Medical Center. Classroom.
After Adam stunned everyone with his show-stopping performance, his very first public lecture was deemed an outright success.
Afterward, aside from Christina—who kept herself notably active—the atmosphere quickly reverted to that initial back-and-forth between Adam and Dr. Gray. Adam wasn't looking to stir up more trouble. Showing off a bit when the moment calls for it is one thing, but when someone who's already overwhelmed insists on flaunting their brilliance, that's a whole other matter. Too much can be as bad as too little. Besides, he hadn't forgotten his original goal: to learn.
So, he stuck around with Alice Gray to watch the entire surgery recording from start to finish. The procedure lasted several hours—and with Adam continuously branching off into hypothetical variants—the session didn't wrap up until 2 AM, lasting a full eight hours. Except for the one person called away by the pager, not a single attendee left early—not even for a restroom break. Their envy of the fact that Adam was "just an intern" was set aside, and everyone treated the lecture as a riveting exchange between two titans of medicine. It was chock-full of substance with not a single dull moment. As the novels back in the East would say: this is the ultimate manual of unmatched skills!
After years of grueling residency—pleasing superiors on one end and dealing with idiotic interns on the other—the only way to truly learn was to absorb every bit of experience. Routine cases and standard procedures, although repetitive, only earned you so many "experience points." If you were lucky enough to encounter a classic, challenging case—one that could seriously boost your résumé—you'd have to scramble for a chance to learn from the attending's masterful performance. That's why surgical residencies can last five, six, seven, or even eight years.
What Adam and Alice Gray accomplished in this public lecture was extraordinary: they took one classic surgery and, like a branching network, covered virtually every possible variant and twist. These were the hard-won, practical lessons of legendary medical experts. Learn them well—and after you've performed a few cases yourself—then you'll rarely find any real difficulty when a similar case comes along. If that isn't the ultimate secret manual, what is?
Did you notice how Dr. Burke, Dr. Sheppard, and even Chief of Surgery Richard sat in the back, completely absorbed, not taking their eyes off the proceedings?
After the session ended, a photographer excitedly approached Adam.
"Dr. Duncan, may I speak with you for a minute…" he began, confessing his dream of breaking into show business and asking Adam for permission to film a movie.
"Sorry," Adam replied with a shake of his head. "Setting aside any issues regarding the doctors' rights to their likenesses, I'm a physician. I hold these lectures to give my colleagues a chance to learn together. Making a movie isn't on my radar right now."
"Dr. Duncan, this could really boost your fame…" the photographer pressed.
"I don't care about fame," Adam said firmly. "I'm a professional, and I care about how the medical community sees me. Turning a serious, professional exchange like this into a movie might make me more popular with the public, but it would undermine my credibility among professionals. So let's not even go there."
Half of what he said was true—he really didn't want a movie made at this point. After all, he was still just an intern who hadn't even passed the residency exam, let alone earned his license as an attending. For the foreseeable future, his fate would depend on the respect he earned from the medical community. Sure, boosting one's profile can influence opinions, but that influence is a double-edged sword. The benefits are obvious, yet the risk is that a movie—with its inherent embellishments and touches of inauthenticity—could strip away the aura of a true medical genius. Even if a film were based on real events, it would always contain an element of fiction. Adam's performance was already larger-than-life; making a movie out of it would render it fake. It just wouldn't be worth it.
Once he'd firmly established his reputation in the field—earning undeniable acclaim as a genius doctor, becoming an attending, opening his own practice, and running his own show—then making a movie would truly maximize his benefits. And even then, he wouldn't let a photographer use him as a practice subject for directing. Professional work calls for professionals—and he wasn't short on money.
The photographer was full of pipe dreams. He even tried to lure Adam with promises of big money, but remembering Adam's flash and flair when he first approached them, his words were ultimately left unsaid.
Brimming with energy, Adam followed the photographer's directions to a post-production studio. "The latest web novel—first published exclusively on 69Book!" he might as well have announced. With money on his side, even though it was already well past 2 AM, Adam managed to edit two versions of a thrilling, roughly ten-minute video—complete with a catchy background track. He worked until after 9 AM before finally finishing. Satisfied, he mailed one copy of the edited version and one uncut copy to Juno, then stored the original and numerous duplicates safely back at his apartment. Finally, he took the edited copy and drove off to New Jersey for his weekly "Creative Inspiration" session.
At 2 PM, at Peggy's apartment, Adam and Peggy were enjoying a delicious meal prepared by their assistant Lisa, recharging their batteries.
"Let me show you something," Adam said as he played the edited video.
"Huh…" Peggy remarked after watching, her refined features reflecting a trace of surprise as she scrutinized him.
"Did you really memorize tens of thousands of surgical cases?" she asked.
"Of course," he replied.
Adam was clearly pleased with the effect. "I'm a genius now—you'll see," he added with a confident grin.
"Do you know how to play chess?" Peggy teased with a playful smile.
"Uh…" Adam hesitated for a moment, then managed a slight smile. "I do."
"Great, let's play a game."
Peggy got up to fetch the chess set, but then furrowed her brows and, raising her delicate chin, said, "You go get it."
Adam chuckled and went to retrieve the set.
"Now, recite those tens of thousands of surgical cases to me," she challenged.
Peggy set up the board and naturally took the black pieces. (In chess, white moves first—but true experts often prefer black.)
"Let's decide who goes first by guessing," she suggested.
Adam's expression darkened. Who did she think she was talking down to? Even if we lose, we never lose our fighting spirit!
"Fine," he agreed.
Smiling, Peggy picked up one black and one white piece, held them behind her back, shuffled them around, and then brought her hands forward for Adam to guess. Adam smirked and pointed to the left. Peggy opened her fist to reveal a black piece.
"You go first," she said.
Adam boomed, "Are you sure you want to hear about those tens of thousands of surgical cases?"
"Why not?" Peggy replied as she took the white pieces. She moved the pawn in front of her queen two spaces forward and said, "If you can truly recall those surgical cases while playing chess, it won't slow us down one bit, right?"
"You really do have faith in me," Adam said, glancing at Peggy. He'd once studied chess—having watched Peggy and Sheldon play—in an effort to win her friendship.
Peggy's opening was clearly the Queen's Gambit—a counterattacking defensive setup, sometimes even called the Sicilian Defense or the Queen's Opening. Sacrifice is sometimes necessary to gain, reminiscent of those desperate, last-ditch moves in Go where you turn the tables when all seems lost. It's a tactic reserved for dealing with true experts.