The day of the Nobel Prize ceremony finally arrived.
The Stockholm Concert Hall was resplendent, dressed in royal blue curtains and thousands of fresh flowers decorating this century-old sanctuary. Members of the Swedish royal family, dignitaries, and academic elites were all present, the air was filled with an aura of solemnity and honor.
Tang Shun stood in the backstage resting room, adjusting his bow tie for the third time. In the mirror, he wore a tailored black tailcoat, his hair meticulously combed.
"Relax, Old Tang," Song Zimo patted his shoulder, yet instinctively checked the speech script in his suit pocket, "Just stick to the plan. You discuss theory and fundamentals, I'll talk about clinical aspects and vision, don't forget that pause—"
"I know, pause for three seconds when we talk about 'Medicine from Warfare to Dialogue,' while sweeping our gaze across the audience." Tang Shun took a deep breath, "What do you think the professor is doing now?"
