Time to Turn Back the Clock
When we returned to the hospital, it was already evening. After finishing the detailed scans, we'd admitted the PoDoSongi mercenary to a patient room and sent Cache home. It was late at night, and not all the results had come back yet. But I wasn't sleeping. Instead, I was in the VR—or virtual reality—operating room on the eighth floor.
Zwiiing—swoong—zwiiing—
If anyone saw me, they might think I was Iron Man—or just some lunatic flailing around alone in an OR. But this was a professional VR device capable of expert-level simulations across every specialty from dentistry to ophthalmology to general surgery. It wasn't like those console simulator games. This one had even been provided through a government grant. Who knew I'd end up ghosting that too?
"Sorry about this. But what can you do? It wasn't exactly my plan. Hmm... so this is the lateral edge of the eyeball. Gotta be extra careful here during the real thing."
The surgical VR had programs for procedures and processes in every field. It could even sync with MRI images to let you run virtual surgeries. The reason I was putting in this extra rehearsal on the VR was simple: there'd be no assistants for tomorrow's operation.
Even for simple procedures, having help versus going solo makes a world of difference.
I'd loaded the PoDoSongi mercenary's evening scan into the VR program's virtual avatar and kept running simulations late into the night, later than anyone else.
* * *
The next morning, as soon as it was light, I headed to the PoDoSongi mercenary's room.
"Good morning."
"......"
He was as gruff as ever, yesterday and today. So I just got to the point.
"Diagnosis is neurofibromatosis. It's a condition that affects the nervous system—"
"Spare me."
"...?"
"You think explanations like that are gonna make me understand?"
The PoDoSongi mercenary was prickly even before the real surgery began. Fine, then I'd lead with what he actually wanted to hear.
"Straight to it: that thing covering your face? It can be removed. You in?"
"......"
"Mercenary?"
A single tear traced down his cheek, which had only shown raw anger until now. Judging by his demeanor, no one had ever confidently promised to cut out his tumor before.
"......It won't be easy. We'd follow removal with reconstruction right away. And it's a highly vascular tumor—bleeds like crazy during surgery. It's doable, but it'll demand precision and intense focus."
"......"
As I explained, he clenched the one side of his lip not buried in neurofibromatosis. Then, slowly, it parted.
"So... if we do this... is my life on the line?"
"No."
I shook my head firmly at his anxious question. As his doctor, I had to give him confidence.
"If I'm leading, it'll be safe. But there's a big issue."
"Aftereffects... that bad?"
"No, something potentially bigger."
"......What?"
"The surgery fee is very..."
The universal body language. I raised my index finger skyward, then bent my thumb to meet it.
"...expensive."
He went silent again. But I caught the faint hitch in his breath. Micro-expressions betrayed his turmoil.
"How much? Over 1,000 gold?"
Opening bid at 1,000 gold? The words stole my breath.
1,000 gold off the bat? That's a full year's taxes to the territorial office!
My vitals spiked, but I recited the Heart Sutra in my head, striving for composure. Starting at 1,000 meant his pockets were deeper than expected.
"Hmmm......"
"......"
I let out a sigh in lieu of an answer.
His clothes were ragged, sure, but yesterday he'd admitted cutting into the tumor himself, causing massive bleeding that required a high-grade potion. And those were insanely pricey!
Just as I thought! No wonder he reeked of money!
High-grade potions cost 1,000 gold—100 million won. Burning that much cash in an emergency? No ordinary mark.
Background didn't matter. He had money, period. As the Talmud says: don't judge by the shell—look inside. Always spot-on.
"Sigh... that's why I mentioned the high cost upfront."
Hiding my glee, I pressed on. Time to raise the bet.
"Neurofibromatosis surgery: 2,000 gold. Reconstruction after removal isn't one-and-done; it's multiple stages. And our hospital requires full upfront payment—"
"3,000 gold."
"...?"
"If you can lift this curse, 3,000 gold is yours."
For a split second, a blinding halo seemed to shimmer behind the PoDoSongi mercenary in his patient gown and three-stripe slippers. Not a goldfish—this guy was a diamond in the rough.
Crazy...! 3,000 gold would carry us for a year and a half!
With 3,000 incoming, I could pay off 1,000—no, 2,000 gold upfront to the office. I fixed him with a resolute gaze.
"Neurofibromatosis is a beast that keeps growing over time. Let's start with anesthesia."
Truth is, a surgeon without a steady gig has to hustle sales.
* * *
My ideal surgery is a team effort. But here I was, solo in the eleventh-floor OR—no consults from other docs, no nurses. Just me for the long haul.
—Maener! I'm ready!
At least I had the dragon kid. Stuffed with a generous 10 gold, he'd gone invisible, out of sight. But I knew he was perched on the empty chair I'd assigned.
"Commencing surgery."
I declared it to the PoDoSongi mercenary, the dragon, and myself, then began.
Snikt—snikt-snikt—
This major surgery would take at least seven hours. But intubation was impossible, so regional anesthesia instead of general. Not because I was skimping on drugs.
I could mask him up and gas him for full general. But depth control would've been tricky, forcing the regional choice.
Definitely not because I'm no anesthesiologist.
Snikt—snikt-snikt—snikt—tssst!Snikt—tssss!
Handling it alone made the stress and complexity brutal. But I replayed last night's post-midnight VR runs, channeling every ounce of focus into excising the PoDoSongi mercenary's neurofibromatosis.
Snikt—snikt—
Good. Tumor hasn't invaded the eye or bone.
Laypeople might think: it's just swollen flesh—hack it off like meat. Even the PoDoSongi mercenary probably figured that, trying to carve it himself.
But this massive, face-engulfing lump wasn't simple tissue. Packed with vessels, fat, and cells galore, it demanded delicate handling.
Snikt—snikt—snikt—tssst!
The tumor's vessels were abnormal—less elastic, harder to staunch than normal ones.
As expected... bleeding's heavy.
As I neared completion of tumor removal, hemorrhage surged. I thrust my right arm high, circling it in the air.
—Maener! Now?
Healing magic?
I nodded. The invisible dragon sprang into action, casting healing on the PoDoSongi mercenary. As before, a soft glow brought an indescribable warmth.
Or maybe it's special because it's dragon magic. Never seen a mage or priest do it.
Snikt—snikt-snikt—tssst!
Bleeding stanched, I resumed excision. Soon after, tumor removal wrapped. I swung my arm again.
Thud—
As the dragon reapplied healing to the face, I weighed the excised mass.
'...452g? He'd carried this weight for over ten years.'
Right before surgery, he'd shared his story briefly.
"A red spot. My oldest memory—back then, it was just that."
"And it grew?"
"Yeah. Around my left cheek, it turned wart-sized by age ten. By my twenties, out of control. Now in my thirties, as you see, it's spread to my lip and eye."
"......"
"Even now past thirty, I remember my childhood face. Before this hideous bunch-of-grapes lump hung there."
I couldn't imagine what he'd say seeing his face sans 452g lump.
Normally, skin grafts next. But not this time.
Though I'd carved flesh from the PoDoSongi mercenary's face, the dragon's healing regenerated it in seconds. I'd worried the magic might regrow tumor too, accelerating via recovery boost. But post-excision, the new skin was normal.
Cache was right... scarring's inevitable.
Cache had said healing magic or stamina potions healed wounds but left scars. And sure enough, the post-removal face bore burn-like, crinkled, melted-looking scars.
Don't worry, PoDoSongi sir. You'll get your money's worth.
Without pause, I wheeled over the CO2 laser machine.
Now, time to rewind to the face in his memories.