My Wife Is A Miracle Doctor In The 80s

Chapter 642: Chapter 634: Swollen Face from Slapping Chapter 642: Chapter 634: Swollen Face from Slapping They were now complaining about him bringing a doctor over.

What’s the issue?

Tong Feng couldn’t cure the old master himself, and the treatments he gave only made things worse.

The old master is now barely clinging to life, and if he takes his last breath, the man would be gone for good.

Could Tong Feng really bear that responsibility?

“Mr.

Wang, may I let someone in?”

Dean Zhu didn’t want to stand there glaring at Tong Feng; their standoff was more drawn out than a horse’s face, and their eyes bulged more than a cow’s.

If Tong Feng really had the skill, he should have healed his granddaughter’s arm first.

Zhu was confident that if Tang Yuxin had been there, she might have saved the arms that were in much worse condition than those of Tong Shu—the ones that belonged to Mr.

Huang and were successfully saved.

“Dean Zhu, will you take responsibility if something goes wrong?”

Tong Feng smiled without humor and flung his sleeves, resorting to threats.

“Then, can you cure Old Master Wang?”

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Dean Zhu wasn’t angry but retorted, “Elder Tong, if you can guarantee a cure, I’ll send everyone away immediately.”

“You…”

Tong Feng almost slammed the table, for no one could treat Old Master Wang’s condition at this point—not even him.

Who else could be that certain?

“What about me?” Dean Zhu snorted.

“Seeing that you are at a loss, why not let someone else try?”

Even at this stage, Tong Feng persisted in his obstinacy, refusing to let anyone in.

“Enough,” Mr.

Wang spoke up, cutting Tong Feng off, “Elder Tong,” he addressed him, his expression dark and cold as if the temperature had dropped, clearly in a foul mood.

“It was I who asked Dean Zhu to find someone.

Should anything go wrong, I’ll take responsibility.”

“Mr.

Wang…”

Tong Feng wanted to say more but was interrupted again by Mr.

Wang, “Don’t think I can’t see the situation just because I’m not a doctor.

My father has nothing but a breath left.

You’ve done all you can, and all that could be treated, you have treated.

Even if nobody else checks, in a few days my father will have breathed his last.

What difference is a few days from now?

I have to try.

If we stick with your treatment, he’ll die sooner or later.

With someone else, there might still be a sliver of hope.”

And indeed, Mr.

Wang had hit the nail on the head.

Just as he said.

Old Master Wang’s situation was a matter of days.

Tong Feng had done everything possible.

Continuing the same treatment would hardly make a difference; death was inevitable.

Flexibility is necessary in life; there’s no sense in walking a dead end to its conclusion when there are other avenues to explore.

Mr.

Wang was not foolish, and certainly not inept.

He trusted Dean Zhu, too, for if the head of a hospital couldn’t be trusted to that extent, the dean might as well retire and start farming.

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Even more so, he trusted that person, because it was they who had sent him to seek out Dean Zhu, suggesting that there might be a way to help.

“Let them in,” Mr.

Wang said, walking to the bedside and crouching down, taking his father’s hand.

His father had grown painfully thin over those days, his hands skeletal, his skin ashen and lifeless as that of a corpse.

Were it not for that last breath he was holding onto, he might well have been declared dead already.

The old man had been a soldier all his life; he couldn’t die now, not with so much yet undone and so many people he couldn’t leave behind.

That’s why, even now, he was desperately clinging to that last breath.

Otherwise, at his advanced age and with so much suffering, his face often turning blue-purple from strain, he would never have held on as he had never given up.

So it was clear to Mr.

Wang that his father did not want to die, and as his son, he had to find that glimmer of hope for his father, no matter what.

Dean Zhu glanced at Tong Feng.

It wasn’t meant to be mocking, but to Tong Feng, it seemed like provocation, almost as if it sapped the life out of him leaving him breathless.

Dean Zhu stepped out, then returned with someone following—a very thin figure in a doctor’s coat, yet with a certain distinguished air.

At first, Tong Feng was dismissive.

If even he, with his lofty position in National Medicine, could not cure the man, who else in the world could?

He was waiting to see Dean Zhu fail at the treatment, effectively humbling himself.

But the moment he saw who walked in, all the air seemed to get trapped in his chest.

His face turned a shade of ghastly green, his fingers at his side twitched, and his legs almost gave way beneath his weight.

He quickly grasped a nearby table, trying to use that pose to support his body and avoid losing face.

However, his face alternated between pale and flushed, his breaths coming hastily.

“Are you Dr.

Tang?”

Mr.

Wang stood up, his face stern, radiating authority.

It was clear that this was a man accustomed to discipline and precision.

Rising to his position must have taken more than family background; his own capabilities were beyond doubt.

“Yes, I am,”

Tang Yuxin approached, and truly, her appearance was far from beautiful.

The relentless chase for skeletal beauty had not made any woman thin to her extent; she looked more like a dried up sliver of human, not so much a lightning bolt.

“I’ve heard of you from Gu Ning,” Mr.

Wang said with a fatigued smile, “He suggested that perhaps you might have a solution,” he continued, eyes returning to his father lying on the bed, struggling for a breath, “If you can save my father, you’ll be our family’s savior, and no one will trouble you.”

“I will do my best,” Tang Yuxin replied with a smile that was both mocking and genuine, sparing a glance at the ashen-faced Tong Feng.

What now?

Weren’t you quite the tough one?

Always boasting about being the Saintly National Doctor, the undefeated champion of medicine?

In your eyes, I, Tang Yuxin, was as good as dead, yet here I stand revived.

Are you shocked, choked up, or just furious?

You were tough on Dean Zhu earlier, weren’t you?

Cat got your tongue now?

Do you want to accuse me of being a little fraud without any real skill?

If you dare say so, wouldn’t that be equivalent to slapping your own face?