The First Glass Window

The air in the surgical zone on the third floor of the main building differed in its very density from the wards or the emergency room. A powerful air-conditioning system that permitted not even a speck of dust pumped out cool winds, and the heavy scent of sterilizing disinfectant lay thick across the entire corridor. Leaving the chaos of the ER behind, Baek Ijun walked with both arms cradling bundles of sterile packs he had collected from the operating theater’s central supply room.

The first official duty of a first-year resident who had only just pinned on his badge was not some grand act of slicing open a patient’s abdomen to save a life. It was the meticulous grunt work of delivering essential supplies at precisely the right moment to keep the OR running smoothly and arranging them so they would not interfere with the senior residents’ movements.

As he rounded the corner, a familiar face leaned against the cold tile wall, gasping for breath. It was Kim Jinsu, the general surgery colleague who had survived the brutal intern schedule alongside him. Jinsu was vigorously fanning himself with the chart in his hand when he spotted Ijun and broke into a bright smile.

“Aigoo~~ If it isn’t the guy who was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lying spectacularly on the ER floor even before his official first day in surgery?”

Baek Ijun adjusted his grip on the sterile packs and offered his characteristic generous, refreshing smile.

“Aigoo, the rumor has already reached all the way to the third-floor OR? And I’d appreciate it if you corrected the record—I didn’t simply lie down. I pushed my stamina to its absolute limit to save the patient. Fortunately the patient’s vitals returned safely, so it was an incident worth every ounce of energy expended.”

“Man, what a spectacle right from the crack of dawn on day one. I just sprinted down here like a madman after catching an emergency call while pushing a dressing cart on Ward 7. Our first-year life looks pitch black ahead. We’re already drowning in senior orders, and now we have to absorb every patient complaint with our whole bodies too.”

“Don’t start with that soul-drained expression. Let’s keep our spirits up. I heard the cafeteria lunch menu today is actually decent. If the timing works, eat with me. You need carbohydrates if you’re going to survive this brutal schedule.”

“Lunch? I don’t even know if I’ll have time to smell rice. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I’ve got to run and check the next treatment orders. See you in the ward later.”

Watching Kim Jinsu’s hurried back disappear down the hall, Baek Ijun silently resumed his own steps.

He passed through the semi-restricted zone and entered the main corridor lined with operating rooms. Beyond the heavy automatic doors, rooms marked by glowing red “surgery in progress” lamps stretched out in an endless row. Baek Ijun’s footsteps halted abruptly in front of the small observation window outside OR 4. The surgical information displayed on the monitor seized his gaze with magnetic intensity.

Choi Dusik, Chief of General Surgery. One of the two colossal pillars of Korea University Hospital’s surgical department, a man renowned for overwhelming skill and uncompromising principle. Even during internship, his operations had been spoken of among residents like legends.

Baek Ijun drew closer to the glass as if spellbound. Beyond the window, the OR was filled only with the regular beeps of the vital-signs monitor and the steady hum of machinery; not a single unnecessary word or sound existed. At the exact center of the operating table, Choi Dusik in his sterile gown moved with near-perfect economy—every motion stripped of waste.

The liver is one of the most vascular and complex organs in the body. A single errant stroke of the scalpel can trigger uncontrollable hemorrhage. Yet every time the electrocautery in Choi Dusik’s hand delicately carved into the liver surface, bleeding was controlled as if by magic. The instant faint smoke rose, the scrub nurse’s suction tip sliced through the air with flawless timing to clear the field. Opposite him, the first-assist resident gripped the retractor with wire-tight tension, retracting tissue to match the chief’s overwhelming pace.

It was the moment he became absorbed in that scene of perfect control.

His vision suddenly rippled in a strange distortion. The uncontrollable flood of information he had experienced in the ER surged through his optic nerve once more.

Translucent colors cascaded like a waterfall across the patient’s opened abdomen beyond the glass. The human body’s anatomical structures had been converted into three-dimensional data layers that struck directly against his vision. The problem was the sheer volume. The labyrinthine paths of the hepatobiliary vessels, the fluctuating blood-flow velocities through the portal vein and hepatic artery, the expansion limits of tissue around the retractor the first assistant was pulling—tens of thousands of visual data points slammed together without any filtering whatsoever.

Flashes of red, blue, and yellow buried his sight in merciless chaos.

The data is too much. They decide the scalpel’s trajectory while processing all of this? It’s an area beyond human information-processing speed.

Baek Ijun’s calculation circuits spun at ferocious speed, yet he could only flounder helplessly in the swamp of unrefined data. He could not assign priority—which bleeding point was most critical, which tissue tension had reached the most dangerous level. The vast flood of information functioned not as sharp intuition but as terrible noise that obscured vision and crippled judgment.

Even though he had been granted a system of overwhelming capability, the user’s clinical processing power stood at absolute rock bottom.

Baek Ijun squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, struggling consciously to suppress the pouring illusions. He barely managed to focus on Choi Dusik’s unshakable fingertips beyond the dizzying colors.

Inside the OR, Choi Dusik’s scalpel plunged into the tangled red vortex of data without the slightest hesitation. Between the virtual tension maps stretched so tightly they seemed ready to burst, his blade tip parted the chaos as smoothly and accurately as flowing water. Perfect, precise dissection—not a single drop of blood spilled.

The system had vomited forth tens of thousands of possible errors, yet one man’s long years of accumulated experience and callused fingertips had crushed them all with a single flawless trajectory.

That is the standard. The power to remain unswayed by a rampaging flood of data and see only the single truth through which the scalpel must pass. What I need most desperately right now is that clinical filtering ability to extract the real from countless data points.

Having completed the dissection, Choi Dusik set down his instrument and lifted his gaze. He stared straight at the narrow observation window outside the OR. Above the surgical mask, his eyes were cool and profound. Across the glass, Baek Ijun’s and Choi Dusik’s gazes met and locked in midair.

Choi Dusik offered neither words nor reproachful looks. He simply observed the first-year resident standing there—calmly, dryly, as if seeing straight through him. Yet the weight carried in that momentary glance pressed down harder than a thousand spoken words. It was the immense pressure only someone standing at the absolute peak of the vast, rigorous system called surgery could emit.

Baek Ijun did not avert his eyes. He accepted the heavy pressure in full. His usual relaxed smile and easy manner had been completely erased. Only the clear, unflinching eyes of an observer confronting a colossal barrier remained.

Choi Dusik lowered his gaze once more and refocused on the surgical field. The scrub nurse swiftly placed the next instrument in his hand, and the machinery that had briefly paused resumed its steady rhythm.

Only then did Baek Ijun step back from the glass. The moment his eyes left the operative site, the translucent visual layers that had swarmed his vision gradually scattered and vanished completely.

The Archive is not a magic wand that solves everything simply by being handed over.

Baek Ijun tightened his grip on the sterile packs once more. The vague fantasies that had filled his mind shattered thoroughly. No matter how magnificent the knowledge and intuition of past master surgeons might be, the current him was nothing more than a complete beginner lacking even the ability to select appropriately from it.

To fully master this overwhelming system, he would ultimately have to learn—through repeated collisions and failures in countless clinical settings—how to refine the data himself.

When Baek Ijun turned toward the end of the corridor, a clear, distinct voice rang out.

“Baek Ijun? Not moving busily on your first morning and instead sightseeing in someone else’s OR?”

He turned to see Shin Seoyun standing there in blue scrubs. Her face was plain, without makeup, yet her characteristic bold, brilliant aura refused to be hidden by surgical attire.

“Ah! Seoyun. I couldn’t help stopping when I saw that Chief Choi Dusik was operating in room 4. It would be an enormous loss as a surgery resident to walk past such a precious scene.”

Baek Ijun answered, his usual generous warmth returning.

Seoyun clicked her tongue lightly.

“If you have time to watch leisurely, please proceed quickly to your assigned ward. Professor Oh Jae-hyeong is already raising hell at the station because he hasn’t seen a single first-year. I’m running to an ICU ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠call myself.”

“I was heading straight down to Ward 4 as soon as I finished delivering the sterile packs. I must be careful—if I get on a third-year senior’s bad side from day one, the rest of my training will become exhausting.”

Shin Seoyun offered no further unnecessary scolding and walked briskly on her way. Her retreating figure, as always, advanced straight along the path she had chosen without the slightest wasted motion.

Baek Ijun walked the disinfectant-scented corridor and exhaled softly. The rampage of overwhelming information. The master’s trajectory that had suppressed it in a single breath. Inside the merciless university hospital system that offered nowhere to lean, what Baek Ijun had to accomplish today became crystal clear.

Perform every assigned task without a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠single error, and forge his own unshakable standard of judgment.

As Baek Ijun passed through the heavy automatic doors of the surgical zone, his steps had grown both lighter and markedly firmer.

General Surgery Ward 4. That was the first battlefield where he would have to clash with his entire being in order to seize control of the system.