Chapter 237 I Can Revive the Patient
"Dr. Worthington, what in God's name is going on?" Curtis, his voice tight with anxiety, demanded. "I thought you said the patient was cured!"
Nathaniel stood there, speechless and paralyzed by the unexpected turn of events. The patient's condition had deteriorated so rapidly, so severely, that it defied all logic, all his years of medical training.
If he hadn't personally diagnosed the man with epilepsy, he would have suspected a cruel hoax.
But that was impossible. He had used the most advanced methods and reliable equipment to stabilize the patient's condition. There was no room for error.
'Unless...'
His eyes darted to James, a terrifying thought taking root in his mind.
'Could it be that the arrogant young man was right?' he thought to himself.
But there was no time for second-guessing. The patient was writhing on the ground, his body contorting in ways that seemed humanly impossible, his face turning from pale to a ghastly blue, tinged with black.
"What are you waiting for?" one of the organizers roared, his face contorted with rage. "Help him, you incompetent fools!"
The organizers were panicking. They had poured their hearts and souls into this conference, their reputations riding on its success. They had meticulously planned every detail, ensuring a resounding victory for modern medicine. Edwin's presence had been an unwelcome surprise, but they had neutralized him, relegating him to the sidelines.
And then James had appeared, disrupting their carefully orchestrated spectacle.
The third round had been going so well, their triumph all but assured. And now this inexplicable tragedy occurred.
Nathaniel, jolted by the organizer's outburst, snapped out of his stupor. He rushed to the patient's side, his heart pounding in his chest.
But as he knelt, the patient, his eyes wild with terror, his veins bulging like thick ropes beneath his skin, grabbed his hand in a vice-like grip.
"Save me," he pleaded, his voice a strangled whisper. "My family... they need me..."
And then, with a final, shuddering gasp, he went limp.
A stunned silence descended upon the conference hall.
Nathaniel, his body trembling uncontrollably, checked for a pulse, his fingers fumbling against the man's cold, clammy skin. He pressed his ear to the patient's chest, listening for any sign of life.
Nothing.
"He's... he's dead," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
But the microphone, positioned inches from his lips, amplified his words, broadcasting them throughout the hall, sending a collective shiver down the spines of the audience.
"Dead? But... but that's impossible! He can't die from epilepsy!"
"He was fine just a moment ago! It was only after those modern doctors started treating him that things went wrong!"
"I thought modern medicine was supposed to be so advanced! How could this happen?"
"They killed him! Those modern doctors killed him!"
Panic and outrage rippled through the crowd, their initial awe and admiration replaced by fear and anger.
The organizers, their carefully constructed facade crumbling around them, stared at the lifeless body in horror. They had never intended for this to happen. The patients had been carefully screened, and their medical histories were reviewed.
'There was no way this man, this seemingly healthy individual, should be dead.'
'Unless...'
Thinking of this, one of the organizers, his face pale with fear, rounded on Nathaniel, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. "What did you do?" he hissed, his words laced with venom. "You killed him!"
Nathaniel, his mind reeling, could only stammer incoherently. He had dealt with death before, of course. It was an unfortunate reality of his profession. But those deaths had occurred in sterile operating rooms, the inevitable outcomes of terminal illnesses. Never before had he witnessed such a thing, a seemingly healthy individual dying before his very eyes, his death a direct result of his actions.
His career, his reputation, everything he had worked so hard for, flashed before his eyes.
"I... I don't know," he stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of his terror. "It was a medical accident! I didn't mean for this to happen!"
He reached out, grasping at the organizer's arm, his eyes pleading for understanding, for absolution.
But the organizer, his own career hanging by a thread, wanted nothing to do with him. He shoved Nathaniel away, his face a mask of cold fury.
"You'll be hearing from our lawyers," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt.
Nathaniel, his legs turning to jelly, slumped to the ground, his face buried in his hands.
The traditional medicine practitioners, witnessing this dramatic turn of events, were stunned into silence. They had seen the patient, had recognized the symptoms of epilepsy. Nathaniel's treatment, while misguided in their opinion, had followed standard modern medical protocols.
"How could it have gone so wrong?" They felt bizarre.
Of all those present, only one person remained calm, his eyes betraying a flicker of understanding amidst the chaos.
It was James.
As the organizers, their faces grim, directed the staff to remove the body, James stepped forward, his voice cutting through the stunned silence.
"Stop."
All eyes turned towards him, their expressions a mixture of surprise and confusion.
Finley, his brow furrowed in annoyance, glared at James. "Dr. Smith," he said, his voice laced with impatience, "what is the meaning of this?"
James, ignoring the organizer's hostility, met his gaze with calm assurance. "The patient," he said, his voice clear and steady, "is not dead. He is in a state of apparent death."
Finley's eyebrows shot up. "Apparent death?" he echoed, skepticism tinging his voice. He glanced at Nathaniel, hoping for confirmation, but the disgraced doctor remained slumped on the ground, his face a mask of despair.
"Are you certain?" Finley asked, his voice sharp.
"Absolutely," James replied, his confidence unwavering. He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. "And I can revive him."
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