The Devil's Talent
I'd become a hospital intern this year. It took a while, but I'd finally gotten the chance to see patients! The moment I'd been waiting for. At last.
The typical process for medical students' clinical rotations went something like this: rotating through each department in the hospital, observing or participating in doctors' work across every specialty. Experience is the most important thing in hospital work, after all. There's even a saying that a second-year average resident outperforms a first-year top student. And I'd done this for eight years.
Becoming the most outstanding, talked-about intern in the hospital wasn't hard. My reputation built up quickly. It was like that everywhere I went.
Radiology. "A med student diagnosed mycoplasma pneumonia from just one X-ray? Eyes finally opened, eh? Come to Radiology."
Modern doctors learn to read X-rays from their undergrad days, but in the 1970s, it was still the experts' domain.
Hematology-Oncology. "He spotted multiple myeloma just from the patient's eyes. I was skeptical, but damn."
Cardiothoracic Surgery. "An Asian med student diagnosed Marfan syndrome just by looking at the patient's face? Some kind of Oriental shaman?"
The experience I'd built up, the level of skill demanded—it was a fifty-year gap from the modern era. In a way, it was only natural.
Ugh, my head hurts. Listening to these guys, you'd think I was some kind of shaman.
By the way, reading patients' faces is an essential skill for doctors... but in America, it's a lot simpler. Race makes such a huge difference.
Come to think of it, maybe the hospital staff were applying the same logic to me. Anyway.
Rumors spread about an Asian student with astonishing abilities. Professors from every department were lining up to drag me into theirs—a whole truckload.
This week was general surgery rotation. Surgical departments are especially picky. This was Stanford Hospital's operating room, and today's gastric cancer resection surgeon was Harry Overhollman, the chief of surgery at Stanford.
A world-class surgeon, but he demanded just as much from students. I'd heard he chewed out plenty of my classmates like rats.
I changed into scrubs, scrubbed my hands with disinfectant, and quietly entered the OR. Professor Overhollman was talking to the nurses preparing for surgery.
"Watch out for one of the med students?"
"Yes. The IM profs call him a Mongolian shaman. They say he diagnosed multiple myeloma just from the patient's gaze...?"
"Have him read our patient's face too."
The professor laughed heartily. Why do they keep doing this? This isekai world is a weird place. I'd make more money running a fortune-telling shop than being a doctor.
"Hello, Professor."
The professor turned to me. "Ah, there you are."
I glanced at the old monitor in the corner of the OR. I'd looked at the CT earlier, and there was something to watch out for in this patient's surgery. Something crucial in gastric cancer ops.
There was an anomaly in this patient's vessels. It might be hard to spot with 1970s medicine, now that CT was brand new...?
I had to bring it up. I looked at Professor Overhollman.
"Professor, I reviewed this patient's CT on my way in, and it looks like a special case where the left hepatic artery branches from the left gastric artery."
"Oh, I was just about to ask you to read the patient's face. RLHA?"
"Yes."
"You can see that on CT? I had no idea."
I could see it. I'd trained endlessly for cases like this in my past life before isekai—of course I could.
RLHA (Replaced Left Hepatic Artery). An anatomical variant of the hepatic artery where the left hepatic artery branches from the left gastric artery instead of the proper hepatic artery. Complicated stuff.
Think of it like this: Imagine a restaurant patron with RLHA. Who cares how their insides are wired? Most people live their whole lives without knowing.
Unless they're getting gastric cancer surgery.
In gastric cancer surgery, you usually ligate the left gastric artery. But if the left hepatic artery comes off it and you just tie it off, blood flow to the liver drops sharply.
Too complicated? Simply put: Fail to spot abdominal vascular variants, and the liver could necrotize post-op.
The issue? In the 1970s, routinely checking hepatic vessel variants wasn't standard. But with new CT machines around now, it was time to start.
That was the backdrop for today's surgery.
Gastric cancer resection. Just as I'd seen on the CT.
The cancer was risky, but the vascular variant made the surgery even trickier. The anesthesiologist and chief of surgery stared at me in disbelief.
The professor in scrubs gave me a puzzled look—like an academy scholar eyeing a barbarian shaman. The gaze of someone beholding an incomprehensible talent.
I shouldn't have thought that. Yeah, well, I couldn't exactly say I'd learned it in my past life.
I pondered for a moment. CT scanning was still experimental tech. Stanford Hospital was advanced enough to adopt it early, but at this point, only a handful of doctors worldwide could even read them.
Among Stanford's doctors in this era, I was probably the only one with real clinical CT experience.
"I read about it in a book."
"I'd heard the rumors, but shaman isn't just talk, huh? A book like that exists?"
I wasn't sure if such a book existed yet. The professor turned back to the operating table.
"Good catch, but only one way to confirm. We won't know till we open him up."
Conan? No, obviously not. He meant we'd see the vessel layout once we cut.
General anesthesia is complex. The anesthesiologist stood at a machine that looked like a fighter jet's controls. Nurses sorted IV lines and draped the field. Prep was done quickly.
We gathered at the table, and Professor Overhollman looked at me gravely.
"Student, you make the first incision."
"Thank you, sir."
I carefully gripped the scalpel. No one gets handed a knife lightly. Taking responsibility for a life is never easy. Even for a doctor.
Just the feel of pressing the blade to skin. Open the skin without harming deeper tissues, ease in carefully. The mirror-polished blade flashed silver.
"Slowly. Precisely."
"Yes, sir."
I held the knife steady, marking the incision line on the abdomen with my left index finger. It's been ages since I held one. First time since coming to this world.
"You like surgery?"
"I think it's fun."
A thoracic surgeon from my past life once said: "Surgery is the only drug the state allows!"
I thought it was a joke at the time, but I got it later. I'm no surgery veteran, but standing at the table with scalpel in hand? Hard to imagine if you haven't.
It's like this: Total control of the OR, the thrill of holding a life in your hands. Electric. Pure dopamine rush.
Lead a surgery, and you sustain that peak tension for hours. No drug could match it. I'd seen doctors past sixty doing 12+ hour heart and brain ops.
Anyway. The professor kept working, eyes fixed on the field.
"Come to surgery. I'll teach you. You're years ahead of other students—Stanford faculty would be easy."
"I'll think about it."
"Stanford has the world's top surgeons. Here, we can make you a world-class doctor and scholar."
I'd assisted in surgeries many times in life, but surgery as a career? Not really. Surgery demands precision technique as much as knowledge. Hard to leverage my strengths.
Need to mull it over.
The surgery continued. I had my hand in the abdomen, lifting the liver. Gotta elevate the liver to see the stomach.
Mid-procedure.
"Hold it steady. Don't move."
"Yes, sir."
The professor grasped the left gastric artery. Just as I'd said. The hepatic artery branching from the gastric—clear as day.
Would've been dangerous without the heads-up.
"I was doubtful, but damn, it's really RLHA. You can tell from just CT?"
I nodded. "It was visible."
"True devil's talent..."