The smell of antiseptic was thick enough to sting.
It clung to the walls, the floor, the air itself—sterile, cold, unforgiving. The kind of smell that reminded everyone inside exactly where they were.
A hospital.
The last place anyone wants to visit, yet the only place where humans come to fight for life.
Footsteps thundered down the corridor.
"Move!"
The shout cut through the noise of machines and distant alarms. Nurses instinctively stepped aside as a figure in pale blue sprinted past them.
WenQingfeng.
His surgical gown fluttered behind him like a torn banner, the hem already darkened by blood that wasn't his. A disposable cap pinned his black hair tightly, yet damp strands had escaped, clinging to his temples and the curve of his neck.
The surgical mask concealed half his face—but not his eyes.They were sharp, focused, and burning.
Not with panic but urgency.
"The ICU doors—clear them now!"
The automatic doors of Beijing Central Hospital slid open with a sharp hiss, revealing a gurney being pushed at full speed.
"Severe blunt thoracic trauma!"
"Massive blood loss!"
"Blood pressure crashing!"
"Heart rhythm unstable—ventricular tachycardia!"
"Oxygen saturation at seventy!"
The man on the bed was barely conscious. His skin had taken on that unnatural grayish pallor—the color doctors learned to recognize as the edge of no return. Blood soaked through the temporary dressings across his chest, dark and relentless. One side of his ribcage rose unevenly.
"Car crash," a nurse reported breathlessly.
"High-speed impact into a bridge barrier. Metal guardrail penetrated the windshield. Chest struck a pointed edge."
Wen Qingfeng's expression hardened.
"How long since impact?"
"Forty minutes."
"CT?"
"Left-sided hemothorax. Multiple rib fractures. Possible descending aortic laceration. Internal bleeding uncontrolled."
That explained the pressure drop. If the aorta was torn—even partially—he wouldn't last long.
"Prep for emergency thoracotomy," Qingfeng ordered. "Notify cardiothoracic. Massive transfusion protocol. Now."
No hesitation. No wasted syllables.
The doors slammed shut behind them. Inside the operating theater, the world became smaller, brighter—and impossibly colder.
The overhead lights burned white, draining color from everything. Steel instruments lay arranged with brutal precision.
Reflections fractured across their surfaces, breaking Qingfeng's image into something sharp and merciless.
"Anesthesia ready."
"BP falling!"
"Doctor, we're losing him!"
Wen Qingfeng stepped forward. For a brief second, he studied the patient's face.
Early twenties. Strong bone structure. Even unconscious, there was something unyielding about him. Someone who did not look like he surrendered easily.
Somewhere outside these walls, he likely had unfinished conversations. Unfinished wars.
One mistake, one second too slow or one artery missed and everything would vanish.
Not in a dramatic way or with final words... just gone.
Doctors could escape lawsuits. They could escape investigations and headlines. But they could never escape the moment their own hands became the reason someone stopped breathing.
That was why, when others hesitated—when nurses exchanged uneasy glances at the hardened scars across his knuckles, the old injuries lining his skin, the unmistakable aura of violence around him—Qingfeng stepped forward first.
He did not ask who he was or what he had done.
Since, when did a doctor earn the right to judge?
Police existed to investigate crimes, courts existed to decide guilt.
But a doctor's duty was simpler—and far heavier. To treat the injured, to keep the dying alive. This was what he believed in.
So he stepped forward and decided to save him.
"Scalpel." His voice was steady. His hands were unshaking.
The incision was swift and decisive—left lateral thoracotomy. The moment the chest cavity was opened, blood poured out.
"Massive hemothorax!"
"Suction!"
Dark red flooded the surgical field, thick and suffocating. The metallic scent overwhelmed the antiseptic.
"Rib spreader."
The fractured ribs were forced apart. The left lung was contused. Partially collapsed. And there—
"There!" Qingfeng's voice sharpened.
A tear along the descending thoracic aorta. Not fully ruptured—but bleeding heavily. If it widened even a centimeter, he would bleed out in seconds.
"Clamp."
The vessel was partially controlled. The heart struggled against blood loss, rhythm unstable and furious.
Don't you dare give up...
The thought wasn't a plea but more like a command.
To the heart.
To the blood.
To fate.
"Pressure dropping!"
The monitor shrieked, screen showing flatline.
The sound was thin, piercing and absolute. For one suspended second, no one moved.
Then—
"Internal cardiac massage. Prepare defibrillator—200 joules!" Gloved hands pressed directly against the exposed heart.
"Clear!"
The body jolted but soon fell flat, lifeless. But Qingfeng wasn't ready to let him go. He crazily yelled,
"Again."
Another shock with same results. The silence afterward felt endless. Like a life sinking beneath black water and Qingfeng could watch him drowning helplessly.
No! I don't allow you to die!
"300 joules." His voice cracked for the first time, faintly.
"Clear!"
This time, miraculously the body arched, like he could hear all of Qingfeng's inner command, and decided to fight along. Soon, the monitor flickered.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
A rhythm returned. Yes, it was weak but still there. The sign of life and hope.
Alive.
The room exhaled as one organism. Someone laughed shakily. Someone whispered a prayer they did not believe in.
Wen Qingfeng continued suturing the torn vessel with relentless precision. Layer by layer, he reinforced the weakened wall, watching as the bleeding slowed and soon stabilized.
The heart regained its pulse. The lung re-expanded. Life reassembled itself beneath his hands.
When it was finally over, he stepped back. His legs remembered gravity. He leaned briefly against cold steel as his lungs dragged in air he hadn't realized he'd been denying himself.
His vision blurred slightly. Yet not from fear but of relief. From the unbearable weight of almost failing.
He removed his gloves slowly, staring at the man now breathing under mechanical support—alive, battered, but salvageable.
The patient would carry a long scar along his side but at least he would live.
"You did well," Qingfeng murmured.
He wasn't sure whether he meant the patient or himself but he was satisfied.
Outside the operating room, quiet applause broke out. "That was insane, Dr. Wen."
"You actually stopped an aortic bleed mid-collapse! That's impressive for real!"
"Three years in service and still taking impossible cases."
"You never hesitate, do you?"
A junior intern gathered the courage to ask, trailing him behind, "Senior, you're already this much talented, then why do you still look like you're about to collapse every time? Are you ignoring your health?"
Wen Qingfeng paused, shaking his head before offering a faint smile. "Because I don't see this as talent, but rather as debt."
Confusion flickered across his face, "Every life I save," he said softly, "is something I owe back to the world. Until that debt is paid… I don't allow myself peace."
The intern frowned. "This is pure torture. Just because people call doctors gods, you actually don't have to act like one."
He shook his head, "I don't believe in that statement. That's a lie people tell themselves so they don't have to face how fragile life is. They just want to believe someone can simply give life back at will."
His gaze returned to the ICU doors, "But we know better. There's no divine power here. No miracles."
Only hands trained not to shake, only minds trained to function when everything screams to stop.
"We're not gods," he said quietly. "We're just humans who refuse to let go."
Then he smiled again—gentle, sincere, almost warm, "And that's the closest thing we'll ever have to something supernatural."
They talked for a while before Qingfeng finally left. His shift had ended almost three hours ago, but he remained for the emergency. With the patient stabilized and transferred to observation, he allowed himself to withdraw.
None of them noticed the irony except him. The man who fought daily to pull others back from death had been raised in a world where killing was ordinary—sometimes out of survival, sometimes out of amusement.
The 29-year-old, Wen Qingfeng was not just a top-notch surgeon but also the youngest heir of one of the top ten mafia clans in the country—the WenClan, globally known in the underworld as White Lotus Organization.
His father, Wen Yunzhao, was praised in daylight and feared in darkness. To the public, a philanthropist. A self-made tycoon who owned hospitals, real estate, pharmaceutical companies, and private universities. A man who donated millions each year to medical research and disaster relief.
But beneath polished suits and charity galas, Wen Yunzhao was something else entirely.
He was the undisputed leader of White Lotus Organisation. A man who controlled smuggling routes, arms trades, information networks, and black-market medicine.
A man whose single word could erase families, rewrite identities, or start wars that never made the news.
And Wen Qingfeng was his youngest son.
Born into a throne built from blood. Yet from the moment he learned to speak, he chose to save lives.
While his brothers trained in negotiation, assassination, and loyalty codes, he studied anatomy.
While others learned how to kill people—he learned how to keep them breathing.
And at the young age of eighteen, he finally ran from the darkness that was ready to consume him alive.
He left his background, his family, and the underworld. And although he knew his family—given their power and worldwide control—must have known about his whereabouts, they never approached him. It was almost as if they had chosen to set him free. And that was the only thing he was grateful to them for.
He chose medicine over weapons, hospitals over mansions and scalpels over bullets. He erased his identity completely and rebuilt himself as a,
Surgeon.
No one at Beijing Central Hospital knew who he truly was. No one knew the hands stitching torn arteries had once been destined to inherit an empire. No one knew the man preaching about life was born from a dynasty of death.
And Wen Qingfeng believed foolishly that as long as he kept saving lives, he could outrun the criminal blood in his veins.
He was wrong.
Because the man lying on his operating table that night was not just a crash victim. He was the future ruler of the world Qingfeng had abandoned.
And fate had just forced White Lotus and the Devil to touch for the first time.
Two worlds that were never meant to intersect had collided.
And no one could tell whether this meeting was the beginning of redemption—or the birth of something far more monstrous.
.
.
.
To be continued...