Surgery Godfather

Chapter 2254: Chapter 1464: Seeking Certainty in Uncertainty

"Back then, you weren’t confident about Sisi either, right?" She finally spoke, her voice gentle, as if asking a question she already knew the answer to.

Yang Ping opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling light. The light was soft, like a small crescent moon, hanging in their shared sky.

"Yes, not confident," he said. "The human application of K Therapy was the first time; I honestly didn’t know if it could work. But saying ’won’t’ at that time, she might not have made it through. A nine-year-old child, her eyes were already somewhat unfocused. Telling her about data, about probabilities, she couldn’t understand or absorb it. What she needed was a definite answer, even if I had to make it up."

"What about now?" Xiao Su asked, "That sixteen-year-old boy, why don’t you give him a definite answer too?"

Yang Ping turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were bright under the light, as if encouraging him, or perhaps reminding him.

"Because it’s different now," he said.

Xiao Su held his hand and didn’t speak. Sometimes, silence has more power than any words. Her grip tightened, as if passing on some kind of energy.

"But you still want to try," she said, not as a question, but as a statement.

Yang Ping didn’t answer, just looked at the ceiling light for a long time. Then he said, "Of course."

Xiao Su smiled, leaned against his shoulder, and closed her eyes.

The next morning, as soon as Yang Ping arrived at the office, Tang Shun knocked and entered, holding a stack of documents with a somewhat grave expression.

"Professor," Tang Shun’s voice was very low, "The initial review comments from Cell are back."

Yang Ping took the tablet from his hand and quickly scanned the review comments. Three reviewers, two gave a "major revision," and one rejected it, for reasons including "insufficient exploration of mechanisms, lack of in vivo validation data, and glycosylation modifications don’t adequately support its clinical translational value."

Tang Shun said, "The one who rejected it is a top figure in the field of nerve regeneration; his opinion is crucial. If he doesn’t relent, this paper is basically done for."

Yang Ping put down the tablet, "Supplement the experiments, do in vivo validation, use a spinal cord injury model to verify the promoting effect of recombinant proteins on axon regeneration. We can accept any opinion, but we shouldn’t waver arbitrarily because of anyone’s opinion."

"Is there enough time?" Tang Shun asked, furrowing his brows, "The news article is already submitted; if the main paper drags on too long, priority might be affected. Moreover, establishing the animal model will take at least three weeks, not to mention behavioral assessments, histological staining, immunofluorescence..."

"Two weeks." Yang Ping turned around, his gaze determined, like a piece of steel, tempered through experience, "Weber’s mammalian cell version is 40% more active than the Escherichia coli version; this advantage sufficiently supports our argument. Let Weber expedite the purification process, Manstein prepares for mass spectrometry analysis, and you are responsible for establishing the animal model. I want to see preliminary data within two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Tang Shun widened his eyes, "Normally, it takes a month; do you know how rushed this is?"

"I know." Yang Ping repeated, "Sometimes things don’t need to follow the old ways strictly; improvement can lead to better methods. We need higher efficiency; if things always go like this, I’ll never improve efficiency."

Tang Shun looked at him, hesitating to speak. He wanted to say it’s too risky, that the Ethics Committee won’t approve, advancing to clinical trials with insufficient data is gambling with his career. Yet looking into Yang Ping’s eyes, he saw something familiar—a stubbornness that doesn’t back down once committed.

Finally, he just nodded, "Alright, I’ll arrange it immediately."

After Tang Shun left, Yang Ping sat in his chair, staring at the review comments on the computer screen. The wording of the rejecting reviewer was sharp, like a surgical knife: "The concept of ’unknown factors’ presented by the authors lacks sufficient theoretical support, while the effects of glycosylation modification on activity, though interesting, are inadequate to demonstrate its clinical translational value. The authors are advised to supplement adequate in vivo experimental data and thoroughly discuss the mechanisms, otherwise, this publication will not accept the paper."

His phone buzzed; it was an email from Sisi. He opened it to find a five-hundred-word critique on immune response following spinal injury. The writing was still immature, word choices not entirely accurate, but the ideas were clear, and the logical chain complete. In some places, it even impressed him; she mentioned the latest research on microglia phenotype conversion, a direction he’d hadn’t noticed before, potentially key to addressing the reviewer’s doubts.

Yang Ping looked at the screen, a slight smile on his face. That fifteen-year-old girl, thousands of miles away at her desk, unwittingly touched upon an important switch with her juvenile but dedicated strokes.

He replied with a brief email: "Good insights, but evidence is insufficient. Supplement with three supporting references, send it back to me. Also, take care to distinguish the surface markers of microglia from macrophages, don’t confuse them. Don’t think your paper is terrible or imperfect; beginnings are often imperfect, we must learn to iterate quickly to bring results infinitely close to perfection."

After sending the email, he stood up and headed for the laboratory.

In the hallway, sunlight streamed through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor. He remembered years ago, when he was still an undergraduate, a teacher said to him, "The essence of medicine is finding certainty in uncertainty."

At the time he didn’t understand, now he did. Every treatment is a gamble; every surgery is a risk. But as long as you stand there, as long as you’re willing to try, there’s still hope. And hope, sometimes more important than any medicine.

Yang Ping quickened his pace, pushing open the laboratory door. Weber was already busy in the cell room, wearing protective gear and goggles, deftly extracting transparent liquid with a pipette; Manstein was sitting at the computer, rows of mass spectrometry data peaks on the screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard; Tang Shun was marking a mouse, the mouse’s tail tied with a colorful thread, quietly curled in the cage.

Everyone looked up at him.

"Let’s begin," Yang Ping said.

In the laboratory, the sound of instruments operating rose and fell; the low hum of the centrifuge, the rhythmic ticking of the PCR machine, the stable wind noise of the ultra-clean workbench—a silent symphony flowing slowly through the air. Outside, ginkgo leaves gently sway in the wind, rustling, as if cheering for this battle, or perhaps quietly telling an ancient story.

Meanwhile, in some corner of the city, a fifteen-year-old girl sat at her desk, seriously editing her critique. Unaware that the research direction she’d casually mentioned might become the key to a significant breakthrough.

She only knew she had to study hard, then meet him, so he might become her real teacher.

This promise she never forgot. Just like when she was nine, by her bedside he said ’won’t’, she believed him, and kept believing until now.

Believed forever.

Meanwhile, in some corner of the city, a fifteen-year-old girl sat at her desk, seriously editing her critique. Unaware that the research direction she’d casually mentioned might become the key to a significant breakthrough.

She only knew she had to study hard, then meet him.

This promise she never forgot. Just like when she was nine, by her bedside he said ’won’t’, she believed him, and kept believing until now.

Believed forever.

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