Chapter 12 — The Hand That Carves Sin

The bones had shattered into countless fragments; blood vessels, nerves, and tendons were a tangled, indistinguishable mess. This was no longer a matter of simply "reconnecting"—it was a reconstruction. I had to isolate every blood vessel thinner than a human hair and every nerve bundle more delicate than a spider’s silk from the pulverized flesh, then mend them one by one. The sheer scale and difficulty of the task exceeded anything I had ever imagined. My mentor stood by as my primary assistant, while the anesthetist, the instrument nurse, and the circulating nurse were the absolute best in our department. They were all watching me. I donned the specialized haptic gloves and stepped into the position of lead surgeon. The robotic arm before me stood like a silent steel bodyguard, awaiting my command.

"Begin."

I spoke softly. My gaze was locked firmly onto the surgical field. In that moment, the entire world went silent. In my mind, there was no more Tran Da, no more domestic violence, no more hatred. There were only the tissues that needed to be saved, combined with a profound reverence for life and the unwavering resolve of a dedicated surgeon. I issued my first order: Debridement. The cutting forceps at the tip of the robotic arm entered the wound with clinical precision, beginning to remove the necrotic, lifeless tissue. My movements were agonizingly slow, calculated, and cautious. Through the faint electrical impulses transmitted from my gloves, I could "feel" the texture of the tissue. I could discern which parts were healthy, which were necrotic, and where a vital blood vessel might be hidden beneath the surface. My brain operated at high speed, constructing a three-dimensional model of the entire injury. Time trickled by, minute by agonizing minute. The debridement alone took a full three hours. When I finally cleared away the last sliver of necrotic tissue, Tran Da’s hand was reduced to a bloody skeletal frame with only a few sparse, clinging shreds of flesh remaining.

"Blood pressure dropping, heart rate spiking!" the anesthetist suddenly shouted.

The monitor emitted a shrill, piercing alarm.

"Excessive blood loss; prepare for transfusion!" I ordered instantly.

A blood bag was hung, and the vibrant crimson fluid began to flow slowly into Tran Da’s body. The numbers on the monitor gradually stabilized. Everyone let out a collective sigh of relief. But I knew the true challenge had only just begun. Next was the bone reconstruction. I had to act like someone piecing together the most complex puzzle in the world, reassembling dozens of shattered wrist and metacarpal bones into their original form, then securing them with microscopic steel splints and screws. This required immense spatial imagination and extreme patience. One piece, then two... My eyes remained glued to the microscope eyepiece. Sweat rolled down my temples, soaking my hairline. The circulating nurse reached forward to wipe my brow.

"Do not touch me," I barked, my voice low and stern.

In a surgery of this intensity, any minor distraction could lead to catastrophic consequences. I was completely submerged in my own world. I lost track of time, but eventually, the skeletal frame was fully rebuilt. It resembled a fragile model fashioned from matchsticks. Next came the vascular repair. This was the most critical stage, the one that would dictate the success or failure of the entire operation. Only when blood circulation was restored could this hand truly come back to life. I maneuvered the robotic arm, using thread thinner than a human hair to suture the first artery. Pierce, pass through, tie the knot. Each movement had to be accurate to the micrometer. My brain functioned like a high-precision computer, constantly calculating angles, tension, and depth. The sensation transmitted through the gloves flickered between clarity and numbness. Several times, I felt I was on the verge of losing control. But every time that happened, the X-ray of my own mangled hand would flash into my mind—that grotesque skeleton held together by steel splints and screws. Then, a strange power would surge from the depths of my soul. Tran Da, you destroyed my hand. Today, I will use the very hands you ruined to save one for you. I want you to use this hand I have saved to remember, for the rest of your life, what you did to me. I want that hand to become a living mark from which you can never, ever escape.

The vascular repair was the most time-consuming and exhausting part of the entire ordeal. There were dozens of arteries and veins, large and small. Each one was tied to the survival of a patch of skin, a block of muscle, or a segment of bone. Beneath the shadowless lamps, time lost all meaning. I had no idea how long had passed—five hours? Eight? The surgical staff had cycled through, yet my mentor and I remained as rigid as iron spikes driven into the operating table. My lower back throbbed as if it were about to snap, and my neck was so stiff I could no longer turn it. But I dared not stop. I knew that once I halted, once this reserve of strength faded, I would never be able to rise again. Finally, the last vein was sutured. I gave the command: "Release the clamps." Everyone’s heart seemed to jump into their throats. This was the moment of reckoning. If the blood could flow freely, this deathly pale hand would slowly flush with color again. If not, more than ten hours of desperate effort would be entirely in vain. My mentor performed the maneuver himself, slowly releasing the arterial clamp. One second, two seconds, three seconds... Everyone stared, breathless, at Tran Da’s hand.