Ryuzhen POV
I'm here. At the hospital.
Not just a building of glass and steel this place is a manifestation of my sleepless nights, relentless hands, and every scalpel stroke I carved between life and death. I didn't build Liuzhaki Medical Hospital with money alone. I built it with my obsession. My failure. My fury.
Every hallway here holds my breath, my pulse, my soul.
Some call me a miracle worker. Others, reckless. A few say I'm more machine than man.
But they don't see what I see. They don't feel what I feel when someone's life is slipping away in front of you, and all you have left are trembling hands… and time ticking like a live bomb.
"Dr. Liuzhaki!"
A junior doctor bolts toward me wide-eyed, pale, nearly tripping over his own words. "Emergency! Room 19! The accident patient you have to see her. Now!"
I don't respond. Don't blink. The coffee in my hand hits the floor as I turn, already moving.
The ICU is a storm.
Doors slam open. Machines scream. Nurses shout. Blood is everywhere. The patient a woman in her twenties is soaked in it. Limbs crushed. Pupils blown. Breathing shallow.
She's circling the drain. Flatline is flirting with her heartbeat.
Whispers rise behind masks.
"That's Ryuzhen Liuzhaki…"
"Is he really human?"
"He memorized medical textbooks before he turned five…"
"Once stitched a torn aorta with one hand while guiding a brain surgery over the phone…"
"But this… even he can't pull this off. Can he?"
I shut it out. I don't need their faith. I don't need their doubt.
All I need is the truth and the truth is this girl is dying.
But not on my watch.
"Clamp the bleeding!" My voice cuts through the room like a scalpel. "Two units of O-neg, stat! Check spinal function. Now!"
A nurse shrieks, "He's coding!"
"Clear!" I bark, grabbing the defibrillator.
The first jolt. Her body jerks. Then drops.
Nothing.
Someone whispers, "She's gone… He should call it."
"No," I snap. My eyes narrow, fixed on the flatline. "Not yet. Her heart's stunned. Not stopped. The blood flow to her brain is still salvageable. We still have a window."
A med student asks, shaking, "How do you know that?"
"Because I see it," I answer. "Charge again."
Second shock.
Beep.
…
Beep.
A rhythm. Faint. Weak. But there.
"She's… stabilizing?" the nurse breathes.
Already, I'm scanning the monitors. My mind runs faster than the machines. Crushed pelvis. Punctured lung. Spinal swelling likely. Grade IV liver laceration.
Most surgeons would hesitate. Freeze.
But I don't need time to think. I am time.
"She's alive," I say, voice low but firm. "Prep for OR. Full vascular recon and laparotomy. I'll take the liver. Mizaki can handle the pelvic bind."
Everyone moves. Finally.
Behind me, I hear awe ripple.
"How did he process all that?"
"That's not human…"
"He memorized human anatomy like a song."
"He sees injuries like math."
"Like magic."
No. Not magic.
Obsession.
Years of cutting into cadavers at midnight. Sketching arteries until they lived in my fingers. Repeating procedures in my sleep.
As we rush her down the corridor, I give orders without looking back.
"She has six minutes before brain hypoxia becomes irreversible. Start cold saline flush—lower the metabolic rate. Monitor intracranial pressure. Call neurosurgery. I want a full vascular kit and bone clamp waiting. She's going to need everything."
An intern at my side whispers, voice barely holding together, "I've never seen anyone move like that… it's like his brain runs on another frequency…"
I don't answer.
Because she's right.
In this place when even hope flatlines—
I am the resuscitation.
And today?
Death loses again.
I will do this surgery not just to save her life… but to make sure she wakes up.
That's the part no one tells you. Survival isn't enough when the odds are this low. When someone's life is hanging by a thread so thin it might snap if you breathe wrong waking up isn't guaranteed.
They told me the numbers. One percent. Statistically insignificant. Hopeless. But I've never let statistics tell me what's possible.
Not when I've spent my entire life breaking the rules of reality.
The others in the room call it madness, reckless even, to operate on someone this far gone. They say it's false hope. That we should let her go. But I'm not like them.
Because I've seen what happens when someone decides not to give up.
And tonight, that someone is me.
Right now, I am the miracle.
The OR lights blaze down onto the surgical table like judgment, cold and holy. The anesthesiologist gives me the nod. She's under. Silent. Still.
Her body is torn apart, inside and out—but there's a heartbeat.
And for me, that's enough.
That's all I need.
"Scalpel," I say.
My hand opens the first cut across her abdomen. Blood surges upward like a wave, but I'm already there—clamping, suctioning, cutting. My movements are precise, fluid. I've done this more times than I've counted, and yet each time is different. Each time matters.
Her organs are chaos, but I can read them. Every rupture, every torn vessel appears in my mind as clearly as if I'd built her body myself. I don't need scans or diagrams. My brain builds it in three-dimensional clarity as I go.
Then, a nurse calls out—"BP's dropping!"
"Push plasma," I respond immediately. "Keep the transfusion going. No panic."
My voice slices through the tension. Calm. Focused. Certain.
Because panic doesn't save lives.
It kills them.
I pick up the pace, suturing blood vessels thinner than a strand of hair. My resident's hands are trembling beside me. I don't have time to comfort him, but I guide him with sharp instructions and steadier hands. I cauterize the bleeds, close the ruptures, and seal the damage in rhythm with the pulse on the monitor.
This girl isn't just another patient.
She's someone's daughter. Someone's sister. A girl who smiled this morning, probably never imagining she'd end the day like this. And I'm not going to let her become a name on a chart, or a memory buried with grief.
Because I can save her.
And I will.
Even though I run this hospital even though I'm the CEO of Liuzhaki Medical Center I'm not just the man behind the glass.
I built this place to be a front line. A battlefield where we take life back from the jaws of death. Where I make sure that life wins.
They say I was born different.
But "different" is a small word for what I am.
At twelve years old, I saved my little sister's life with my own hands. A ruptured cerebral aneurysm, no doctors around, and a storm outside cutting power and communication. My hands shook. I was terrified. But I didn't freeze.
I operated with borrowed tools and a kitchen lamp. I had studied anatomy not in textbooks, but from instinct. While other kids drew cartoons, I sketched out neural pathways. I opened her skull, found the source of the bleed, and stopped it.
And she lived.
That was the night I stopped being a child.
Three years later, it was my mother.
Pancreatic cancer. Late-stage. No options. They told me to prepare to lose her.
I refused.
I disappeared for three months. Locked myself away, consuming every piece of research I could find. I learned how to sequence genes, how to design synthetic enzymes, how to build microscopic machines that could repair tissue. I came back with experimental treatments no one could understand.
But they worked.
She's still alive.
She calls me her miracle child.
But I know the truth.
They're the reason I became one.
By eighteen, I had performed every major category of human surgery—cardiovascular, thoracic, spinal, ocular, neural. I developed robotic surgeon systems powered by neural feedback and invented instruments that responded to my nerve signals.
They say I'm more than a neurosurgeon. They call me a polymath surgeon a legend. A savior.
But I know what I really am.
There's something in me… something not even the greatest textbooks can explain.
I don't just understand anatomy.
I feel it. I command it.
Every pulse, every organ, every fragile thread of life sings a language that only I can hear.
And in the OR?
That's not science anymore.
That's power.
We're four hours in.
Her liver's stabilized. One lung reinflated. Hemorrhaging stopped. Now we're moving into spinal decompression and pelvic reconstruction. I haven't paused. I haven't taken a sip of water. My eyes sting, my back feels like it's been carved open but I will not stop.
Because I made a promise—
She will wake up.
I remove the final clamp. Seal the incision. Slowly, I peel off my gloves. My hands are shaking. My heart is steady.
She's alive.
Vitals are climbing. Brain activity is stable.
We didn't just buy her time.
We bought her hope.
I step out into the corridor.
Her family sees me. They rise haunted faces lit with desperation. As if I walked out from heaven or hell.
I look them in the eye and speak the only words that matter.
"She's alive."
One of them drops to the floor, unable to stand from the weight of it. "But… but you said…"
"I said one percent," I tell them quietly.
They stare at me, disbelieving.
"One percent," I repeat, "is not zero. And sometimes, all it takes… is one person who refuses to give up."
They look at me like I'm something they didn't believe was real.
And maybe they're right.
Maybe I'm not.
Because I'm not just a man with a scalpel.
I am the blade that slices through death itself.
I am Ryuzhen Liuzhaki.
The surgeon who saves the unsavable.
The child prodigy who became legend.
The genius who doesn't just rewrite science—
I rewrite fate.
And when the world walks away…
I step forward.
Because even when the world sees only one percent—
I see life.
They say I've never lost a patient.
It's not a compliment. It's a myth. A legend passed around in surgical lounges, whispered through hospital corridors like gospel.
But it's only half the story.
Because what they don't see the part they can't see is that survival in the operating room is only the beginning. You can sew someone back together, stop the bleeding, restart the heart... and still lose them.
Not to the scalpel, but to what lies beyond it.
Suffering comes in many forms. Cancer. Genetic decay. Autoimmune collapse. Degenerative disorders. The silent, systemic assassins that wear the face of inevitability. These are killers no blade can touch.
And so, I became more than just a surgeon.
I became a creator.
If fate insists on embedding death into the code of life, then I'll rewrite the code.
People know the name Ryuzhen Liuzhaki. The surgeon who makes the impossible bleed. The CEO who performs miracles in surgical theaters while CEOs in other industries sip wine and sign mergers.
But what they don't know what not even the board of this hospital truly understands is that the real work doesn't happen on the operating table.
It happens far beneath it.
Beneath Liuzhaki Medical Center, beyond the sterilized walls and curated image, past the awards and media portraits—lies my other world.
Genesis 9.
My hidden lab.
My sanctuary.
The forge where biology bends to will.
Upstairs, I wear a lab coat. Down here, I wear purpose.
I'm not just a surgeon down here.
I'm a drug maker.
And not the kind you find in neat, government-approved packaging with friendly warning labels.
Down here, I synthesize truth into molecules.
I distill hope into vials.
There isn't a disease I haven't studied. Not a gene sequence I haven't unraveled. Not a pathogen that hasn't trembled beneath my microscope like prey under a predator's stare.
The human genome? Memorized it before puberty.
CRISPR? Too blunt. It's like carving glass with a brick. I designed my own programmable bio-nanites. They move through the body like silk threads, stitching, editing, reordering strands of DNA with surgical precision. One mutation at a time. One miracle per strand.
Cancer?
I cured it. Quietly. Privately.
An adaptive viral vector that targets malignant cells, replicates until the cancer is gone, and then self-destructs.
HIV?
Gone. I didn't treat it I rewrote it out of the immune system like a spelling error.
Type 1 Diabetes?
I didn't control it I regenerated the pancreas.
ALS?
Reversed. In one of my earliest test cases, a man who hadn't walked in eight years stood up and ran.
Each success was silent.
Each miracle hidden.
Not because I'm afraid of the truth, but because the world isn't ready for it.
The pharmaceutical titans would erase me. Not because I'm wrong but because I'm right. Because healing isn't profitable. Because permanent cures mean empty boardrooms and closed pipelines.
And that makes me dangerous.
But to me?
Healing isn't an industry.
It's purpose.
It's art.
It's poetry.
That's why I built Genesis 9. That's why I named it after the verse—"And surely your blood of your lives will I require."
Because this is a reckoning.
A challenge to death itself.
I don't treat symptoms.
I erase the idea that some things are meant to kill us.
My serums are crafted like symphonies. No two are alike. They are coded in the language of life, tailored for each body, each suffering, each soul. Crafted in silence. Delivered in shadows.
Because the people I cure?
They're the ones the world has already written off.
The girl with brittle bone disease who used to break ribs just turning in bed—now she pirouettes across studio floors.
The boy with cystic fibrosis who was supposed to be on oxygen until he died—he just won his third cross-country meet.
A man who lay in a coma for ten years—awakened with one dose of a compound I built from molecules that don't exist in nature.
They live because of me. Because of what I built down here, beneath the scrutiny, beyond regulation.
Because my hands don't shake from fear of ethics boards.
They work for those who have no more time to wait.
I engineer futures from strands of RNA.
I sculpt miracles from sequences of amino acids and cascading protein structures.
I reprogram existence one injection at a time.
Do you understand now?
I'm not just a surgeon.
I'm not just a CEO.
I am the architect of second chances.
It all began with a promise.
I was twelve.
My sister, Aylene, was dying. A brain aneurysm no one could treat in time.
I held her hand and whispered to death: "You can't have her."
That promise became more than a vow.
It became a covenant.
Now, when they bring me patients whose organs are shutting down, whose charts say "comfort care only," I don't just operate.
I restore.
I give them my formulas.
Serums the world has no name for.
Untraceable. Undetectable. And unlike anything the medical world has ever known.
They call me a doctor.
But I am so much more.
I am the surgeon who doesn't lose.
The drug maker who doesn't doubt.
The scientist who defies what biology calls final.
Behind every patient who walks out of this hospital alive, there is a secret they'll never know.
A part of me that burns in the shadows, fueled not by ambition—
But by conviction.
Because I refuse to believe that anything anything is beyond healing.
If death has a thousand faces?
Then I'll make a thousand cures.
And every day, I make another.