Chapter 63

“That’s…”

Lieutenant Colonel Kim Nak-chul stared at the fascia now in Kang-hyuk’s hand, unable to finish his sentence.

He’d definitely seen him make an incision on the leg.

Roughly four minutes ago.

For most people, that would’ve meant they’d just barely finished cutting through the fat tissue and started poking around to see what’s inside.

And yet, he already had fascia in hand?

It felt like watching a magic trick.

A bad one—completely lacking in believability.

“You don’t even know what this is? So much for commissioned training.”

Kang-hyuk clicked his tongue as he looked at Kim, who couldn’t form a reply.

Normally, Captain Lee Kang-haeng—who was assisting—would’ve stepped in with some kind of reaction by now.

Something like: “That can’t be right.”

After all, even if the man had only gone through commissioned training, he’d still graduated from Hanguk University’s medical school.

And without even repeating a year.

‘What the hell is this?’

But even Captain Lee had nothing to say.

He’d assisted the whole time, and even he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

‘Why is that already out?’

What Kang-hyuk now held was the [fascia lata], a fairly well-known structure.
(T/N: The fascia lata is a thick connective tissue located on the outer thigh. It’s often harvested for reconstructive procedures.)

Of course, not to the average person.

But to surgeons, it was practically famous.

‘I remember harvesting it a few times myself…’

Unless someone’s an athlete overworking their legs, it’s not exactly a necessary structure. It’s also easy to harvest.

Meaning it was perfect for reconstruction work elsewhere.

For that reason, it was commonly used to patch up various defects and wounds.

Every surgeon had likely harvested it at least once.

But Captain Lee could swear to the heavens—he had never seen it come off this cleanly before.

“What, you don’t know either? The future of Korean medicine sure is bright.”

Kang-hyuk shook his head at Captain Lee, who—like Kim—stood with his mouth hanging open.

He looked genuinely worried for the profession.

“This is the [fascia lata]. You have to know what that is. Seriously, this is basic.”

Clicking his tongue, Kang-hyuk began cutting the fascia he had just harvested with scissors.

The whole thing had happened so suddenly that no one even thought to stop him.

They just watched in silence.

The only one bold enough to speak was Jaewon, watching from a distance.

“Uh, Professor? You’re just cutting that without measuring?”

“Huh? Measure what? I can see it perfectly on the monitor.”

Kang-hyuk gestured toward the camera that had been precisely inserted and fixed in place inside the nose.

Thanks to that, the monitor still showed the exposed skull base.

Through the hole, cerebrospinal fluid was continuing to leak out slowly.

“It’s just… what you see on the monitor and the actual size aren’t the same. Wouldn’t it be better to measure once, just in case…?”

At Jaewon’s comment, both Lieutenant Colonel Kim and Captain Lee nodded.

But Kang-hyuk didn’t seem inclined at all.

In fact, he looked almost offended that the question was even asked.

“What are you saying, idiot… Didn’t you see me touch that earlier?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

Not just Jaewon—everyone in the room had seen it.

Even those who weren’t surgeons.

“Then why are you asking that?”

“I, uh… I mean…”

Jaewon looked around, unsure of what exactly he’d done wrong. Everyone else wore similarly confused expressions.

“You’re at least familiar with the size of surgical tools, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then look at that wound. Can’t you just compare?”

“Ah…”

Jaewon looked like he was asking himself, ‘Is that even possible?’

(T/N: His point is that experienced surgeons, especially those who regularly perform laparoscopic or endoscopic procedures, develop an instinct for correlating tool size with the scale of the surgical field. For example, if you know a surgical instrument is exactly 10 cm long, and you see it occupy half the width of the monitor, you can infer that the visible field is about 20 cm across.)

Everyone else looked the same.

Except for Kang-hyuk.

His expression clearly read: ‘Of course that’s possible.’

“Don’t give me that dumb look. This is exactly the right size.”

He had already finished cutting.

Using forceps, he held up a round piece of fascia, just slightly larger than a 500-won coin.

‘If that doesn’t fit… that’s gonna suck.’

Jaewon looked at it with a face full of anxiety.

Everyone else shared the same feeling.

Only one person was completely unfazed—Kang-hyuk.

“Watch closely.”

He said it as he pushed the fascia straight into the nasal cavity.

Normally, once fascia is harvested, it tends to stiffen up.

But this was freshly taken tissue—it still had elasticity.

Thanks to that, it slid through the narrow nasal passage with no resistance.

Slllllp.

Cerebrospinal fluid continued to trickle from the hole in the skull base.

Considering it was nearly the size of a 500-won coin, that was expected.

But Kang-hyuk looked satisfied.

‘As expected—after leaking this much, the pressure’s dropped.’

Cerebrospinal fluid is generated in real time.

But not fast enough to replace what had just leaked out.

In short, the fluid surrounding the brain had significantly decreased.

Back when Kang-hyuk had removed the fractured bone, intracranial pressure had been elevated.

Now?

The pressure had dropped instead.

‘That means there’s less force pushing against the fascia.’

Which would help with the reconstruction.

“Watch closely. Especially you—Slave. You’ll be doing this someday.”

“Ah, yessir.”

Jaewon was so focused on the monitor that he didn’t even register being called “Slave” in front of everyone.

The piece of fascia was slowly advancing toward the skull base opening.

If it was too big, no problem.

But if it was too small, they’d have to harvest another.

‘Wait, that’s not the real problem… Is it even possible to insert something like that with an endoscope?’

The answer: absolutely not.

This wasn’t just done by hand—he was wielding long, delicate forceps.

And he was looking at everything not with his own eyes, but through a monitor.

Both surgeons familiar with [laparoscopic surgery] and ENT specialists used to these tools couldn’t help but swallow dryly.

Tap.

Even then, Kang-hyuk didn’t stop moving his hands. The fascia finally reached the exposed brain through the hole in the skull base.

“Ugh.”

Knowing that pale white tissue was the brain, Lieutenant Colonel Kim Nak-chul instinctively grimaced and turned his head away.

In doing so, he caught sight of Lieutenant General Kang, blankly staring at the monitor.

The man didn’t know the first thing about medicine—and yet even he was transfixed.

It was proof of just how extraordinary Kang-hyuk’s surgical technique was.

Thud.

Kang-hyuk gently nudged the brain aside and continued to slowly push the fascia in.

With each small space that opened between the brain and skull base, cerebrospinal fluid burst out.

But it was nothing compared to the initial torrent.

Slide.

Because of that, the fascia slid into the gap with little resistance.

‘Next is that side.’

Of course, he had only managed to insert one portion so far. The road ahead was long.

For most, it would feel like a thorny path—grueling and steep.

“Phew.”

Captain Lee Kang-haeng, who was assisting closest to him, let out a deep sigh, as if he were the one performing the surgery.

Kang-hyuk found that annoying and said with a shake of his head:

“Quiet.”

“Ah, sorry—”

“You still don’t have a mask, do you? Just shut your mouth and close the leg.”

“…”

Captain Lee nodded silently and began closing up the thigh incision.

As expected of someone who had gone through four years of intense training to become a certified surgeon, the suturing was quite competent.

Though to Kang-hyuk, it was far from enough.

“Use a thicker suture. Go completely vertical with the needle.”

Even while inserting the fascia, Kang-hyuk couldn’t resist giving instructions on the suturing.

The main injury was in the head, sure.

But a leg wound could kill just as easily.

Assuming it would be fine and ignoring it—that was foolish.

He’d seen far too many patients die from such “minor” injuries.

“Yes.”

Captain Lee responded reflexively.

“Shut your mouth.”

“…”

Having wrapped up his nagging, Kang-hyuk pushed the fascia in further.

Before anyone noticed, the once coin-sized hole had disappeared completely.

Some of the doctors even began thinking, ‘Isn’t it done now?’

But while they thought it was over, Kang-hyuk wrestled with the task for another five minutes before finally removing the forceps from the nasal cavity.

“Good.”

His expression was immensely satisfied.

And for good reason—now the hole was completely sealed.

Not a single drop of cerebrospinal fluid continued to leak.

Moreover, the blood pressure and heart rate—once erratic from increased intracranial pressure—had long since stabilized.

‘Maybe… this sergeant might actually live.’

Captain Lee finally looked at the vitals monitor with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Just a moment ago, he’d been convinced the sergeant was done for—even if Private First Class Kim had a chance.

Now, he felt confident the man would survive.

“Hand me something for [packing] the nasal cavity.”
(T/N: Packing refers to filling a cavity with material to apply pressure or support, especially after surgery.)

“Ah, yes!”

The nurse officer, still in a daze, quickly rushed off and brought back [Merocel].
(T/N: Merocel is a type of nasal packing sponge that expands when wet—perfect for applying pressure.)

It was the ideal material for this situation.

Swoop.

Kang-hyuk roughly trimmed the Merocel into shape and shoved it into the nasal cavity.

He didn’t even seem to be paying close attention—but the moment it went in, the placement was perfect.

The seemingly random fragments of Merocel locked together like a flawless game of Tetris.

At the same time, the newly inserted fascia was firmly compressed in place, completing the packing.

“Done. Hey—Slave!”

“Yes, sir!”

Jaewon immediately raised his hand and responded without a second’s delay.

And just like that, everyone in the emergency room was now sure of one thing: the person Kang-hyuk had been calling “Slave” this entire time was Jaewon.

“How’s the other one? Has he regained consciousness?”

“Yes, sir. He came to almost immediately after the transfusion. Vitals are stable too.”

“That’s a relief.”

Bleeding was never something a trauma surgeon could afford to take lightly.

Severe bleeding usually led to hypotension, and hypotension led to [multiple organ failure].

Once it progressed to that stage, recovery was almost impossible.

Even Kang-hyuk wouldn’t have been able to make a big difference then.

“W-whoa!”

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the back.

Turning around, they saw Jung-heon—usually the calm and experienced team leader of the Central Rescue Unit—making a rare scene.

Why was someone with his level of experience shouting like that?

The reason became clear the moment they heard his voice.

“The sun’s out—the sun!”

Looking out the window, they saw the wind had finally died down and the rain had stopped.

In other words, flying weather had returned.