The First Limit
The morning shift in General Surgery Ward 4 began with the sharp, volatile scent of alcohol swabs and the brisk rhythm of hurried footsteps. Behind the long desk lined with glowing monitors, a heavy atmosphere lingered, thick with the exhaustion of the overnight staff.
Baek Ijun walked toward the inner part of the station with measured steps. At the farthest desk, a man sat staring at the EMR screen, his mouse clicking steadily. It was Oh Jae-hyeong, the third-year resident, wearing a wrinkled blue scrub suit beneath his white coat.
Ijun approached and offered a polite, clear greeting. “I’m Baek Ijun, first-year resident in General Surgery. I’ve been assigned to Ward 4 starting today. Please guide me well.”
Oh Jae-hyeong didn’t lift his eyes from the screen. The only sound in the station was the dry clatter of his keyboard. Ijun waited patiently, his expression calm, refusing to rush the senior.
After a moment, Oh Jae-hyeong slid a single printed sheet across the stack of charts piled on the desk. “Here’s the blood draw list.”
“Understood. I’ll cross-reference it with the patients’ charts right away to get a feel for the ward.”
“Finish the rounds before lunch. Don’t create extra work for me. Just do what you’re told.”
Oh Jae-hyeong cut the conversation short and returned to his mouse. Ijun moved to the supply area in the corner of the station. He arranged alcohol swabs, antiseptic cotton, tourniquets, and color-coded vacuum tubes on the cart in precise order.
Making rounds room by room in blind sequence would waste too many steps. He mentally mapped an efficient route by grouping patient locations with their severity levels. As he worked, a nurse organizing IV fluid packs across from him glanced his way. Her neatly tied hair framed a name tag that read Jeong Dain.
Ijun set the container of antiseptic cotton back in place and spoke first. “Nice to meet you. I’m Baek Ijun, the new resident assigned to Ward 4. I’d appreciate your guidance while I learn the ward’s systems.”
Dain placed an IV pack into a basket and studied him. “Ah, the late-bloomer doctor? I’ve heard about you.”
“The hospital really is small. I look forward to working with you.”
Dain pointed at the cart and added quietly, “The elderly patient in room 7 has very poor veins. See them last, and tell me before you go in. I’ll secure the line for you.”
The unconditional offer of practical field advice was precious. “Thank you for telling me in advance. If you help, the patient will suffer less. That’s reassuring.”
“No need for thanks. I just don’t want to have to restart an IV because you failed the draw.”
Dain picked up the fluid basket and headed toward the rooms. Ijun thanked her with genuine warmth and wheeled the blood-draw cart forward.
His work in the rooms was swift yet gentle. To anxious patients he offered calm reassurance, and to minimize the sting of the needle he stretched the skin taut and adjusted the insertion angle with care. When blood flowed on the first attempt, relief quickly spread across each patient’s face.
The tenth stop was room 10. The chart information was straightforward: a man in his fifties who had undergone surgery a few days earlier to drain an abscess in his right abdomen. All vital signs were within normal range.
Ijun pushed the cart inside. “Good morning. I’m here for the morning blood draw.”
The patient lying in bed let out a heavy sigh and shifted uncomfortably. His face was pale, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. His wife sat in the simple chair beside the bed, her expression etched with worry.
“Are you feeling any discomfort? Your complexion doesn’t look good,” Ijun said, observing him closely.
“My stomach’s been aching a little.”
“Which side? Is it near the surgical site?”
The patient raised a hand and pressed near his left lower abdomen. “This area keeps feeling tight. It started yesterday evening.”
It was on the complete opposite side from the right-sided surgical site. Ijun’s gaze sharpened with focus.
“Before the blood draw, I’d like to examine your abdomen. May I?”
The patient gave a weak nod. Ijun lifted the gown slightly, rubbed his hands together to warm them, then began gentle clockwise palpation starting from the upper right quadrant. The moment his fingertips reached the left lower quadrant, the patient’s belly stiffened like a board. Rebound tenderness.
“Does it hurt a lot when I press here?”
“Ah, yes. It really pulls when you press there.”
Ijun kept his hand in place, concentrating. This was no simple gas pain or muscle tension. Over his retinas, the T-00 Leonardo da Vinci tension visualization layer overlaid itself.
T-00 Leonardo da Vinci — Tension Visualization Layer
The positions and tension levels of the organs beneath the abdominal surface appeared as translucent colors. The area around the right surgical site glowed with stable blue light, but the left lower quadrant the patient had indicated was different. A narrow section near the colon was flashing a deep, warning red. It was a clear pathological signal—internal pressure abnormally elevated by inflammatory exudate or another cause, forcefully pushing against surrounding tissue.
Ijun immediately disabled the visual layer and withdrew his hand. “Did you mention this symptom during rounds yesterday?”
“It felt a bit heavy when I woke up at night, so I only told the nurse. I haven’t mentioned it to the professor or the other doctors yet.”
“Understood. I’ll finish the blood draw safely first.”
After completing the draw, Ijun pushed the cart straight back to the station. Oh Jae-hyeong was still glued to his monitor.
Ijun approached and reported calmly. “Sir, I believe we should order a CT or ultrasound for the patient in room 10.”
Oh Jae-hyeong’s hand froze on the mouse. “What’s your basis?”
“Abdominal palpation revealed clear rebound tenderness and rigidity in the left lower quadrant. The patient has been complaining of pain since yesterday evening. Given that it’s acute pain on the opposite side of the surgical site, we need to rule out internal issues such as inflammation or an early abscess.”
Oh Jae-hyeong swiveled his chair halfway around to look at him. “Post-op patients complain of stomach pain every single day. His vitals were normal yesterday and he had no fever. It’s probably just gas from delayed anesthesia recovery.”
“When suspicious findings are this clear, I think confirming with imaging is the safer approach.”
“A first-year resident gets to palpate an abdomen once and then tell a third-year what tests to order? Don’t waste energy on pointless crap. Just finish the blood draws.”
It was a firm, icy rejection. Oh Jae-hyeong turned back to his monitor. Ijun stepped away without argument.
Directly challenging the hospital hierarchy would bring no benefit to the patient. Yet the red-flashing layer from da Vinci in front of his eyes did not lie.
Ijun left the remaining blood draws for later and turned his steps back toward room 10. He could not leave the patient’s condition unattended. To proceed with testing, he would need to persuade the patient and guardian and apply upward pressure.
When he slid open the door, the wife looked at him with puzzled eyes. “Ma’am, I returned because there’s something I need to explain regarding your husband’s pain.”
Ijun looked between the patient and his wife, his voice gentle but resolute. “The pain your husband is feeling right now is unlikely to be simple post-operative discomfort or indigestion. For his safety, I strongly recommend an abdominal ultrasound this morning. We need to clearly identify the internal condition to provide the correct treatment.”
Alarm flashed across the guardian’s face. She half-rose from her chair, her voice sharp. “An ultrasound? When Dr. Oh Jae-hyeong came by early this morning, he said the progress was good and that we could prepare for discharge once gas starts passing. Why are you suddenly adding more tests?”
“The attending’s assessment is valid, but the rigidity I felt in your husband’s left lower abdomen appears to exceed normal post-operative levels.”
“So you’re saying the attending physician’s judgment is wrong?”
Her voice rang coldly through the room.
“A new symptom appeared that the attending didn’t see during morning rounds—”
“No, these tests aren’t cheap, and now you’re saying it was fine a moment ago but suddenly it isn’t! Whose words are we supposed to believe? You do have actual evidence for this diagnosis, right?”
Under the guardian’s fierce questioning, Ijun’s lips pressed into a thin line. Evidence. The visual data of the abscess flashing red beneath the abdominal surface, pressing against surrounding tissue. That was the most perfect and decisive evidence.
But he could not speak it aloud. The moment he said, The Archive that only I can see is telling me so, he would be branded insane and the patient’s trust would shatter forever.
Ijun maintained his silence, gazing alternately at the patient’s pale face and the guardian’s tense, defensive posture. This was the clear error born from his own hasty judgment. The Archive revealed medical truth, but convincing the hospital system and the patient was an entirely different problem.
Modern medicine did not accept intuition as definitive diagnosis unless it was backed by objective data, imaging records, and blood values. Patients, too, would inevitably trust the third-year’s “normal findings” recorded in the EMR far more than the opinion of a low-ranking first-year.
To avoid worsening the situation, Ijun offered a polite apology. “I got ahead of myself. I’m sorry for causing you worry. I’ll consult with the attending again as you suggested, ma’am. Sir, if the pain becomes severe, please don’t endure it. Press the call button anytime.”
Once outside the room, Ijun leaned against the corridor wall and drew in a deep breath of cold air. He had thought acquiring a weapon that could perfectly control every variable was enough, but that had been only half the truth.
To bring the answers the Archive provided into reality, a legitimate and objective “proof procedure” was absolutely necessary.
My subjective palpation cannot serve as evidence. I cannot override Oh Jae-hyeong’s orders, nor can I persuade the guardian. Therefore, I must create a situation in which objective data is delivered to General Surgery from the outside first.
Ijun’s neural circuitry rapidly searched for a new bypass route. His footsteps headed toward the first-floor Emergency Medical Center without hesitation.
Outside the on-duty room in a corner of the ER, a nameplate read: Emergency Medicine Chief Resident Park Dong-hun. After three knocks, Ijun entered to find Park Dong-hun, steeped in fatigue, sipping canned coffee while reviewing documents.
“I’m Baek Ijun, first-year General Surgery resident. May I ask you something off the record?”
Park Dong-hun looked up from his papers. “What brings a first-year surgical resident to the ER duty room? Have a seat and talk.”
Ijun sat in an empty chair and began conveying the condition of the patient in room 10 in a dry, logical manner. This time he completely excluded the Archive’s intuition. He listed only clinical evidence an emergency physician could accept: the patient’s basic history, changes in the pain pattern since last night, clear rebound tenderness on palpation, and the lack of connection to the right-sided surgical site.
Park Dong-hun listened silently before asking, “Did you tell Dr. Oh Jae-hyeong?”
“Yes, I reported it, but it was rejected on the grounds that there wasn’t enough evidence for testing.”
Park Dong-hun smiled bitterly. “Sounds like Jae-hyeong. I can’t openly interfere with another department’s inpatient case, though.”
Ijun waited calmly for his next words. After a short silence, Park Dong-hun set his coffee can on the table.
“Instead, I can order an abdominal ultrasound through the ER route. I’ll look at it alongside other emergency cases. Once a clear ultrasound image appears, neither Oh Jae-hyeong nor the guardian will be able to ignore it.”
It was the moment the most perfect shield and weapon—objective data—was being forged.
Ijun stood and bowed deeply. “Thank you for accepting such a difficult request. I won’t forget this kindness.”
“No need to thank me. I’m just sticking my nose in because the patient’s condition warrants it.”
Back in General Surgery Ward 4, Ijun hurriedly finished the remaining blood draws. The draw in room 7 was difficult as Dain had warned, but he completed it cleanly on the first attempt. After sending all specimens to the lab and organizing the cart, Dain spoke to him.
“About the gentleman in room 10. He got up twice to use the bathroom during my night shift and told me his stomach felt heavy. I reported it to Dr. Oh Jae-hyeong, but he said we’d check during rounds tomorrow.”
Ijun set down the container of antiseptic cotton and replied, “Thank you for letting me know. That helps the puzzle pieces fit.”
“Puzzle?”
“I just requested an ultrasound through Emergency Medicine. We should have objective results soon.”
Dain stared at Ijun’s composed expression. “Are you really a first-year?”
Ijun answered in a generous, refreshing tone. “Yes, a brand-new first-year.”
Dain asked no more questions and walked back into the station. Ijun gazed at the empty cart, once again gauging the atmosphere of the ward.
The perfect data that would reveal the patient’s hidden error was about to rise to the surface of the system. The Archive gave the correct answer, but proving that answer in reality was entirely the responsibility of the physician named Baek Ijun.
The calculation that had surpassed the first limit was quietly flowing, adjusting its trajectory.