She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 261

Outside, the speculation went wild. Metropia Evening News typed furiously and published a breaking headline: “SHOCKING: Blossom Hospital Suspected in Major Medical Scandal—Military Hospital Experts Rush In to Investigate”

The moment it hit the site, traffic spiked again.

A reporter from another outlet frowned. “We don’t even know the outcome yet. That headline’s… reckless.”

The reporter from Metropia Evening News smirked. “Is there really any other possibility? I already got an internal tip from the station. This time Blossom Hospital is finished.”

“You bribed the police?”

“Bribed? Please. We keep in touch. We trade information. That’s how it works.”

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Inside the station’s medical room, a group of brawl victims had been brought in. Most had serious lacerations—nothing life-threatening, but they needed cleaning, bleeding control, and stitches. So the contest began where medicine becomes real: needle, thread, and steady hands.

Heath stepped in and whistled softly. “Well. That’s a crowd.”

The moment he and the department heads appeared, Oscar’s group stiffened. They knew these faces—people quoted in textbooks, legends in their field.

“Heath!” someone blurted, unable to hide the awe.

Heath nodded at them and walked straight to Loyce, his expression turning eager in a way that didn’t match the tense room.

“That Frost Peppermint cultivation paper you mentioned,” he said quickly, almost ingratiating. “You weren’t joking, right? A few of my old colleagues and I are extremely interested.”

“I wasn’t joking,” Loyce said. “When I’m done with this, I’ll send it to you.”

“Then we’ll thank you in advance,” Heath said.

Behind him, the senior physicians—men and women old enough to be Loyce’s parents, some even grandparents—also thanked her with genuine respect, like students asking a master for guidance.

Oscar and the others stared, slack-jawed. These were giants in medicine—and they were treating Loyce like she outranked them.

Loyce turned back to Oscar, voice flat. “They’ll judge. Is that enough for you?”

Robert muttered under his breath, “Honestly, it’s overkill.”

“Time,” Heath announced, clicking the stopwatch. “Veterans’ average: three minutes twenty-eight seconds. Applicants’ group: seven minutes fifteen.”

When the judges inspected the wounds, their surprise deepened. The veterans’ sutures were neat, tight, and clean—minimal swelling, almost no visible track. The applicants’ work was crooked; knots were loose; some incisions still seeped blood.

“That—this isn’t fair!” Oscar barked, sweat beading at his hairline. “They must do this kind of basic stitching all the time!”

Loyce’s gaze didn’t budge. “A minute ago you said they haven’t practiced in years. Now you’re saying they do it all the time. Which is it?”

Heath spoke bluntly, with no effort to soften the blow. “With that level of skill, maybe you could pull strings and get hired as an orderly in a general ward.”

Then came the knowledge round. The department heads posed real clinical questions—complicated cases they’d actually seen in military hospitals.

Oscar’s group, heavy on theory and light on experience, could answer only a few. The veterans, who’d spent most of their lives treating the impossible in impossible places, responded with precise diagnoses and practical treatment plans.

The gap wasn’t close. It was humiliating. One by one, the applicants lowered their heads, suddenly unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

Loyce looked at them, a cold smile cutting across her face. “Do we need to keep going?”