"You must believe what I'm saying, getting those ordinary people involved early on isn't a good thing—it's true for both parties. You're too hasty, Nick!"
Strange stood in the center of Nick's office, looking at Nick with a serious expression, "The fact is they're good at messing up everything, everything!"
Nick didn't get angry, he just sighed and said, "Steven, I understand that you've always been considered a genius since you were young, you always see flaws in ordinary people and think their efficiency is way too low compared to yours."
"But I hope you don't forget, who we are undertaking this plan for—at the end of the day, the main body of the human race is still those inefficient ordinary people. A minority of elites can lead society but cannot control it, let alone completely isolate themselves from it."
"I never said we should isolate ourselves from society," Strange said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "You always tend to twist my words, I'm saying that in the current Solar System development project, the majority of the jobs have not yet been simplified to the point where ordinary people can do them."
Nick shook his head again and said, "That's because you've been away from Earth for too long, look, Peter's uncle, Ben Parker, is an ordinary person, but he has become the chief engineer at the Manhattan Shuttle Station through learning on the job, and has jumped into the ranks of the elite middle class."
"This is our development goal, to provide more job positions, higher salaries, more valuable work, and raise the entire human society's standard of production and living to a new level."
Strange also sighed and said, "You have never thought about where Peter Parker's genius wisdom comes from."
"Are you supporting eugenics?"
"Of course not, my dad couldn't even get into community college," Strange said, looking into Nick's eyes, "Wisdom comes not only from innate intelligence but also from character. Peter is one of the superheroes with the best character that I have met, and that's inseparable from his uncle's guidance."
"This proves that Ben Parker might not have a super-high IQ, but his wisdom in dealing with people must be strong. To some extent, the original society held him back, and you've just helped him return to his rightful place."
"But that's not the case for everyone. You have to believe there are some people who deserve their current situation, maybe not all, but if such a person lands on a key position, then it's all over."
Nick clearly disagreed, he said, "Humans can be reeducated through labor. If they work correctly, receive the remuneration they deserve, and have the life they want, then there's no bad habit that can't be changed."
"Yes, if you rear a new generation, of course, it is so," Strange said, "But the problem is you want to recruit directly from society, and what you get are all adults, their space for change is limited."
"We can set strict selection criteria," Nick said, "Screen out those who are underqualified or only have bad intentions."
"But people can change."
"They don't usually change for the worse, and even if they do, we can stop them and make them pay the price."
Strange took a deep sigh.
Nick stepped forward, put his hand on his shoulder, and said, "We must give them enough opportunities, even if it means taking some risks, we can't use that as an excuse to never take that step."
"Otherwise, things will get worse. We say they are not suitable, everyone says they are not suitable, then they too think they are not suitable, and eventually, everything will end up in the hands of a small few. But actually, that small few are not any more suitable, and they don't have more right than others, thus disaster occurs."
Strange pursed his lips; he knew he couldn't convince Nick, but he also expressed his disapproval with his own attitude, he said, "You've known all along what kind of price you would have to pay for this, right?"
"I make decisions and take responsibility for them, bearing all consequences. If they want to depict me as a villain in the history books, then they better make me look good."
The atmosphere in the office was solemn; all the interns stood in a row, not daring to breathe too loudly, each one with their head down, imagining enough stares to chip away at the floor tiles if they were tangible.
The doctor sitting by the desk seemed to feel nothing; he stood up, put down his pen, and sweeping his gaze around, said, "I've been quite busy recently and haven't had time to supervise your internship."
"Starting from today, I will perform an average of six surgeries each day, each taking at least three hours. Everyone will take turns in the operating theater, ensuring ten hours of internship each day, excluding time spent outside the surgery room, and the first two days spent familiarizing with the procedures don't count."
The room filled with sounds of sharp intakes of breath, someone couldn't help but turn their head towards the sign hanging outside the department—Neurosurgery.
To have six surgeries a day in neurosurgery is truly taxing because this department's cases are often of the nature that if you don't perform surgeries, you've got nothing, but once you do, they're all complex and life-threatening.
A surgery that can be finished within four hours is considered light. Facing particularly challenging diseases, it's normal for four or five doctors to take turns working on a case for twenty to thirty hours. For one person to do six surgeries a day, there's only one way to describe it—"He is God. He just occasionally thinks he's a doctor."
And indeed, standing in front of them was God, the most famous neurosurgeon in the world, known as the Hand of God, Dr. Stephen Strange.
Then they started to lament their upcoming lives; to be in surgery for ten hours a day, and to learn all the theoretical content, one would need at least eight hours a day. Deducting the time necessary for survival, such as eating, sleeping four to five hours a day would be considered good.
"By the way, don't go to the corridor on the left side of the first floor in the building next door," Strange said, "If you're absent because of that, get out of this office."
Having said that, he strode out the door, heading for surgery. The others didn't dare to breathe out loud until the piercing ring of the telephone broke the silence.
"Oh, hello, yes, but he just left, want me to tell him... alright, no problem."
"Who?"
"The psychiatrist, seems like he's friends with Dr. Strange."
"Could it be that Dr. Schiller?"
"Of course, who else could be friends with Dr. Strange?"
"But I heard they're not on good terms," a female intern said in a low voice, gossiping, "Dr. Strange often dismisses Dr. Schiller in consultations."
"Apparently, it's because Dr. Schiller is often late."
"My God, what if we're late..."
```
"Will die."
In Schiller's office, Charles was enjoying reading a case file; reading psychiatric cases was arguably the most interesting and least boring of all departments.
There is an important requirement in psychiatry, which is to always record what the patient says when writing case files. After all, psychiatry is different from other departments, where you can't see pathological images. Therefore, a patient's actions, demeanor, and speech are direct evidence of whether their condition is improving.
This leads to most case files written by psychiatrists resembling fantasy novels. In the mouths of patient after patient, the hospital can be a temple, a dungeon, or even the gills beneath a mushroom, anything but a hospital, really.
Here, doctors and nurses can be demons and angels, goblins and elves, or ladybugs on a mushroom, but definitely not actual doctors and nurses.
Reading such case files is not only not boring but can be considered a very interesting pastime. However, the cost is that it's easy to remember the story and forget the diagnosis. Come exam time, one's mind can be completely blank.
Top students in Schiller's department rarely read case histories, because Schiller's are written with particular interest, vivid and engaging, inviting the reader in without end, and they take up too much study time.
But Charles evidently didn't have such concerns, so when he wasn't seeing patients, he would hide away in the ward and read to his heart's content.
Dingling, Dingling.
"Hello, this is psychiatric ward 3102... Oh, is that so? Please tell him I miss him too, yes, of course, I remember Grett, we had agreed to defeat the Red Flame Demon Dragon together next time. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten... Mhm, okay, goodbye."
"Hello, this is... Oh, Miss Onion, yes, your nurse is right, you have to eat your magic pills first before you can defeat all the onions around and become the tallest one. The nurse isn't lying to you, I promise, okay, see you tomorrow."
"Hello? Uh... no, matron, listen, yesterday's 5000 milliliters was definitely an accident, and today's 600 pills might possibly be shock therapy, yes, this lady has always had a unique understanding of proper dosing. How about you dispense the medication, and send the remaining 540 pills to my office..."
As expected, the matron's roaring came through the phone, and Schiller threw the phone far away. Charles sighed internally.
Over these past few days, he had more or less figured out what kind of figure Schiller was in the hospital, mainly from when he modified the memories of doctors and nurses who had met Lisa and Aux, and read their minds more deeply, understanding what was going on.
Schiller had a history of drug addiction and alcohol abuse, avoided consultations and lectures whenever possible, always arrived late to important lectures, and bonded with his psychiatric patients, always taking their side, which frustrated many nurses and doctors.
Yet they all agreed that Schiller indeed had a way with these bizarre psychiatric patients, always keeping them very entertained and satisfying both the patients and their families. He was a central support for the New York Elderly Association Hospital's race to the top three psychiatric departments this year.
So, he was that professional. Charles looked down at the case file again, admitting he indeed couldn't come up with better responses to the two phone calls about regressive fantasy disorder and plant delusional disorder he just heard.
Nevertheless, he was still somewhat dissatisfied with Schiller's negative work attitude, because in just this short period, Schiller had declined at least two or three requests to check on situations that sounded very urgent.
The next one he would definitely have to persuade him to go. Charles made a silent resolution. Other departments were frenzied with activity, only their unit was this idle. With this time, even just offering patients some comfort would be worthwhile.
"Hello, psychiatric ward 3102."
Charles immediately pricked up his ears, knowing an opportunity was upon him.
"What? A student is threatening suicide?"
Schiller stood up, and Charles sprang to his feet as well.
"Catherine? Which department is she from? Neurosurgery?... Oh." Schiller drew out a long note, then sat back down, "I know her, the intern Linda from neurosurgery 1001, a student of Dr. Stephen Strange."
"No need for me to go, just tell Dr. Strange that if he stops mentioning she arrived with only 47 papers published and dares to intern with him, she'll be perfectly healthy."
With a snap, Schiller hung up the phone, and he and Charles looked at each other.
"What's up?"
"Aren't we going?"
"If you want to go, go, but I'm not going."
"No, we should go together."
After a 30-second stare-down, Schiller eventually admitted defeat, and said, "Alright, let's go see Linda, but you have to promise me not to talk to that long-faced doctor."
"Why not?"
"We're in a cold war."
"Why are you in a cold war?"
"Because he said me returning to the hospital to work is a significant lowering of the moral standards of New York's clinical medicine."
Charles opened his mouth.
"What were you about to say?" Schiller narrowed his eyes and asked.
"Nothing," Charles shifted his gaze away, "It's not that serious."
"That's what I thought."
"At worst, it's just clinical psychiatry."
```