Before Xia Xinghe could even reply, message after message from Bai Qingzhou flooded in:
[Bai: Missing technical terms, disorganized consultation process.]
[Bai: Unclear triage, unprofessional procedures.]
[Bai: You had an orthopedic surgeon perform heart surgery. Is that even possible?]
[Bai: The protagonist is in their twenties and already performing major operations? Is that reasonable?]
[Bai: These are mistakes even an amateur could spot—never mind the finer details.] [Bai: Over a thousand words with this many obvious errors—is this the standard of a professional writer?]
…
…
The messages kept coming like an endless stream of “ding-ding-ding.” Xia Xinghe felt embarrassed and angry. Remembering the countless times Bai Qingzhou had nitpicked his papers made him even more frustrated.
He furiously typed a few lines and sent them without a second thought:
[Little Bamboo: Yes, I’m an amateur, and you’re the expert. I’m dumb and don’t know as much as you.]
[Little Bamboo: So what if you’re a doctor? What gives you the right to speak to me so condescendingly?]
[Little Bamboo: I looked up a lot of information, but some things—like the processes you mentioned—are just not available online!]
[Little Bamboo: You think I don’t want to write more professionally?]
After he sent the messages, the chat kept showing “The other person is typing…” over and over, but Bai Qingzhou never responded.
Xia Xinghe let out a long breath, tossed his phone aside, and collapsed onto the couch, hugging a pillow in silence.
Bai Qingzhou’s words echoed in his mind again and again… Slowly, Xia Xinghe began to calm down.
People instinctively resist criticism. Admitting you’re not good enough is never pleasant. But once he cooled down, he had to admit—Bai Qingzhou wasn’t wrong.
That section really wasn’t professional enough.
Writers create fiction, but the foundation must still follow basic logic and reality. Otherwise, it’s just a shaky fantasy, full of plot holes and unable to withstand scrutiny.
In the past, Xia Xinghe used to do a lot of research before writing. Sometimes he’d even work part-time jobs to gain firsthand experience. Only when he felt confident would he start writing.
But this time, he hadn’t found much relevant information. Especially in this recent scene—it had already felt off while he was writing, but the pressure to update pushed him to force it out anyway.
No job is easy. If he decided to tackle this theme, he should’ve been more prepared—thoroughly prepared.
If Baidu didn’t help, there were academic databases to explore. At worst, he could’ve asked doctor friends or visited a hospital himself. Cutting corners just to meet a deadline disrespects both readers and the writing itself—and as a professional author, that’s unacceptable.
Realizing this, Xia Xinghe sighed again. He got up and poured himself a glass of iced water.
The cool liquid slid down his throat. He turned on his computer, took a deep breath, and decided to scrap the entire chapter and rewrite it from scratch.
Rewriting would take a lot of time and effort, and he’d also need to do more research. He definitely couldn’t make that day’s update, so he decided to take a one-day break to revise the plot and go over the upcoming outline.
Xia Xinghe rarely took breaks while serializing. The last time was when he was sick and took five days off, which annoyed quite a few readers. So when he put up the “on break” notice this time, he couldn’t help but feel a little nervous.
Thankfully, his readers weren’t unreasonable. After he sincerely explained the reason and promised to update tomorrow, most of them were understanding.
【You got this, author-nim~ We support you!】
【A little disappointed, but quality is more important—can’t wait for tomorrow’s update~】
【Not rushing just to meet deadlines is a good thing!】
Seeing the readers’ comments, Xia Xinghe finally relaxed a little. He closed the admin panel, reopened his document and browser, and began focusing on his work.
Medical-themed stories were highly technical, and the information wasn’t easy to find. After searching again, Xia Xinghe still found the resources lacking. So he combed through pages and pages online until finally, he found a rather complete documentary—a detailed look at a doctor’s daily routine.
The documentary was indeed thorough, but the downside was—it was way too long, spanning dozens of hours, and packed with technical terms and dense information.
Xia Xinghe tried skipping around to watch bits of it, but quickly found that it was impossible to understand without watching in order. So, he had no choice but to obediently bring over a notebook and pen, playing the video while jotting things down, constantly rewinding to rewatch important points.
In truth, the documentary was quite engaging. But no matter how interesting something is, watching it with full concentration for hours on end is exhausting. Xia Xinghe sat in front of his computer all day, barely ate, and only took a short nap. By evening, he was nearly at his limit.
Seeing the progress bar still had a long way to go, Xia Xinghe sighed helplessly, got up, and made himself a strong cup of tea.
What else could he do? He’d have to pull a late night.
The water boiled quickly. As he poured it into the cup, steam rose. The tea bag sank to the bottom, releasing a rich aroma.
With nothing to do while waiting for the tea to steep, Xia Xinghe suddenly remembered his phone, which he had tossed somewhere and forgotten about.
Because he had thrown it aside so casually, it took a while to find. After searching around, he finally discovered it wedged between the sofa cushions. Unlocking it to browse Weibo for a bit, he realized Bai Qingzhou had sent him several messages.
[Bai: (Image)]
[Bai: This is the triage process.]
[Bai: (Image)]
[Bai: This is the procedural standard.]
[Bai: (Image)]
[Bai: These are the illogical details I marked for you.]
After a while, two more messages came in:
[Bai: I didn’t mean to lecture you.]
[Bai: I know you’re a very talented author.]
When that last sentence popped up, Xia Xinghe suddenly felt his nose sting. After being scolded so much, he hadn’t expected Bai Qingzhou to say something so encouraging.
Sniffling a little, Xia Xinghe finally opened the images.
Each one was packed with detailed and comprehensive information, and as if afraid Xia Xinghe wouldn’t understand, Bai Qingzhou had filled the images with handwritten annotations—densely packed notes. Considering how busy Bai Qingzhou was, Xia Xinghe had no idea how he’d even found the time.
Bai Qingzhou’s handwriting was beautiful—bold and powerful, with every character full of strength. Even the final period in each annotation was written with just the right amount of pressure, perfectly enclosed, like a noose that slowly tightened around Xia Xinghe’s heart.
Xia Xinghe was suddenly reminded of the time he wrote his year-end thesis. Back then, Bai Qingzhou had harshly criticized it. Unconvinced, Xia Xinghe went back and carefully reviewed the material, hoping to argue back—only to end up realizing Bai Qingzhou had been right. Disheartened, he quietly revised everything. But after Bai Qingzhou pointed out all the flaws, he also highlighted what to fix. Thanks to that, Xia Xinghe was able to revise his paper and earn a high score.
Because he had reviewed everything so thoroughly, he later aced his final exam for that course, and the combination of that and the high-scoring paper helped him secure the national scholarship—an achievement that left a bold mark on his otherwise average college years.
Thinking about all this, Xia Xinghe figured… maybe Bai Qingzhou wasn’t that terrible.
Staring at all those notes for a while, Xia Xinghe earnestly typed a “thank you” and sent it.