Their pale faces loosened a little. Their tight eyes shined with hope.
It felt like the room itself had changed, like someone had opened a window in a place with no air.
One of the nurses even let the corner of her mouth lift into a small smile as Wu Feng stepped toward the patient.
And Zhao Jun's fear showed in his stiff shoulders as his hands were shaking.
But under all that fear sitting in his chest, another feeling was there too. Anger.
It was boiling like lava, the same way a volcano keeps its fire locked inside, bubbling and burning, waiting for the moment it bursts open. And when it does, it ruins everything near it.
His pride would not let it go. "How dare he humiliate me in front of everyone? I am Zhao Jun. I am the next in line to be Assistant Director. I will not forget this, not ever."
He burned Wu Feng's face into his heart, the same way a crow never forgets the face of the one who wronged it.
Even if he couldn't win here, he swore he would win outside.
Meanwhile Wu Feng didn't rush. His steps were steady, not so fast, not so slow like a right amount of salt in a food.
He didn't panic either. Every move he made was calm, his hands and feet was under his full control, like even in this chaos he was the only one who knew where to go and what to do.
The air changed the moment he touched the table. Fear turned into hope.
Zhao Jun's confidence, his ego, his pride — all of it broke in that moment.
It didn't just crack, it shattered, like glass smashed into pieces when a rock is thrown at it. And the rock here was Wu Feng — his sudden appearance, his calm voice, and the skill in his hands.
Wu Feng's eyes stayed sharp. The man who once wasted his days lying on rooftops was gone. Now he was only focused on saving life.
"Anesthesiologist, check the vitals again. Blood pressure is dropping — get norepinephrine ready." His voice was calm and clear.
The anesthesiologist nodded fast.
"Scrub nurse, clamp the aorta. DeBakey forceps. Get the pericardium retractors ready," Wu Feng said.
The team moved as one, following without pause. Nurses whispered to each other, watching his skill in silence.
His hands moved smooth inside the chest. Cutting. Stitching. Repairing. Each move gentle but exact, like a snake striking straight at its prey, never wasting a single motion.
He slid the scalpel, stitched the tissue, fixed the valve — things other surgeons wouldn't dare to try.
Wu Feng's eyes flicked at him once. "Step back. Observe. Do not touch."
Zhao Jun stood beside him, but he looked small, almost like a child standing next to a grown man. His mouth opened but no words came out, like his voice had been swallowed.
It was the same as when the sun rises — the moon is still there in the sky, but its light fades away, hidden, useless. That was how Zhao Jun looked now beside Wu Feng.
Now every eye in the room — nurses, doctors, interns — followed Wu Feng alone.
And above, in the observation gallery, the whispers spread. That glass room was meant for interns and doctors to watch and learn, but today it wasn't just them.
The media had been called too. The Director himself had invited them, hoping they would see Zhao Jun, his son, and write about the birth of a new legend. The "Godly Hand" he wanted to sell to the world.
But what the media saw now was not Zhao Jun. It was Wu Feng.
"This is insane…"
"Look at his hands… so calm, so exact…"
"He's the Godly Hand. The legends are true…"
"Did you see that stitch? One movement and it's perfect!"
"He controls the vitals just with his timing… he knows exactly what to do…"
"If anyone else tried this, the patient would already be gone."
The media were taking neat notes. "His hands… steady… his eyes… so cold… Wu Feng… yes, that's him… we need to capture every second of this."
Another intern's voice from the right corner. "Even the Director's son… he looks like a child now. Like he doesn't even belong here."
At the side of the gallery, the Director leaned against the wall. His hands were clasped tight together, the fingers were pressing hard on the glassp.
He knew very well who those note-takers were. They were not just interns or students. They were reporters, journalists, even a few photographers mixed in.
All of them had been called here to watch Zhao Jun. To see the Director's son rise as the new Godly Hand.
But now their pens and cameras were pointed at Wu Feng.
The Director ground his teeth, his jaw tight as he leaned close to his secretary. His voice came out low, almost a growl, but steady enough to carry his meaning.
"Make sure the papers write Zhao Jun's name. Wu Feng will only be mentioned as a helper, a consultant, nothing more."
"No one will care about him. If we have to, pay them, bribe them, I don't care how. What matters is my son's name being everywhere, in every headline."
The secretary didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. A sly smile pulled at the corner of her lips as she nodded, already knowing what had to be done.
"Don't worry sir, I'll prepare the right amount. I'll call everyone to your room. The story will be exactly as you want it."
Meanwhile in the operating room Wu Feng finished the last stitches. The heart, which had been shaky, now beat steadily.
Blood pressure stabilised, oxygen levels were good, and the patient's skin looked healthy again. Every valve, every vessel — fixed perfectly.
The Director, still lost in his own plans, pulled his lips into a small tight smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.
Wu Feng, in the middle of the operation, lifted his head for just a second. His black eyes met the Director's sharp, calculating stare through the glass.
But he didn't say anything. Not a word. He only looked once, then went back to his work.
When the surgery was over, Wu Feng didn't wait for thanks or questions. He pulled off his gloves, slid his hands into his pockets, and from his coat he picked out a toothpick.
He put it between his teeth like nothing big had just happened, then walked straight out of the operating room.
He didn't stay back to listen. He didn't care who was praising him, who was whispering about him, or who was already thinking about writing his name in the papers. None of it mattered to him.
He didn't give a damn about all that. What he cared about was the patient — that's it. That's all that mattered.
Even most people outside the hospital didn't know who he was. Behind the scenes, doctors, nurses, interns — they all knew he was the Godly Hand.
But the Director used all the glory of Wu Feng for his own son, Zhao Jun.
After the surgery was over and Wu Feng had already walked out, the Director didn't go to the ward or check on his son.
He went straight back to his office. His shoes pressed hard against the tiles, his face still stiff but trying to hold a smile.
Not long after, his secretary started making calls, telling the reporters and journalists to come. One by one, the media people were brought into the Director's office, their notebooks and cameras ready.
The Director sat behind his big desk, waiting with a sharp grin on his face.
"Sit," he told them, his voice carries the authority. "Listen carefully."
The Director leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest.
"Today's surgery… we'll make it look like my son did everything. Wu Feng? Don't even mention him. Understand?"
He reached down and pulled a heavy suitcase from beside the desk. The metal locks clicked open with a sharp sound.
Inside, bundles of cash were stacked tight, one over another, filling the whole case. The smell of paper money spread out into the room.
He picked a bundle out, thick enough to choke a fist, and slapped it down on the table in front of the first journalist.
Then another bundle for the next. Then another. Each time the sound of money hitting the wood made the room quieter.
"This," he said, voice low but firm, "is for you. Make sure your papers write my son's name. Zhao Jun performed the miracle today. Not Wu Feng. You know how it works — twist the story, change the details, make it sound right. Make it convincing."
The reporters stared at the money, their throats dry. Some swallowed hard, some shifted in their seats, but not one of them pushed the cash away.
They all knew the truth — everyone has a price. Enough money can buy anything. It can buy a name. It can buy a story. It can even buy a man's values.
"And the interns, the doctors, nurses who saw it," he continued, eyes narrowing, "you know the consequences. If you talk, if you let it slip… you'll regret it. Your career? Gone. Your license? Gone. I have contacts everywhere. Nobody dares go against me."