Max's confidence had never been an act.
From the very moment he slept with Emily for the first time, the system had rewarded him with a complete medical skill set, one that had reached the level of the greatest doctors in the world.
It wasn't fragmented knowledge, nor a handful of superficial techniques, but a massive block of compressed memories, forcefully imprinted straight into his consciousness.
Clinical experience. Microsurgery. Emergency response. Life-and-death reflexes.All of it existed as if he had spent decades living inside operating rooms.
Whether Elias Thorne truly was the greatest doctor of the modern era no longer mattered.
The world had always had recluses, people with more than enough skill, yet no interest in stepping into the spotlight. Even if Elias Thorne stood at the pinnacle of medicine, Max now stood on equal ground.
There was no need to be anyone's disciple.
Sitting together to discuss medicine, debating surgical plans, there was nothing they couldn't do.
The immense medical memories felt deeply rooted in his mind.
These hands had never held a scalpel in real life, yet the sensation was frighteningly familiar, as though they had practiced thousands of times every single day.
Max lifted his head, his gaze sweeping across the room.
"White coat, is there an empty operating room?"
The doctor's eyelid twitched.
Damn it, couldn't he just call him "doctor"? That stupid nickname grated on his nerves, but the irritation was quickly suppressed. Right now, Max was the perfect scapegoat, the perfect shield for preserving his success rate.
Using his authority within the hospital, the doctor quickly secured an unused operating room. The three of them entered at once.
Hale followed closely behind, fists clenched so tightly that veins bulged.
He was anxious, yet his eyes never left Max for even half a step. If this boy dared deceive him, this room would be the last place he ever set foot in.
Max changed clothes and washed his hands according to standard procedure. His movements were smooth, precise, with no wasted motion.
The other two simply stood there in silence, watching.
While scrubbing his hands, Max spoke as casually as if making small talk.
"What illness does your father have?"
Hale frowned.
"You don't even know what my father's suffering from, yet you dare be so certain?"
He deliberately spoke harshly, trying to provoke a reaction. In truth, Hale was already panicking to the point of losing sound judgment. As long as there was even the faintest hope, no matter how fragile, he would cling to it.
Max didn't look up.
"So what?" he replied indifferently. "As long as he's not dead, even if his heart stops for two minutes, I can still pull him back."
After saying that, Max finished washing his hands, picked up the scalpel with his right hand, and lightly rotated his wrist.
To Hale, it looked like nothing more than a performance, nothing special. But to the doctor, it was completely different.
In his eyes, every tiny movement was terrifyingly clear. The way Max held the scalpel, adjusted his wrist angle, controlled his center of gravity.
Not a millimeter too much, not half a fraction too little.
There was only one word to describe it.
Perfect.
Not theoretical perfection, but the kind forged through countless real surgeries. As if this hand had held that blade millions of times.
The doctor suddenly felt his throat go dry.
Perhaps this youth really did have a connection to Elias Thorne, or at the very least, his level was no lower.
"Mr. Hale's father," the doctor said slowly, "has a giant cerebral aneurysm."
A ticking time bomb buried deep at the base of the skull.
Over three centimeters in diameter.
Vessel walls as thin as paper, trembling with each weak heartbeat.
The aneurysm compressed the brainstem, with a wide neck and jagged thrombi inside like serrated teeth.
The doctor had once shaken his head in despair.
Even the most advanced surgical robots offered only a fifty percent success rate, and there was no time left to transfer hospitals.
Hale clenched his fists, eyes reddening.
"Are you sure?"
Max glanced at the scalpel.
"Certain."
He gave a faint smile.
"Because my hand has never trembled when facing death."
Suddenly, Max tossed the scalpel toward the doctor.
The doctor fumbled to catch it, completely confused.
"Cut your wrist," Max's voice rang out, leaving no room for doubt.
The doctor nearly cursed out loud. Preserving his success rate was important, yes, but his hands were his livelihood.
A surgeon who lost precision in his hands might as well retire.
Before he could react, Hale snatched the scalpel away.
Without hesitation.
He slashed a deep cut across his own wrist.
Hot blood immediately spilled onto the floor.
For Hale, if Max was lying, the doctor could still continue operating on his father. The odds were low, but there was still hope.
This was the largest hospital in the city, stitching up a wound wasn't difficult. Even if there were aftereffects, it was a price he was willing to pay.
The sound of dripping blood snapped the doctor back to reality.
His heart skipped a beat.
Max remained calm.
He stepped up to Hale, eyes unwavering, his tone half-teasing, half-serious.
"Decisive. If it were me, I wouldn't have done that."
Hale ground his teeth.
"Young man, you'd better do your job. You should understand what happens if you dare deceive me."
"White coat, immobilize his hand."
This time, the doctor truly wanted to protest, but in the end, he silently complied.
Max began.
Hale expected pain so intense it would numb him, but the sensation was strangely indescribable.
Like a warm stream flowing over his skin, gentle, soothing, without any tearing pain at all.
Three minutes.
Just three minutes.
When Max withdrew his hands, everything was done.
The doctor stood there, stunned.
The wound had been sutured flawlessly.
The skin edges closed as if they'd never been cut. The stitches were so fine they were almost invisible. No swelling. No tremor.
Not even a half-millimeter of deviation.A procedure that normally took thirty to forty-five minutes had been completed in three, with absolute precision.
Hale looked at his wrist, then turned to the doctor.
"Is there something special about it?"
The doctor opened his mouth, but no words came out. Only after Hale coughed lightly did he snap back to himself.
But instead of explaining, the doctor dropped to his knees before Max.
"Please," his voice trembled, "accept me as your disciple."