Chapter 69

“Keep your head straight!”

“Y-Yes!”

Kang-hyuk was now making minute adjustments right in front of the severed end of the nerve.

By standard protocol, this kind of surgery should’ve been done not on a boat deck, but on an operating table—with a micro-surgery plate in view.

Naturally, it should’ve required a microscope, not the naked eye.

No, even with a microscope, this would have been considered nearly impossible.

‘[Nerve anastomosis].’
(T/N: [Nerve anastomosis] is a surgical procedure that involves reconnecting severed nerves to restore function or sensation.)

It was a procedure done often in practice.

There were countless cases of nerve rupture.

Some patients, like Private First Class Kim, had suffered from traumatic injuries; others experienced nerve severance during surgery.

In such cases, it was always better to reconnect the nerve.

Of course, no one expected the severed nerve to function as it originally did.

To properly restore functionality, the nerve bundles needed to be perfectly aligned—but that was considered virtually impossible.

‘Is he… trying to match the cut surfaces?’

Yet Kang-hyuk had been looking back and forth between both severed ends, clearly trying to align something.

Captain Lee Kang-haeng stared in disbelief at Kang-hyuk’s eyes and the exposed nerve ends.

‘Is that even possible?’

No matter how he looked at it, all he saw was a severed surface.

There was no way to distinguish anything.

Why was he so fixated on staring at it like that?

“Hey! You’re making it wobble!”

“A-Ah, sorry!”

Kang-hyuk shouted again after a long, tense silence.

This wasn’t like suturing blood vessels where simply preventing bleeding would suffice—this had to be fully restored.

‘What am I supposed to do about that…?’

But Captain Lee couldn’t help but feel it was incredibly unfair.

The one causing the patient to shift wasn’t him—it was the damn sea.

He wasn’t Jesus. How was he supposed to calm a raging sea?

But Kang-hyuk had no room in his mind for such considerations, and so he continued angrily aligning the severed ends.

“You bastard! Hold still!”

“Yes, sir!”

At this point, it was hard to tell if Kang-hyuk was yelling at Lee or just at the universe.

Fortunately, Lee had a rough idea of why Kang-hyuk was this furious.

But what about the others?

To them, it looked absolutely bizarre.

“Why has he been yelling nonstop?”

Especially for the people on the other boat watching Kang-hyuk, it looked downright strange.

Reporter Park Sang-eun pointed at him with a completely baffled expression.

Even without sound, anyone could tell from his expression and gestures—

That he was absolutely ripping into the soldier in front of him.

“D-Don’t ask me. I’m just a camera.”

The cameraman, caught off guard by the sudden question, awkwardly stepped back.

Naturally, the live chat was in complete chaos.

Viewer count had already surpassed 10,000.

Ten thousand on YouTube Live—

It was practically a record-setting moment.

<He’s got serious anger issues. Dude’s just yelling nonstop.>

<Wait, is this really surgery? He’s just fiddling around.>

<What if the guy’s already dead?>

<OMG. Is that why they didn’t want it filmed? Did something go wrong during surgery on the boat?>

Wherever there’s breaking news, there are bound to be journalists.

Some, like Park Sang-eun, go to the scene themselves. Others hang around internet communities.

This chat was no exception—it had more than a few reporters watching.

A handful who made their living off clickbait quickly began writing and posting articles.

<Marine soldier possibly dies during surgery on boat.>

That was the headline, though the content didn’t confirm anything.

But who even reads full articles these days?

The comment section was immediately flooded with insults aimed at the Marines and the nameless doctor.

And that was one of the more restrained headlines.

<Controversial profanity-laced Professor Baek Kang-hyuk—Medical Malpractice Again?>

Articles like that weren’t rare either.

Naturally, these had much stronger clickbait power, drawing massive comment storms.

As a result, low-quality reports began dominating the top rankings on social media news feeds, and interest in the live broadcast from TV Goryeo skyrocketed.

It was no longer a niche internet topic—it had become a nationwide issue.

“Hey, Sang-eun. This is insane.”

The cameraman, face flushed with excitement, called out to Park Sang-eun.

The two were close, so she replied with a playful smirk.

“Weren’t you the one who said not to talk to you?”

“Yeah, but—just got a call from the PD.”

“Oh? What’d they say?”

“Right now, Baek Kang-hyuk is trending #1, the Marine Corps is #2, and TV Goryeo YouTube is #3.”

“Oh… Whoa.”

Only then did Park glance at the viewer count on her channel.

“Fi… fifty thousand…”

That was the largest viewer count in Korean YouTube history.

<But all they’re doing is livestreaming. The reporter’s not even doing anything.>

<Totally milking it.>

After seeing comments like that increase, Park and the cameraman kicked off the formal broadcast.

With that many viewers, saying nothing was basically negligence.

It was also incredibly foolish.

‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’

As a reporter, how many chances did she have to get her name in front of this many people?

So she composed herself and opened her mouth.

Even if her words were provocative, she would do whatever it took to retain viewers.

“Hello, this is Reporter Park Sang-eun. I’m currently out on the West Sea, trailing a naval patrol boat. The vessel appears to have departed Baengnyeong Island and is headed toward Incheon Port. A soldier, presumed to have suffered a severe arm injury, is lying on the deck.”

As soon as she finished that line, the chat burst into noise.

<Wait, Baengnyeong? Did someone get shot?>

<Hurry up! Say more!>

Satisfied with the reaction, she continued.

“Military medical personnel and Professor Baek Kang-hyuk from the Hanguk University Hospital’s trauma surgery department are performing the operation. However, there’s been no visible movement for some time, and the situation appears increasingly dire.”

While not directly stating it—

She had essentially just told 50,000 people that the patient might be dead.

The live chat exploded again, and Reporter Park began racking her brain for the next provocative statement.

“Haa…”

Just then, Kang-hyuk finally let out a sigh, his expression visibly relieved.

“Phew…”

Lieutenant Kang-haeng also sighed in sync, thinking this meant the shouting was finally over.

“What the hell are you sighing for? You didn’t do anything.”

Apparently displeased by that, Kang-hyuk snapped at him.

To Kang-haeng, it was absurd.

What kind of lead surgeon talks to their assistant like that?

Without an assistant, surgery wouldn’t even be possible—

‘Or… maybe this guy actually could do it alone…’

Looking back, all Kang-haeng had really done was pull things when asked.

A task even an intern could manage, yet here he was doing it as a specialist—and being chewed out while at it.

“[Suture thread. PDS 9-0.]”
(T/N: [PDS 9-0] refers to an extremely fine, absorbable surgical suture, typically used in microsurgery.)

While Kang-haeng was trembling with disillusionment, Kang-hyuk extended his hand toward the nurse officer.

She instinctively reached for the usual suture kit, but paused with wide eyes.

“Nine-0?”

The higher the number, the thinner the thread.

Sutures used for skin were typically 4-0 or 5-0.

But 9-0?

She hadn’t even known such a thread existed.

“Nine-0…?”

Kang-haeng was equally stunned.

Unless you were in ophthalmology or plastic surgery, the thinnest most general surgeons would ever go was 6-0, maybe 7-0.

But Kang-hyuk was firm.

“Nine-0. I brought it myself.”

“Ah… One second. Nine-0… Ah, found it. Opening the package.”

The nurse fumbled to locate the thread Kang-hyuk had brought.

And then she looked even more panicked.

The needle was practically invisible.

Even the thread was barely discernible.

“Uh…”

It made sense.

9-0 thread is only 0.03mm thick.

The needle was barely 5mm long.

It was the epitome of microsurgical tools.

“Right here.”

But Kang-hyuk picked up the needle effortlessly.

No suture forceps this time—he used a [Mosquito] clamp.
(T/N: [Mosquito] clamps are fine-tipped surgical tools used for gripping tiny structures.)

Suture forceps had teeth that would crush a needle that small.

“Oh.”

Kang-haeng instantly realized Kang-hyuk had successfully gripped the needle.

Not because he could see it—

But because he saw sunlight glint off the needle.

“You there.”

After a brief glance at the needle, Kang-hyuk turned his head.

“M-Me?”

Lieutenant Kim Young-jae, who had been helping escort Lieutenant Colonel Kim Nak-chul toward Kang-hyuk, responded.

“Yeah, you. Stop the boat.”

“What the—? Weren’t you the one who said we had to get to Incheon Port as fast as possible?”

“We do need to get there fast. But for now—stop.”

“Why!?”

“I need to reattach the nerve. And this is hard, even for me. I can’t do it while the boat’s moving.”

“Hmm…”

Lieutenant Kim didn’t know enough to make a call on a medical issue.

So he looked to the colonel for confirmation.

“Yeah. It’s difficult,” said Kim Nak-chul, swallowing down a fresh wave of seasickness.

“And it’s safe to stop? What if the patient takes a turn for the worse…?”

Kim Young-jae asked, visibly worried.

Colonel Kim gave a bitter smile.

“That arm’s already way past salvageable. Let’s at least trust the expert.”

“Hrm…”

After a moment of hesitation, Lieutenant Kim nodded.

“Understood. Cut the engine! We’re stopping for a moment!”

Thankfully, the sea had calmed down quite a bit.

The moment the engine shut off, the deck stabilized noticeably.

It had been rocking so violently until now that both Kang-hyuk and Kang-haeng practically felt comfortable in comparison.

“What’s going on? The boat just stopped all of a sudden!”

Naturally, the boat carrying Reporter Park Sang-eun also came to a halt.

And the speculations began pouring in.

“Could it be… did the patient’s condition worsen? Are they turning back to Baengnyeong Island?”

The live chat was immediately flooded.

<This is malpractice. Who does surgery on a boat?>

<And on the deck no less? That’s infection central.>

<That’s not a doctor, that’s a murderer.>

With no idea what was actually happening, people began parroting things they’d read somewhere and heaping on the criticism.

Of course, Kang-hyuk was so focused, he didn’t even realize Park’s boat was nearby.

All he saw was the severed end of the nerve in front of him.

“Alright, we’re starting. Just drip saline over it. Just a little. Too much water distorts the field of view.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Kang-hyuk’s hands finally moved, and the ultrafine needle pierced through the nerve sheath with a quiet pop.

The movements and tools were so microscopic, Park’s camera barely picked up any of it.

All the viewers saw was a bit of fidgeting.

So the baseless speculation began getting reported as if it were fact, and those reports eventually reached Hanguk University Hospital’s PR team.

“What? That crazy bastard?”

The PR team forwarded a clip of the article to Chief Strategy Officer Professor Hong Jae-hoon, who promptly collapsed into his chair.

“That… lunatic…”

Cursing nonstop as he did.