Black-Haired Genius Undergrad (1)
Disaster. A mysterious respiratory virus had ground the world to a halt. Hospitals across the country were overflowing with patients on the brink of death.
This guy was one of them.
"Cardiac arrest! Prep 1mg epinephrine!"
CPR is a brutal process. Every chest compression sent erratic electrical signals spiking across the ECG. The ventilator and monitor blared their alarms in a cacophony, screaming for us to save the patient. Each press cracked ribs with a sickening crunch. Horrific, but we couldn't let him die like this. Not with how many this plague had already claimed. I'd pulled 100 straight days without going home. Ventilators were in short supply on the wards—no, we didn't even have room in the morgue for the bodies. Corpses piled into freezer trucks parked in the lot.
Droplets that might carry the deadly virus fogged my goggles. No time to worry about that. Focus on saving the patient.
I glanced up at the changing tone of the defibrillator's alarm. No pulse, but ventricular tachycardia—defibrillation viable. Finally! I kept compressing till the pads were placed on his chest.
"Clear!"
With the whine of charging capacitors, I stepped back. The shock hit. His body convulsed, and the ECG flatlined.
We stared in silence for one second—and then, return of spontaneous circulation. I let out a sigh of relief. We'd saved him. IV fluids hooked up, and his blood pressure climbed into normal range.
Hadn't slept much lately. My head throbbed like it might split open.
In my past life, I'd been a doctor. Collapsed after 100 days straight during some virus outbreak. Felt feverish, figured I'd pop a pill and crash. Never woke up. Dropped into another world.
Well, not a true otherworld. Just 1970s America. But think about it: multiple races, power struggles among elites, wars against heathens, scholars wielding knowledge beyond the common man's grasp... It had all the elements. Call it an isekai if you want.
No cheats or perks—just woke up as a black-haired middle schooler. Name: Noah Parks. Birth certificate said Park, so Ji-soo Park works too. Same as my past life.
My adoptive parents couldn't have kids, so like many in the '60s, they adopted from Korea.
Anyway. Landed in '60s America with my 2020s doctor's memories intact. Folks were American: sunny California countryside, blue-collar dad who hit Protestant church Sundays, mowed the lawn, raised a big dog, watched baseball in season.
Our golden retriever snoozed by the sunlit window, paws twitching like she was chasing squirrels in her dreams. Peaceful home. A world I'd never known: pre-9/11 America, peak growth era when science and enlightenment seemed poised to solve everything. My old world looked absurd by comparison. The American Dream felt tangible.
Dad flipped his newspaper beside me.
"Something up?"
"Just remembered something I gotta do."
America's meritocracy at its core. Average 1970s IQ? Around 85 by modern standards. Middle school was a breeze—a far cry from challenging.
My name even hit the local paper a few times. Something like:
The Embodiment of the American Dream! The Story of the Oriental Adoptive Boy Who Found a Christian Family.
Era-appropriate racism. Wouldn't feel right without it.
Anyway. Planning to become a doctor again. Past life's oath still held: protect patients' lives. Modern walls blocked ideals sometimes, but here? Options galore.
Plus, future knowledge? Endless potential. Exciting.
"School go okay?"
"Took the GED."
High school equivalency exam here.
"How'd it go?"
"Pretty sure I aced it."
"Nice. Good job."
Dad shrugged it off, kept reading. Dog gnawed a chew toy under the couch. Nailed the test, obviously.
This was my isekai. Emperor: Richard Nixon. My academy: Stanford Medical School.
Why not Harvard or Johns Hopkins? Simple: full ride scholarship. Parents broke. Ivy tuition for six years? Three hundred million won equivalent. Living expenses insane. Not for normals.
Aced paperwork, stepped into the interview room. White coat felt nostalgic.
The professor eyed me.
"Hello, Professor."
Today's interviewer: Dean Clayton Rich of Stanford Medical School. Dean in person.
"You're the Weiseman Foundation pick? Skipping high school straight in."
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Decades teaching, first time seeing this. Real geniuses do exist. Perfect GED, perfect SAT. Scores scream valedictorian..."
He trailed off.
"Thank you, Professor."
1970s: genius still meant something. Individuals could revolutionize fields. Merit got you in early. Romantic era.
"Some profs say ease up on Orientals. Weird personalities."
"I see."
"I believe even Japanese deserve fair shots. Robot-like or not."
"Arigato."
Nodded. Used to it—no urge to argue. Romantic in every sense. Overt racism still kosher. Black hair alone earned this crap. Exhausting.
But blondes balded 50% by 30s, so not that bitter. Fair enough.
Got into Stanford. Sole Oriental in med school. Zero in my class.
"Top of med school is a Chinese middle schooler? Insane. Makes no sense."
"Reporting for duty, Professor. Not Chinese."
"You're the top? Take it as praise."
American style. Fair enough.
News cycle again. Familiar: Oriental orphan immigrant boy tops Stanford, American Dream bluster.
Med school? Breeze. Forty years' extra knowledge. Easier than modern—half the antibiotics to memorize. Dozens of undiscovered diseases.
Admitted. Time to prove myself. Best way? Plenty options.
But surviving conservative WASP elite as black-haired doc? Needed something huge...
Nobel Prize! Knew winners in advance. Just beat 'em to it.
1971. Freshman year, early days. Prime Stanford Med parking spot empty. White paint: NL.
Why vacant? Guard ambled over.
"Hey, kid. Can't park there."
"Handicapped?"
"For Nobel Laureates."
Isekai rules. Nuts, but made sense. Ivy schools churn Nobels. Win one, get parking! Insane bunch. Nobel worth one spot? Americans worship cars.
Anyway. Go big: snag Nobel, ditch foreigner label, park there.