Chapter 4

"Nurse! Is this how you people do your jobs?"

Carl's face was livid, the sharp glare behind his glasses slicing toward Jane Brown, the nurse who had rushed in after him.

"Who gave you permission to let just anyone in here?"

Donovan turned slowly. His expression was calm, but an invisible pressure radiated from him. "Don't blame her. I am the patient, Tiffany Lane's son. I have every right to be here."

"Son?"

Carl adjusted his glasses and sized Donovan up from head to toe. A cold, mocking smile tugged at his lips.

"Oh? So you're that Donovan? The ungrateful son who's addicted to gambling, drugs, and prostitutes, and lived it up for three whole years while completely ignoring his own mother?"

Donovan's eyes narrowed.

Gambling? Drugs? Prostitutes? Living it up? Ungrateful son?

The Smith family had used such ruthless methods! They stole his family's fortune, damaged his mind, and now they wanted to destroy his reputation too. To make sure he could never rise again.

A killing chill surged in his chest, only to be forcibly suppressed. He stared at Carl, his voice icy enough to freeze blood.

"Dr. Sawyer, rumors end with those who can think. I will treat my mother. Step aside."

"Hah! Arrogant brat!"

Carl had been momentarily shaken by that sudden pressure, but the shock was quickly drowned by fury at having his authority challenged.

"Your mother is at the end of the line. Her body is shutting down. Even if the greatest physicians in history were reborn, they can't save her. This is science. An undeniable fact."

"At the end of the line?"

Donovan scoffed, contempt blazing openly in his eyes.

"So this is a world-class neurology expert? Internationally renowned? You can't even sense the last trace of resilience still fighting inside her body. All you know how to do is pronounce a death sentence. You are not a doctor. You are a butcher holding a scalpel."

"How dare you slander me!" Carl trembled with rage, his finger shaking as he pointed at Donovan.

"My diagnosis is based on the most advanced equipment and cutting-edge medicine. Your mother won't survive the night. That is a certainty. If you don't believe me, we can wait. But only if you get out immediately, you lunatic!"

"What a quack."

Donovan spat out the word coldly, like a verdict.

By now, the hallway outside the room had filled with medical staff and a few patients drawn by the commotion. After they heard what was going on, every gaze directed at Donovan brimmed with disdain and morbid curiosity.

Jane planted her hands on her hips, cheeks puffed with anger as she chimed in.

"Oh yeah? If you're so amazing, then don't treat her at our hospital! What, you want something to go wrong and drag Dr. Sawyer and the entire hospital down with you?"

Donovan immediately understood their hesitation. They feared responsibility and the Smith family's wrath.

"Fine!" he said decisively. "I'm taking my mother home today. I will bear all the consequences alone!"

"Take her home now? You're being ridiculous!" Jane protested.

A young doctor nearby quickly seized the opportunity and spoke up.

"You really want to play the devoted son? Fine. Sign this waiver. From this moment on, whatever happens to Ms. Lane is entirely your responsibility. It has nothing to do with Jadewood Central Hospital, Dr. Sawyer, or any of us. Do you dare?"

"Of course I do!" Donovan didn't even glance at the fine print. He snatched up the pen and signed his name, each stroke sharp and decisive.

"Hah. Gone for three years, drinking, gambling, sleeping around. Now that your mother is dying, you show up to put on an act? What a joke." Carl crossed his arms, his face full of contempt.

Murmurs spread through the crowd, buzzing with ridicule.

"Trying to bring someone back from the dead with a few cheap needles? Does he think he's God?"

"A young traditional medicine doctor?" someone scoffed. "Even real con artists have more skill than him."

"Exactly. Any competent old-school doctor is at least seventy. How old is he anyway?"

"Poor Ms. Lane. Once at the top of her world, and now she has to be humiliated by this ungrateful son..."

No one believed him. Everyone was waiting for the spectacular failure they were certain would come.

Donovan ignored the cutting noise around him. His gaze sharpened, locking onto Carl's smug, superior face.

"Dr. Sawyer, since you're so confident in your 'science,' do you dare to make a wager?"

"What wager?" Carl held his head high, certain of victory.

"If I wake my mother," Donovan said slowly, each word clear and deliberate. "You'll kneel in front of everyone, apologize to me, and admit that you are a quack."

"Fine! Agreed!" Carl replied instantly, certain he would soon witness Donovan groveling at his feet. "And if you fail?"

A cold smirk curved Donovan's lips. Without anyone noticing, he had already pinched three slender silver needles between his fingers, their tips glinting sharply.

"Handle it however you want."

The moment the words left his mouth, he moved.

His arms blurred into streaks, almost invisible. The three needles seemed alive, slicing through the air with faint, sharp whistles, piercing the three key acupuncture points atop Tiffany's head with deadly precision.

His fingers danced over the needles like butterflies—twisting, lifting, flicking, vibrating. Every motion was smooth and fast, leaving a faint silver trail.

The sudden, breathtaking skill froze the once noisy, mocking hospital room instantly.

Every eye widened, every mouth fell open. The sneers and scorn vanished, replaced by sheer shock and disbelief.

This was no ordinary kid. That technique, that speed, that presence!

It was the unmistakable aura of a professional who had spent decades immersed in the healing arts.

"This technique... the trajectory of the needles..."

A trembling, aged voice rose from the back of the crowd, raw with awe and excitement.

The crowd instinctively parted, making a path. An elderly man in a plain suit, white hair and beard, stared fixedly at Donovan's hands. His body trembled violently, and his eyes widened in disbelief. It was as if he was witnessing the most incredible miracle in the world.

"Mr. Sullivan? What's wrong?" someone nearby asked, recognizing the retired, highly respected head of the hospital's traditional medicine department, Edward Sullivan.

Even Carl furrowed his brow, a flicker of unease stirring in his chest. "Mr. Sullivan, do you recognize this technique?"

Edward didn't have time to answer. He staggered to the bedside, his thin, trembling fingers pointing at the silver needles quivering under Donovan's fingertips. His voice was sharp and hoarse with excitement, almost shaking, filled with a mix of awe and reverent intensity.

"It truly is... the Rebirth Needles technique?! What are those classic acupuncture techniques compared to this? Nothing! The reversal of balance, growing flesh on bare bones... this is the legendary, long-lost, technique!

"In all my years, I never imagined I'd witness this with my own eyes. I can die without a single regret now!"

Everyone went completely silent. Their eyes were glued to Donovan's hands, moving with unbelievable skill, then slowly shifted to Carl. His face had gone pale, filled with shock and disbelief.

He... he could actually lose?

A technique that made a living legend like Edward lose all composure, treating it like sacred scripture.

Could it really mean...

Even Jane's voice broke with awe, trembling as she voiced the question everyone was thinking.

"M-Mr. Sullivan, does it mean he might be able to save Ms. Lane?"

Edward's tears flowed freely, his voice cutting through the room with absolute certainty.

"This is not a maybe! It's a certainty! Reversing the balance of life! Bringing flesh to dry bones! This is a miracle that defies fate! A miracle!"

Carl's face drained of all color. His lips trembled as he tried to speak, to hold onto reason.

"N-no, that's impossible. Even with ancient needle techniques, it can't happen so fast..."

Beep! Beep! Beep!

"Look! The heart monitor!"

Someone let out a sudden, high-pitched shriek.

In an instant, everyone's attention snapped to the monitor beside the hospital bed.

The line had been nearly flat, and now it suddenly began to spike with strong, regular beats. Blood pressure, oxygen levels—every vital sign seemed to be pulled upward by an invisible force, climbing rapidly before everyone's eyes, shooting straight back into the normal range.

"Oh my God, she's alive. Her vitals are recovering!"

Carl felt his legs go weak and almost fell, only kept upright by someone nearby.

He stared at the moving line and the rising numbers, completely pale and terrified. He muttered in disbelief, "No, this is impossible. This can't be real. I must be dreaming..."