Chapter 377 - 250: Singin’ in the Rain

Chapter 377: Chapter 250: Singin’ in the Rain

"I’m sorry." Jiang He shook his head. "I can’t handle this."

"What? But just a moment ago, you suppressed biliary colic with your bare hands..."

’That was the reflex zone for gallbladder spasms.’

The liver, gallbladder, and pancreas—that was Jiang He’s absolute domain.

That was why he could act with such confidence.

But a bullet...

Jiang He shook his head again, admitting frankly, "There’s nothing I can do."

"How can that be?"

"I’m from China. We don’t have guns there."

In his two lifetimes, Jiang He had performed countless high-difficulty radical pancreatectomies.

He could blindly suture a major blood vessel one-handed and perform an emergency laparostomy with a plastic bag.

But a gunshot wound? ’That was a complete blind spot...’

Without any clinical experience, he couldn’t possibly act blindly in such a hostile environment.

If he didn’t know how, he didn’t know how. Jiang He never thought there was any shame in admitting it.

"Alright, don’t give Dr. Jiang a hard time. Leave the patient to me. I have a set of field hemostats in the trunk of my car."

Professor Weber rolled up his sleeves and strode over.

He took over from the American doctor, inserting his fingers deep into the wound to apply direct pressure.

After a few nurses wheeled the patient to a makeshift sterile partition, Professor Weber walked over to Jiang He, rubbing his hands with disinfectant gel.

"Guns are banned in Europe too, but I spent a few years in a field hospital when I was younger."

Professor Weber took out a clean towel and handed it to Jiang He. "Dr. Jiang, do you have a moment to talk?"

Jiang He nodded. "I do."

The number of doctors in the lobby had already reached a saturation point. Most of the minor injuries had been treated, and the seriously wounded were lined up, waiting to be transferred.

There really wasn’t much more Jiang He could do by staying there.

The two of them walked to the side of the lobby and found a place to sit.

"This hellish weather..."

Professor Weber glanced out the window, shook his head, and then turned his gaze to Jiang He. "Miss Gu called me half a month ago. She said an absolutely incredible genius had emerged in China and asked me to airlift a batch of serum samples for extremely early-stage pancreatic cancer from Charite Medical School to Yangcheng. At the time, I wondered what kind of young man could compel her to call in such a huge favor."

At the mention of Gu Qingyan, Jiang He’s expression softened.

Jiang He had seen what happened today and had taken it to heart.

’Teacher Gu had definitely been pulling some strings behind the scenes.’

Professor Weber didn’t hold back his praise.

"You performed brilliantly in the auditorium today. To be honest, Johns Hopkins has grown far too arrogant in recent years. Miller had it coming, falling at your hands. He has no one to blame but himself."

"Dr. Jiang, on behalf of the Charite Medical School, Berlin, I formally extend an invitation to you. If you’re willing to come to Germany for further study, I can set you up with your own independent laboratory. The medical environment in Europe is much more straightforward than in the United States—not nearly as many messy conflicts of interest."

Charite Medical School, Berlin. The top-ranked medical institution in Europe, the place that has produced more Nobel laureates in Physiology or Medicine than anywhere else.

Wen Xuyang, standing nearby, froze when he heard Professor Weber’s words.

’That was Charite!’

’Countless Chinese scholars would kill for a chance to go there, even paying their own way for a visiting scholar position they’d likely never get.’

’And now, a titan of the field was personally making an offer, promising a lab and funding!’

’If the offer had been for him, Wen Xuyang wouldn’t have even had to think about it. He’d be willing to swim across the Atlantic Ocean right then and there!’

However, Jiang He replied with perfect calm:

"Professor Weber, your invitation is very tempting, and I’m grateful for your acknowledgment. But I’m sorry, I can’t accept."

Wen Xuyang: ’...Huh?’

’He refused? Just like that? He refused so casually?!’

’No! God, no! Argh!’

Professor Weber was also taken aback. He clearly hadn’t expected Jiang He to refuse so unequivocally.

"Why?"

Weber asked, puzzled,

"Is it because China has made you a better offer? Or perhaps you have concerns about the living environment in Europe? These are all things we can negotiate."

Jiang He shook his head. "My team is in China. And the national standardized serum bank for pancreatic cancer that I’m planning to build must also be in China."

There was something else Jiang He left unsaid.

’Perhaps in a few years, students from Charite Medical School will be lining up for a chance to study at Yangcheng First Hospital. Who knows?’

Professor Weber was silent for a long moment before finally sighing and shaking his head.

"What a shame. This is not just my loss, but Charite’s as well. Gu was right, you’re an exceptional talent."

Weber set aside his disappointment and asked curiously,

"Since you mentioned your team, let me ask—those fifty extremely early-stage serum samples Gu requested from me... you must have used them for some kind of biomarker screening, correct? I hear the speed of your progress back in China is astonishing. Have you had any concrete results?"

This was the real reason Weber had struck up a conversation with Jiang He.

His instincts as a top expert in the field told him that Jiang He was preparing to make a huge move.

Jiang He smiled. "After the storm passes, I’ll be holding a separate press conference. I’ll announce the ultimate fate and results of those fifty serum samples then. Professor Weber, if you’re interested, I would be honored if you would attend as a special guest."

After hearing this, Professor Weber shrugged and replied humorously in American slang,

"Attend? Dr. Jiang, look at this weather. Right now, I’m completely ’stuck in the mud.’"

The two men shared a smile.

Just then, Jiang He’s phone buzzed.

The signal was terrible, cutting in and out. It was a small miracle he’d received a message at all.

He glanced at it and couldn’t help but laugh.

The anonymous text was entirely in English:

"You Chinese thieves will never achieve true science. Enjoy your short, cheap victory. In the annals of medical history, you’ll be nothing but a joke."

Jiang He didn’t need to guess. He knew at a glance it was from none other than our dear Professor Miller.

’What was this... Hmm, was this his ’deathrattle’ ability triggering? Or was this ’Bites the Dust’?’

’Honestly, if he’d sent a ’Rollo Tomassi’ reference, I might have actually been a little scared.’

’But sending something like this? It’s just pathetic.’

Jiang He thought for a moment, then typed a simple reply:

"Professor Miller, it’s a shame you won’t be able to attend my press conference in a few days, seeing as you’re under investigation. But don’t worry. I know you’ll find out about it through your own channels. I just hope you aren’t so shocked by the results that you have a heart attack. Do try to stay healthy."

...

「A few blocks from the hotel.」

"Son of a bitch!"

Miller paced back and forth in his dimly lit living room like a madman.

The ice storm outside slammed against the apartment’s floor-to-ceiling windows, making the entire room tremble under the force of nature—much like Miller’s crumbling academic career.

His hair was a mess, his tie yanked askew.

The computer screen on the desk was still on, displaying a notification from the internal Johns Hopkins University email system.

His lab had been sealed by campus security, and all of his data drives had been confiscated.

A subpoena from the ORI—the U.S. Office of Research Integrity—would be delivered to him the moment the storm subsided.

’It was over. It was all over.’

The reputation, status, and wealth he had spent half his life accumulating had all turned to ash.

The feeling was like finding the Heart of Africa, thinking you’d finally completed your run, only to get taken out by a flying hacker just before extraction.

He let out a bitter laugh.

"A press conference... You’re still holding a press conference?"

Miller was becoming unhinged.

He gritted his teeth, muttering to himself,

"You want to use the fame you gained from stepping on me to promote that garbage research of yours? In your dreams!"

Miller picked up the phone.

The signal was terrible; he tried calling several times without success.

Finally, he resorted to sending a text.

"Smith, it’s Miller. Listen, that Chinese guy, Jiang He, is holding a solo press conference in two days. I need you to be there. I don’t care what he announces—even if it’s a prescription from God himself—you have to tear him down. Challenge him! Ask the most scathing questions you can think of! I want his press conference to be a disaster! A DIS—AS—TER!"

He sent the same message to several other people.

He was so frantic he almost forgot to change the name in one of them, but luckily, the bad signal kept the message from sending.

Finally, Miller took a huge swig of alcohol, ran downstairs, and, as if he had a death wish, began laughing manically in the freezing rain.

Bro thought he was having his *Singin’ in the Rain* moment.

He felt connected to all of nature, to his own true existence in the universe. A strange sense of the sublime washed over him.

’He refused to believe it. How could some Chinese guy possibly produce any groundbreaking research?’

’He fucking refused to believe it! He refused!’