209: Chapter 209 The Moment He Stands Up

Twenty-one days after the surgery, 6:00 AM.

When Lin Yue woke up, it was just dawn.

A layer of grayish-white light filtered through the curtains, shining on the chair at the foot of the bed.

Fourteen days—two weeks—he had counted the days as they passed.

On the first day, the gauze was removed, revealing a thumbnail-sized translucent film at the cross-section and interface. Its edges had fine metal wires embedded in the healed skin, looking like some kind of precision circuit board.

Li Wei said this was the Neural Interface, which the prosthetic limb would connect to later.

He touched it; it didn't hurt, but there was a strange sensation, as if he were touching his own nerve endings.

On the third day was the first signal test. He closed his eyes and tried to move his toes; the waveforms on the screen jumped. Li Wei said, "Very good."

On the fifth day, he thought about "flexing his toes," and the waveforms jumped even higher.

On the tenth day, he thought about "bending his knee," and the waveforms jumped most violently, nearly leaping off the screen.

On the fifteenth day, Li Wei said, "The signal is stable enough now. We can install the prosthetic."

Then came the waiting. The prosthetic needed final calibration based on his signal characteristics; the conduction speed, signal strength, and response latency of every nerve bundle had to be precisely matched.

Li Wei called this "breaking in," like a new car engine needing a run-in period to reach its optimal state.

His phone rang; it was a message from Li Wei: "9:00 AM today, Rehabilitation Training Room. Be prepared."

He immediately sat up and started getting dressed.

He propped himself up with his crutches and walked to the window.

There were already people running on the sports field outside. A young man in a tracksuit was taking large strides, running lap after lap around the track at high speed.

8:45 AM, Rehabilitation Training Room.

The door was open. Lin Yue walked in on his crutches and saw several people already in the room.

Li Wei stood in the center in front of a specially designed chair, upon which sat the prosthetic limb.

Wang Zhe was squatting next to the chair, holding a tablet and debugging some parameters.

Director Sun stood to the side in a white coat, hands in his pockets, his expression calm.

"You're here," Li Wei walked over, took his crutches, and leaned them against the wall. "Sit here."

He looked down at the prosthetic on the floor.

No, it wasn't on the floor; it was placed next to the chair, level with him.

"Are you ready?" Li Wei asked.

Lin Yue nodded.

Li Wei knelt down and picked up the prosthetic.

Her movements were light and careful, as if she were handling something fragile.

She aligned the prosthetic's interface with the membrane on the cross-section of Lin Yue's right leg and slowly brought them together.

"There will be a bit of a sensation," she said, "like a small electric shock."

The moment the interfaces touched, Lin Yue felt a wave of numbness spread up from below his knee, as if countless ultra-fine needles were piercing his skin simultaneously.

It didn't hurt, but it was intense—intense enough that his right leg twitched involuntarily.

"Normal reaction," Li Wei said. "Your nerves are establishing a connection with the prosthetic."

She let go, and the prosthetic hung from Lin Yue's right leg without falling.

The metal ring at the interface lit up, then turned a soft blue, pulsing rhythmically like a heartbeat.

"Starting Self-Diagnostic Program," Wang Zhe said from the side, his fingers sliding quickly across the tablet.

The joints of the prosthetic began to move one by one. The ankle joint rotated and then returned to its position.

The knee joint bent fifteen degrees and then straightened. The toes spread, closed, and spread again.

Every movement was slow and precise, like a physical examination.

"Self-diagnostic complete," Wang Zhe said. "All joint movements normal, sensors online. Signal transmission latency is twelve milliseconds."

Li Wei nodded, stood up, and took a step back.

"Now, try to stand up," she said.

Lin Yue looked at his right leg.

The prosthetic hung there, its silver-gray casing glinting under the lights. The sole of the foot rested on the ground, the five toes slightly spread as if ready to take a step at any moment.

He gripped the armrests of the chair and slowly stood up, shifting his weight to his left leg while his right leg only lightly touched the ground.

He didn't dare put weight on it, fearing it wouldn't hold.

"Shift your center of gravity over," Li Wei said. "It can support you."

Lin Yue took a deep breath and slowly shifted his weight toward his right leg. As the sole touched the ground, the prosthetic's knee joint bent slightly, as if cushioning the load.

He continued to shift, further and further, until his entire body weight was pressed onto his right leg.

The prosthetic didn't wobble, didn't buckle, and didn't make a sound. It stood there steadily, as if it had been standing for a long time.

"How does it feel?" Li Wei asked.

"A bit strange," Lin Yue said. "Like stepping on a very hard board, but with springs underneath the board."

"That's the Force Feedback System at work," Wang Zhe explained. "The sensors on the sole perceive the hardness of the ground and transmit the signal back to your brain through the interface. What you're feeling now is the prosthetic telling you: the floor is hard, but I've cushioned it for you."

Lin Yue looked down at the prosthetic limb.

"Now, try taking a step," Li Wei said.

The training room fell silent.

Lin Yue didn't move; he stood in place, staring at his right leg.

The sole of the prosthetic was planted on the ground, toes slightly spread, and the metal ring at the ankle was still flashing blue, pulsing steadily.

He remembered what Li Wei had said: "You don't walk with your leg; you walk with your brain. If you think about lifting your foot, it will lift."

He closed his eyes.

Right leg, lift.

He waited for a moment, but nothing happened.

The prosthetic didn't budge; the sole was still on the ground, the five toes still slightly spread.

He thought it again: Right leg, lift.

Still no movement.

"Don't rush," Li Wei's voice came from the corner, very calm.

"You haven't used it for too long. Your brain needs time to re-translate the commands. It's like not riding a bicycle for years; you have to think about where to put your feet before you get on."

Lin Yue didn't open his eyes; he continued to focus.

Right leg. Lift.

This time, he tried not to think about the action of "lifting the leg," but rather to recall the sensation of lifting his leg in the past.

Waking up in the morning, sliding his right foot into a slipper, lifting it, stepping down; when walking, the right leg moving forward, the sole leaving the ground, then landing again.

When running, the right leg pushing off the ground, the body surging forward, the sole tracing an arc in the air.

Those sensations were still there; they just hadn't been used for a long time.

He remembered the night of the exercise, running through the woods, the pine needles and soil beneath his feet—soft and damp.

The prosthetic moved.

It was very slight—just a rotation of the ankle and the toes spreading and closing—but everyone saw it.

"Continue," Li Wei said.

Lin Yue continued to focus.

The knee joint of the prosthetic began to bend, very slowly, as if something were hesitating.

Then the ankle joint followed, the sole lifted from the ground, toes pointing forward, heel leaving the floor.

It lifted.

Lin Yue opened his eyes and looked down at his right leg.

The prosthetic was suspended in mid-air, the sole about ten centimeters off the ground, knee slightly bent, ankle held at a ninety-degree angle. It stopped there, as if waiting for his command.

"Put it down," she said.

The sole of the prosthetic landed on the floor with a soft thud.

The knee joint straightened, the ankle returned to position, and the five toes spread out, stepping firmly on the ground.

"Lift it again," Li Wei said.

Lin Yue closed his eyes and began to think again.

Right leg, lift. This time it was much faster; the prosthetic moved almost instantly, knee bending, ankle rotating, sole leaving the ground.

"Put it down."

The sole landed.

"Again."

The sole lifted.

He repeated this a dozen times, each time faster and smoother than the last.

By the final time, he didn't even need to close his eyes; just thinking "lift" made the prosthetic rise.

"That's enough," Li Wei said. "Now, try to take a step."

Lin Yue stood in place, the prosthetic on his right leg planted on the ground, his left leg supporting his body.

He took a deep breath.

Walk.

He shifted his weight onto his right leg, and the prosthetic held firm.

Then he lifted his left leg and took a step forward.

His left foot landed, his body leaned forward, weight shifted back to the left leg, and then it was the right leg's turn.

He thought "lift," and the prosthetic rose, moved forward, and landed.

One step, two steps, three steps.

His movements were very slow, like slow-motion in a movie.

Every step was cautious, as if he were walking a tightrope.

But every step was steady—no wobbling, no falling, and he wasn't holding onto anything.

Five steps, six steps, seven steps.

When he reached the center of the room, he suddenly stopped.

Because he realized he didn't need the crutches anymore.

He stood in the middle of the room with both feet on the ground—the left made of flesh, the right made of machinery—but both were planted on the floor, both supporting his body.

He looked down at his right leg.

The prosthetic stood there, its silver-gray casing glinting under the lights, the sole firmly on the ground.

It was a long time before he finally turned around.

The training room was very quiet; everyone stood where they were, no one moving, no one speaking.

Li Wei had her head down, looking at the data on her tablet, but her fingers weren't moving.

Wang Zhe stood beside her, hands in his pockets, looking out the window.

"Congratulations, the prosthetic adaptation was very successful," Li Wei's voice broke the silence.