hao signed the paperwork on behalf of medical affairs.

“Why is Director Lin here today? The treatment’s really good,” Dr. Jiang said with a smile as they sent the patient to the operating room and changed clothes.

If Director Lin hadn’t come personally, even just signing the preoperative forms would have taken about half an hour.

Moreover, Lin Yuming had assigned Luo Hao to follow up, further reducing the time for requests and reports.

“Something happened in obstetrics and gynecology today,” Luo Hao said.

“Again obstetrics and gynecology! They’re usually not this busy,” Dr. Jiang chatted as he changed clothes. “It’s definitely old Mu’s nonsense; in the end, I get blamed.”

“Nonsense? What happened?” Luo Hao asked.

“A young appendicitis patient liked a nurse from the department and asked Mu what the nurse liked. Mu, having nothing better to do, told him the nurse liked mangoes, Red Bull, and Wangzai milk.”

“The guy believed him. He’s shy, so after discharge he bought those things and left without even a place to return them. Bad luck, especially since today’s my shift.”

Luo Hao was speechless.

He hadn’t expected Mu’s joke to cause such a chain reaction.

He also started changing clothes, glancing at the system panel in the upper right corner of his vision.

No tasks were issued by the system.

“How come you’re changing clothes?” Dr. Jiang was surprised.

“Isn’t anyone else here? I’m going up to help.”

“Thanks.”

“Dr. Jiang, I heard you start outpatient tomorrow?” Luo Hao asked as he helped.

“Yeah, for a while.”

Luo Hao was slightly startled.

Outpatient shifts in general surgery rotated; no one was assigned permanently.

Though general surgery had more staff than pediatrics, many had been poached by southern hospitals in recent years, leaving the department barely coping.

Work was work; if you don’t seek money, you at least seek leisure.

Outpatient hours were 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., with a lunch break, no midnight emergency calls—relatively relaxed compared to inpatient departments.

When money was tight, outpatient was a better choice.

This hospital wasn’t in the capital; with only about 100 patients daily, seeing 30-40 was considered busy.

“Dr. Jiang, how did you manage to get outpatient shifts?” Luo Hao smiled.

“I’m old and can’t handle the workload anymore,” Jiang sighed without directly answering.

“Oh, you’re only in your thirties, how can you be old now? This is the prime of your energy, strength, and skill growth.”

“Skill growth?” Jiang gave a wry smile.

After changing, they headed to the operating room.

Passing by a sterile supply room, Jiang peeked in and gave instructions to a junior doctor closing a previous abdominal surgery.

At the splenic rupture operating room, anesthesia was already administered.

“Old Jiang’s here. When are you going outpatient? Hurry up and go; I can’t keep working these shifts. If you don’t go, the OR will burn us all out,” the anesthetist complained.

“Hehe,” Jiang smiled, not explaining the mango, Wangzai, and Red Bull delivery.

“How dare you smile! Others sleep through their shifts, at most handle a few emergencies in the first half of the night.”

The circulating nurse scolded while unpacking supplies, “Look at the time now—with a ruptured spleen. With your nature, just leave clinical work and stop causing trouble for us regular folks.”

Luo Hao smiled faintly.

Clinical departments had their superstitions, and this was true superstition.

“I’m not doing it on purpose; I’m just this popular. What can I do?” Jiang shrugged.

“Cut the spleen quickly. Cut it fast, I still want to catch some sleep before dawn.”

Jiang didn’t reply, beginning to position the patient and then scrubbed up.

“Dr. Jiang, have you done open abdominal surgery before?”

“Yes.”

Luo Hao hesitated, unwilling to waste system training time on this.

It was just a spleen rupture, not a difficult surgery, and he was assisting, so no need to “waste” precious system time.

The skin was incised; Jiang’s first cut was precise with minimal bleeding.

Electrocautery stopped the bleeding; layers were opened to the abdomen.

The peritoneum was protected and the abdominal cavity opened.

Jiang first clamped and cut ligaments, extracting the spleen.

“Old Jiang, hurry up! Cutting a spleen isn’t fortune-telling. Someone might think you can’t do it or are afraid to try,” the anesthetist scolded as Jiang inspected the spleen repeatedly.

“I’m just looking, don’t rush,” Jiang said calmly.

“What’s there to see?”

“The patient is an ex-boyfriend of a woman in obstetrics,” Jiang said.

Hearing this, Luo Hao suddenly recalled the day the system activated, overhearing obstetric doctors and a patient’s family arguing in the corridor.

“The kid probably isn’t his. The pregnant woman was arguing with her husband, lost her mind, and called her ex to accompany her. The guy actually came. What else can I say?”

“Wow! Impressive!” the anesthetist marveled.

“The husband showed up today, and the two fought. Let’s see how lucky they are,” Jiang said.

“Lucky?” the junior circulating nurse was puzzled.

“Splenectomy is a serious injury—punishable offense,” Jiang explained seriously. “If they could repair it, the sentence would be lighter—maybe a fine of eighty or a hundred thousand yuan, no jail time.”

Though unhappy, the anesthetist ceased urging.

After two minutes of inspection, Jiang sighed deeply.

“No, it’s not the peritoneum; the wound is too deep. Sewing it up risks more bleeding,” Jiang said. “Cut it out, no other choice. It’s just bad luck—a bump on the head caused the rupture.”

Jiang carefully located the splenic artery near the pancreas, cut the peritoneum carefully to expose it, then ligated it with double 7-0 sutures.

He then separated the gastrosplenic ligament, ligated the short gastric arteries, exposed the splenic pedicle, clamped it with a large hemostat, and removed the spleen.

The surgery was clean and efficient, showcasing high skill.

Luo Hao felt relaxed watching it.

Few surgeons at the hospital performed surgeries as methodically and cleanly as Jiang.

Luo Hao suspected this surgeon could handle more advanced operations.

Not just suspected—he was certain.

A pity.

The surgery finished in 30 minutes. After sending the patient back, Luo Hao fulfilled medical affairs duties, signing documents into the case file.

“Dr. Jiang, your surgery was excellent. It’s a pity to waste your talent in outpatient work,” Luo Hao said after finishing.

“At this hospital, surgery is the end game,” Jiang said lightly. “The chiefs can’t do liver or pancreaticoduodenal resections, and they won’t let me learn. They block ERCP too. What’s the point of staying here? Working night shifts all life, doing appendectomies, hernias, spleen removals?”

Luo Hao didn’t know how to respond.

“There’s one more important point,” Jiang added with a smile.

“What?”

“Taking the blame,” Jiang said casually. “All doctors are scapegoats. I don’t want one day to be pointed at and called a black-hearted doctor.”

“Does that really happen?” Luo Hao asked.

“Heh, do you think there’s such a thing as everyone benefiting? Someone always gets pushed forward as the fall guy.”

“Dr. Jiang, does general surgery have high outpatient income?”

“I told you, I don’t want to earn money here just to be criticized in the future.”

“So what about you...”

Jiang shook his head, not elaborating.

“Dr. Jiang, we discussed at home. Going to the provincial city is too expensive.”

At that moment, a timid woman stood at the door, cautiously speaking to Jiang.

Jiang frowned, wanting to say something but held back.

“If you don’t want to go, then don’t. I’m... starting outpatient today. If you need anything, see Dr. Chen.”

“Ah? You’re not here anymore?”

“Who said that? I’m still here,” Jiang said. “Just not taking patients anymore. Your spouse’s illness is suitable for minimally invasive surgery, but our hospital can’t do it. If you don’t want to go…”

“Dr. Jiang, it’s not that we don’t want to go. We checked. The big expenses for treatment in the provincial city aren’t at the hospital,” the patient’s family said helplessly. “We can save on food, but lodging—even a cheap motel near the hospital costs a hundred or two per day. Staying at chains like Home Inn or Hanting is even more expensive.”

“Ding dong~”

A task alert sounded in Luo Hao’s ear.

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