206: Chapter 206 Surgery

The surgery was scheduled for nine in the morning.

When Lin Yue was wheeled into the preoperative preparation room, the clock on the wall had just passed eight-thirty.

The room wasn't large; besides the narrow bed he lay on, there was only an anesthesia machine and several monitoring devices. The fluorescent lights were bright, making the white walls look a bit dazzling.

The anesthesiologist, Dr. Fang, was adjusting the equipment.

He was in his early forties, wearing a mask that only revealed a pair of steady eyes.

"Comrade Lin Yue, let's do a final confirmation." Dr. Fang flipped open the folder in his hand. "Amputation below the right knee, disability duration of two years and three months, no history of drug allergies, no underlying diseases like hypertension or diabetes. Is that correct?"

"Correct," Lin Yue said.

"Good. I'll be giving you general anesthesia in a moment. You'll take a nap, and the surgery will be finished by the time you wake up."

Dr. Fang connected a thin tube to the indwelling needle on the back of Lin Yue's hand and placed several electrode pads on his chest.

Green waveforms began to pop up on the monitor screen—heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation—row after row, very orderly.

"Nervous?" Dr. Fang asked.

"I'm okay," Lin Yue said.

Dr. Fang glanced at him, said nothing more, and simply adjusted the anesthesia switch to a certain position.

"Starting the medication. Count to ten."

Lin Yue felt a wave of coolness spreading from the back of his hand, traveling up his blood vessels, reaching his elbow, then his shoulder.

He opened his mouth to count, but he only reached three before his consciousness felt as if it were being sucked away.

The waveforms on the monitor were still jumping, but he could no longer see them.

...

The operating room door closed at the same time Lin Yue was wheeled inside.

Li Wei had already changed into her surgical scrubs and was standing before the sink. The water flow was rapid, rushing over her hands with a cool sensation.

She washed from her fingertips to her elbows, carefully scrubbing every gap between her fingers with a brush, washing for a full five minutes.

This was the most important surgery she had ever performed.

It wasn't because she was the lead surgeon—the lead was Director Sun from the Neurosurgery Department of the General Military Hospital. She was responsible for the implantation of the neural interface, but it was precisely this part that determined the success or failure of the surgery.

She turned off the faucet, dried her hands with a sterile towel, and walked into the operating room.

The operating table was ready, and the shadowless lamp was on, illuminating the surface without a single shadow.

Lin Yue lay there, his face covered with a blue sterile cloth, revealing only his right leg. The pant leg of his right leg had been cut away, exposing the cross-section below the knee under the light.

The scar was very smooth, the skin color darker than the surrounding area, with a faint pink ring at the edge—the mark of tissue healing over more than two years.

"Researcher Li, are you ready?" Director Sun stood opposite the operating table, already wearing his gloves.

He was in his early fifties with graying hair, but his fingers were long and powerful. It was said he had performed over a thousand neurosurgical procedures without ever making a major error.

"Ready," Li Wei said.

"Then let's begin."

The scalpel descended.

Director Sun's movements were steady. The blade cut in from the edge of the scar, following the predetermined path to create an oval opening.

Blood seeped out, and the nurse immediately cleared it with a suction device. Layer by layer, the skin, subcutaneous tissue, and fascia were cut open, each layer exposed clearly.

"Exposing the nerve bundles," Director Sun said.

The assistant used a retractor to hold the incision open. Li Wei stepped forward and took the micro-forceps and scissors.

The following steps were for her to complete: separating the nerve bundles and connecting the artificial neuron membrane.

She had performed the same operation countless times on animals, but this time was different. A Rhesus Monkey's nerves were thinner than a human's, but the operating space was smaller, which ironically allowed for a higher tolerance for error.

Human nerves were thicker and the operating space was larger, but a mistake was a mistake—there was no second chance.

Within a field of vision magnified over ten times, she found the first nerve bundle.

It was white, slightly thicker than a strand of hair, wrapped in a thin layer of sheath.

She used forceps to grip the sheath and gently tore it open, revealing the bundles of nerve fibers inside.

"First bundle separation complete," she said.

The nurse handed over a sterile box. She opened the lid; inside lay a transparent film the size of a fingernail—the artificial neuron membrane.

This was the core technology of the prosthetic limb project. After genetic modification, the surface of the membrane expressed ligand proteins that could specifically recognize motor neurons.

She picked up the membrane with forceps and carefully placed it on the cross-section of the exposed nerve bundle.

The membrane was so thin it was like a cicada's wing; when placed on the tissue, its thickness was almost imperceptible.

The metal wires at the edges shimmered under the light, each one corresponding to a nerve bundle.

"Docking point one in position," she said.

Then she began to adjust the position. The metal wires and nerve bundles had to be precisely aligned, with a deviation not exceeding 0.01 millimeters.

Her fingers were very steady. The tips of the forceps gently pushed the membrane, moving it bit by bit until every metal wire was aligned with its corresponding nerve bundle.

"Number two in position. Number three in position. Number four..."

She called out the numbers one by one, her voice soft and steady, as if she were performing a routine cell seeding in the lab. But her hands were trembling slightly.

It wasn't from nervousness, but from fatigue. Maintaining the same posture for over an hour had made her arms somewhat sore.

"Number fifteen in position. All docking complete."

She straightened her back and let out a long breath.

"biological scaffold," Director Sun said.

Li Wei picked up another instrument, holding a clump of translucent gel.

This was a modified silk fibroin scaffold with a porous structure, capable of fixing the membrane's position in the early stages and guiding neurite growth toward the interface.

A few months later, it would completely degrade and be absorbed by the body without leaving a trace.

She spread the scaffold bit by bit over the docking area, gently pressing it flat with forceps to ensure it completely covered all docking points.

The gel slowly softened at body temperature, merging with the surrounding tissue.

"Scaffold implantation complete."

Director Sun leaned in to look and nodded. "That's it."

Li Wei stepped aside, letting Director Sun perform the final suturing.

She stood by the operating table, watching the needle and thread pass through the skin, sewing it up stitch by stitch. The movements were slow and steady, with the same spacing for every stitch.

After the last stitch was finished, Director Sun cut the thread and put down the needle.

"Surgery over," he said.

The clock on the wall pointed to 12:47.

Chen Youhua did not go to the hospital.

He sat before a computer in his office at Z University, with a remote monitoring interface open on the screen.

There was a miniature camera on the glasses Li Wei wore. The surgical footage was transmitted in real-time, but the signal had been processed to only show the neural interface part; the patient's face and other areas were blurred out.

He watched Li Wei's fingers move within the field of vision, saw the membrane being placed, and watched the fifteen metal wires align with the nerve bundles one by one.

The image was a bit shaky because Li Wei's hands were shaking, but her operational precision had not decreased. A docking error of 0.01 millimeters would be considered excellent even in animal experiments.

When the surgery ended, a line of data popped up on the monitoring interface:

Docking Success Rate: 99%

Signal Strength: Good

Scaffold Fixation: Complete

Chen Youhua stared at that line of data for a few seconds, then closed the interface.

It was just as expected.

...

When Lin Yue woke up, it was already afternoon.

It took him a long time to figure out where he was. The ceiling was white, without any cracks.

The light from outside filtered through the curtains, casting a dim yellow patch on the floor. The air smelled of disinfectant and medicine.

He wanted to move his right leg, but it wouldn't obey. It wasn't the feeling of "not having a leg," but rather a stranger sensation.

The leg was still there, but it didn't feel like his own.

It was like wearing a pair of very, very thick socks; touching things through the socks felt blurry and unreal.

He raised his hand and felt his right leg.

Below the knee, there was something.

It wasn't empty; there was something there—hard, cool, and wrapped in thick gauze.

He froze for a moment, then pulled his hand back and placed it on his chest.

His heart was beating fast, thumping so hard it made his ribs ache slightly.

A nurse pushed the door open and entered. Seeing his eyes open, she walked over to check the data on the monitor screen.

"Awake? How do you feel?"

"A bit numb," he said, his voice very raspy.

"That's normal. The anesthesia hasn't completely worn off yet." The nurse wrote something in her logbook. "Researcher Li said the docking went very smoothly. All fifteen nerve bundles were connected."

"Fifteen?" Lin Yue asked.

"Yes. More than expected." The nurse smiled. "It shows your nerves are better preserved than most people's."

Lin Yue didn't speak.

The sound of a wheelchair rolling came from the hallway, followed by Zhang Yong's loud voice: "Lin Yue! You awake yet?"

The door was pushed open a crack, and Zhang Yong poked his head in to look.

"I'm awake," Lin Yue said.

"How's it feel?"

"A bit numb."

"Nonsense, I've been numb too." Zhang Yong grinned. "Back when I just finished my surgery and both my legs were gone, I still felt like my toes were itchy."

Zhao Guoqiang poked his head out from behind him. "Stop bothering him here and let him rest."

"I'm just saying a few words."

"You've already said three."

Zhang Yong wanted to say more, but he was dragged away in his wheelchair by Zhao Guoqiang.

The bickering of the two men echoed in the hallway, growing more distant until it could no longer be heard.