Chapter 8: Anesthesia
1253 Words
“Task issued: Successfully use the speculum on a patient 5 times…”
“Task completion reward: 40 doses of anesthetic…”
Just as Qi Bo prepared for the next patient, another mechanical chime rang in his ears.
Another reward? This job was beginning to feel too good to be true. Through it, he had the chance to provide actual help to those in pain—students who couldn’t afford basic anesthesia—while earning tools that could alleviate their suffering. As someone who grew up in hardship, with a deep-rooted desire to ease others’ pain, this system almost felt like divine intervention.
Still, standing once again before the surgical table, Qi Bo could feel the pressure mounting. This was only his second day on the job. His face flushed slightly as he adjusted his gloves, this time remembering the small but crucial details he had missed earlier. Though his hand trembled slightly, the application of the speculum went smoother than before.
It wasn’t easy. The act required precision, composure, and most of all, confidence—none of which came naturally yet. Qi Bo was painfully aware of his lack of formal training in this particular procedure. Though the system guided him somewhat, the muscle memory, the hand placement, the subtle touch needed—these things took time and guidance.
After completing the procedure, he exhaled deeply, only to realize how much physical and mental effort each operation demanded. His back ached from tension, and sweat dampened his undershirt. It wasn’t just nervousness—it was exhaustion, the kind that settled in the bones.
“If I keep feeling this drained after every few procedures,” he thought, “I might need psychological training more than medical training.”
But he pressed on.
The gynecological clinic where Qi Bo worked was called Liangjia Women’s Hospital, the largest private women’s health center in Yunfeng City. While not every patient who walked through the doors came from virtuous circumstances, the hospital’s branding gave a sense of reassurance. Its location—within walking distance of several major universities—meant the majority of patients were young women, many of them students.
By noon, Qi Bo had performed the speculum procedure on five patients, triggering the system reward: 40 doses of anesthetic. Adding to the 10 from his initial reward, and subtracting the six he had already used, he now had 44 doses remaining.
He felt a strange sense of accomplishment.
Unlike other anesthesiologists who could only offer their skills within the boundaries of hospital policy, Qi Bo had the power to override affordability. When a patient cried out in pain during a procedure, he could call forth a transparent syringe from his mind and inject instant relief—quietly, without billing, without approval.
Most patients were hesitant at first. Understandably so. He was a new face, and what he offered sounded too good to be true. But once they felt the numbing effect spread through their body—quick, precise, almost miraculous—they were quick to whisper their gratitude. Some with tears in their eyes.
In those moments, Qi Bo felt something he had never expected to find in medicine so soon: a sense of purpose.
“A doctor’s duty is to heal. To relieve pain. This… this is what I was meant to do.”
Yet, he couldn’t deny the inner conflict.
Despite his efforts to remain professional, he occasionally found himself overwhelmed—not by desire, but by awkwardness and guilt. He was young, still training, and there were moments during procedures when his emotions clashed with his ethical standards. The proximity, the vulnerability of the patients, the pressure to perform perfectly—it all weighed on him.
“Am I feeling this way because I’m unprofessional?” he wondered.
“Or is this just part of the learning curve?”
He tried to convince himself it was the latter. Still, he made a mental note: if this conflicted feeling continued, he’d consider therapy. Being entrusted with others’ health required more than skill. It required mental clarity.
No sooner had he taken a breath than the system chimed again.
“Task issued: Successfully and properly apply the speculum to 50 patients. Reward: Anesthesia Skill.”
Qi Bo’s heart skipped a beat.
Anesthesia Skill?
Unlike the previous single-use anesthetic doses, this was a skill—likely permanent, and reusable. A superpower. He imagined being able to instantly numb any part of the human body with a thought, without relying on tools or medication. The implications were staggering.
Fifty patients. It wouldn’t take more than a few days if he stayed focused. As long as he volunteered actively, and with Nurse Sun Xiaomei’s supervision, he could likely take the lead on most of the procedures.
The thought energized him.
But his excitement was short-lived.
When he attempted the procedure on the last patient of the morning, the system didn’t register the attempt as successful. Confused, Qi Bo reviewed the task description again. Apparently, the system judged his technique as unqualified.
“Was it my hand placement? The angle? The pressure?”
He frowned.
Though he had managed so far, he had mostly taught himself—guided by some clinical texts and vague visualizations. He hated to admit it, but he needed professional instruction. There was no way around it.
He’d have to ask Nurse Sun.
Qi Bo groaned inwardly. She was diligent, sharp-eyed, and never missed a detail. The idea of admitting his shortcomings in front of her made his ears burn with embarrassment.
“Still… if I want that skill, I have to swallow my pride.”
Later, when the clinic quieted down for lunch, Qi Bo seized the opportunity to experiment. Alone in the break room, he summoned one of the system syringes and injected his left forearm.
The effect was immediate.
His entire left arm went limp, unresponsive. He pricked it with a safety pin. No sensation. No pain. No feeling of pressure. Just dead weight.
It worked exactly as expected.
Five minutes later, sensation returned gradually—dull throbs where he had pinched and poked. It was precise. It was clean. It was unlike anything in modern medicine.
The ability to target specific body parts with pinpoint accuracy—and do it non-invasively, instantly—was something most anesthesiologists could only dream of.
Qi Bo grinned.
“So… how did I get this power?”
In fantasy novels, the protagonist always gained powers after being struck by lightning, hit by a truck, or reincarnated. None of those things had happened to him—at least, not that he remembered.
Then it struck him.
Last night, while showering, he had suddenly felt a sharp jolt, like an electric current. His limbs had gone numb, and he collapsed on the floor. When he awoke, he was sitting upright, back against the wall. No burns. No bruises. Just… disorientation.
He had assumed it was fatigue. But now, he wasn’t so sure.
Could that strange event have triggered this system?
Could it really be that he’d been chosen—gifted—with a Medical Ethics System, one that rewarded compassion with power?
The more he thought about it, the more real it became. After all, every time he focused, he saw the syringe icon in his mind’s eye, along with the current dose count.
This wasn’t a dream. It was real.
And soon, he wouldn’t just have doses. He’d have a skill.
A skill that could change lives.
A skill that could change his life.
- Writer
