The next day, Haicheng.
Just past nine in the morning, daylight squeezed through the crack between the curtains.
Jake rolled over, instinctively resting his hand over his forehead to block the light.
Before his mind was fully awake, today’s schedule immediately popped into his head.
The bank, the hospital…
He got out of bed and opened the wardrobe.
Yanking out the suitcase containing the Euros from the very bottom, eleven neat bundles of cash lay quietly inside.
Jake counted out five bundles and stuffed them into an old backpack, locking the rest back inside the wardrobe.
There were too many Euros, and carrying all of them on him wasn’t convenient anyway.
This should be enough for now.
Even if it wasn’t, it was no big deal—he could just make a few more trips…
The nearby commercial bank opened at eight-thirty in the morning.
By the time Jake arrived, quite a few people were already queued up.
When his number was finally called, he walked up to the window and handed over two bundles of Euros.
The teller attending to him was in her early thirties.
After verifying the watermarks, she looked up and asked, “Sir, would you like to deposit or exchange this?”
“Exchange.”
The teller tapped her fingers on the keyboard a few times.
“Your twenty thousand Euros is within your annual settlement quota, but because a single transaction exceeds the equivalent of five thousand US dollars, regulations require you to provide a customs entry declaration record and proof of legal source of funds.”
“It’s that complicated?” Jake’s brows furrowed slightly.
Last time when he successfully exchanged money, he was too excited to listen closely to what the teller had said…
“These are regulations set by the Foreign Exchange Authority, not something our bank can decide,” the teller’s expression remained indifferent.
“I’m very sorry, but without the relevant documents, I can’t process this transaction for you.”
She pushed the cash back to him.
“What about depositing it into a personal account?” Jake refused to give up.
The teller explained patiently, “That won’t work either.
That also requires proof of source.”
Jake said no more, putting the Euros back into his bag bundle by bundle.
Zipping it up, he said a quiet thank you, turned, and walked out.
The sunlight outside the bank was somewhat dazzling.
Jake slipped into the shade of a roadside tree, pulled out his phone, and searched for regulations regarding individual foreign currency settlements.
The more he read, the heavier his heart sank.
He definitely couldn’t produce a customs declaration form, let alone a withdrawal slip from an overseas bank, and a statement explaining a legal source of income was even more of a joke.
He couldn’t exactly write down that it was materialized from a game, could he?
He searched for ways to solve this problem.
Well…
404…
Jake sat under the tree for a while.
The simplest way to resolve this issue would be to have a legal proof of income.
If he forged the documents inside the game and materialized them…
The thought flashed through his mind, but was quickly extinguished.
Forget about breaking the law.
He was a man with a golden finger—it really wouldn’t be worth it if he ended up behind bars over something like this.
Another method would be to stop materializing Euros and switch to hard currency like gold instead.
It was easy to sell off and held its value well, though liquidating large amounts would inevitably draw attention.
After browsing online for a long time, Jake found a relatively reliable method.
Opening an offshore company overseas.
This route took time, but it was compliant.
Plus, whatever guns, weapons, or gear the game produced in the future could be directly turned over and sold through it.
Staring at the flow of people coming and going at the bank entrance, Jake quickly made up his mind.
Forging documents was completely off the table.
He urgently needed money for his surgery, so in the short term, he could materialize gold.
Once his body was cured, he could slowly handle the overseas account and legal paperwork.
A short-term fix and a long-term plan.
He wanted both!
Having sorted out his thoughts, a slight smile finally appeared on Jake’s face.
He stood up and patted the dust off his pants legs.
“Time to take care of today’s main business first.”
…
Cardiothoracic Surgery was on the fourth floor of the outpatient building.
The waiting area was packed to capacity, mostly with elderly patients.
Some held plastic bags containing scans and X-rays, while others were accompanied by family members, all bearing the deep fatigue of a long struggle against illness.
In a room full of people, Jake was the only one alone.
He had long been used to coming and going by himself.
Still, in an environment like this, it was hard to avoid feeling a certain indescribable emotion.
On the calling display, his name was ranked seventh.
Before long, the loudspeaker chimed: “Number 1027, Jake, please proceed to Consulting Room 3.”
Jake stood up and followed the directional signs deeper down the corridor.
The door to Consulting Room 3 was half-open.
He knocked twice and pushed the door open.
The doctor on duty was considerably younger than he had imagined.
Looking to be in his early forties, he had thick, jet-black hair, an ironed white shirt without a single wrinkle, and a watch on his wrist that looked far from cheap.
He possessed an impressive, dapper appearance.
Instead of looking like a surgeon who spent all his time at the operating table, he didn’t quite fit the bill.
Jake glanced suspiciously at the doctor’s hairline, muttering inwardly:
“Why does he feel kind of unreliable…”
“What did you say?” the doctor didn’t hear clearly.
Jake quickly shook his head and smiled, “Nothing.”
“Have a seat.”
The doctor raised his chin, motioning for him to sit on the round stool opposite him.
Jake set his backpack down by his feet, dug out that stack of old test reports from inside, and handed them over.
The doctor flipped through them page by page.
Echocardiogram, ECG, chest CT, cardiopulmonary function test…
he examined every item meticulously, occasionally pausing to stare at a specific set of data for a couple of seconds.
“Did you come alone?”
“Yeah.”
“No family accompanying you?”
“…No.”
The doctor glanced at him from behind the report sheets, said nothing more, and continued flipping.
Sitting on the round stool, Jake gently tapped his fingers against his knees.
From the moment he took out those test reports, his heartbeat had been racing uncontrollably, and even his breathing had turned light.
And the result didn’t disappoint him.
The doctor pondered for a long moment: “Your last check-up was last month.
Judging from the reports, a secondary surgery should be feasible.”
A surge of warmth rushed through Jake’s heart, but before he could rejoice—
“However, your condition is quite special.”
The doctor placed the reports back on the desk, tapping his fingers on a few pages showing abnormal data: “Secondary radical correction for Tetralogy of Fallot is inherently one of the most difficult procedures in cardiothoracic surgery.”
“The surgical method used when you were young, the current state of adhesions inside your thoracic cavity, and the actual damage to your right heart function caused by pulmonary valve regurgitation—none of these can be accurately determined just from past reports.”
The doctor pulled a stack of blank test requisition forms from a drawer and unscrewed his fountain pen.
“I’ll first order a full set of specialized tests for you.
Once the results are out, we’ll also need a joint preoperative consultation with other departments.”
“Whether we can ultimately perform the surgery, how the surgical plan will be designed, and how high the risks are—all of that will depend on the results of the consultation before I can give you a definitive answer.”
Jake took the stack of test forms: “How long will it take to complete all of them?”
“There are quite a few people in line,” the doctor leaned back against his chair.
“At the fastest, it will take a week.
I’ll notify you once all the results are out…”
A week?
That’s a bit long…
Unable to get checked immediately, Jake felt a bit of regret.
“By the way, Doctor…”
He nodded and remembered another matter: “If all the tests meet the surgical indications, roughly how much will the total cost be?”
The doctor pondered for two seconds: “Secondary radical correction for Tetralogy of Fallot, plus cardiopulmonary bypass, ICU monitoring, and all that…
all in all, around a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand.”
“Medical insurance can cover a portion, but there are plenty of imported consumables and out-of-pocket items.
You’d best prepare about a hundred and fifty thousand in cash.”
“Two hundred thousand…” Jake nodded and muttered.
He currently had fifty thousand Euros in his bag, which was four hundred thousand in cash.
Even if he couldn’t exchange it, he still had nearly one hundred and ten thousand Euros in the game.
If he materialized it all as gold and found a channel to sell it, it would be more than enough.
“Alright, I understand.
Thank you, Doctor.”
After scheduling the tests, Jake left the hospital.
Sunlight spilled through the cracks in the clouds, bathing his face in warmth.
It was still early.
Jake pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts for a bit, found the Director’s number, and dialed it.