The next day, in Haicheng.
Just past nine in the morning, daylight squeezed through the crack in the curtains.
Jake Quinn rolled over, instinctively resting his hand over his forehead to shield his eyes from the light.
Before his mind was fully awake, today’s itinerary flashed through his head.
The bank, the hospital…
He got out of bed and opened the wardrobe.
Reaching into the very bottom, he pulled out the suitcase filled with euros.
Eleven neatly stacked bundles lay quietly inside.
Jake counted out five bundles, stuffed them into an old backpack, and locked the rest back in the wardrobe.
There were too many euros to carry around conveniently, but these should be enough for now.
Even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter.
Worst case, he’d just make a few extra trips…
The nearby commercial bank opened at eight-thirty in the morning.
When Jake arrived, a good number of people were already queuing up.
When his number was called, he walked over to the teller window and handed through two bundles of euros.
The teller, a woman in her early thirties, checked the watermarks and looked up.
“Sir, are you depositing or exchanging?” “Exchanging.” The teller tapped her fingers on the keyboard a few times.
“Your twenty thousand euros fall within the annual settlement quota, but since a single transaction exceeds the equivalent of five thousand US dollars, regulations require you to provide customs entry declaration records and proof of a legitimate source of funds.” “It’s that troublesome?” Jake’s eyebrows knit together slightly.
Last time he successfully exchanged currency, he had been too excited to listen carefully to what the teller was saying…
“These are regulations from the State Administration of Foreign Exchange, not something our bank can decide.” The teller’s expression remained neutral.
“I’m sorry, but without the relevant documents, I can’t process this transaction for you.” She pushed the banknotes back across the counter.
“What if I deposit it into a personal account?” Jake persisted.
The teller explained patiently, “That won’t work either.
You still need proof of origin.” Jake said no more.
He put the bundles of euros back into his bag one by one, zipped it up, said thank you, and turned to walk out.
The sunlight outside the bank was somewhat blinding.
Jake stepped into the shade of a roadside tree, pulled out his phone, and searched for regulations regarding individual foreign currency cash settlements.
The more he read, the heavier his heart grew.
He certainly couldn’t produce a customs declaration form, let alone overseas bank withdrawal slips, and an explanation for a legitimate source of income was complete nonsense.
He couldn’t exactly write down that it was manifested 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 solve this issue was to have a document proving a legitimate source of income.
If he forged a document inside the game and manifested it…
The thought flashed through his mind, but was quickly snuffed out.
Breaking the law was out of the question.
He was a man with a cheat; going to prison over something like this just wasn’t worth it.
Another option was to stop manifesting euros and switch to a hard currency like gold.
It was easy to sell and held its value, though offloading large quantities would inevitably draw attention.
Jake browsed the internet for a long time until he found a relatively reliable method: opening an offshore company overseas.
This route would take time, but it was fully compliant.
Furthermore, if the game produced guns, artillery, or anything else in the future, he could sell them directly.
Staring at the steady flow of people at the bank entrance, Jake quickly made up his mind.
Forget forging documents.
He urgently needed money for surgery, so in the short term, he could manifest gold.
Once his body was cured, he could slowly work on setting up overseas accounts and paperwork.
A short-term and long-term dual approach—he wanted both!
With his thoughts sorted out, a faint smile finally appeared on Jake’s face.
He stood up, dusted off his trousers, and muttered, “Time to take care of today’s main task first.” …
The Department of Cardiothoracic Surgery was on the fourth floor of the outpatient clinic.
The waiting area was packed.
Most were elderly patients—some holding plastic bags with scans, others accompanied by family members, all bearing the deep exhaustion of long-term illness.
In the crowded room, Jake was the only one alone.
He was long used to keeping to his own company, yet in an environment like this, it was hard not to feel a strange, indescribable pang.
On the display screen, his name was ranked seventh.
Before long, the broadcast chimed: “Number 1027, Jake Quinn, please proceed to Consultation Room 3.” Jake stood up and followed the signs deeper down the corridor.
The door to Consultation Room 3 was half-open.
He knocked twice and pushed it open.
The doctor on duty was considerably younger than he had expected—around his early forties, with thick black hair, a pressed white shirt without a single crease, and a watch on his wrist that clearly didn’t come cheap.
Dashing and distinguished, he looked less like a surgeon who spent his days tied to an operating table.
Jake cast a suspicious glance at the doctor’s hairline and muttered inwardly, *Why does he feel so unreliable…?* “What did you say?” the doctor asked, not hearing clearly.
Jake hurriedly shook his head with a smile.
“Nothing.” “Have a seat.” The doctor gestured with his chin toward the round stool opposite him.
Jake set his backpack by his feet, fished out the stack of old medical 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 single item meticulously, occasionally pausing to stare at a specific set of data for a couple of seconds.
“You came alone?” “Yeah.” “No family with you?” “…No.” The doctor glanced at him from behind the reports, said nothing more, and continued reading.
Jake sat on the round stool, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee.
From the moment he handed over those reports, his heart had been beating so fast he could hardly suppress it, and even his breathing had turned shallow.
And the results did not disappoint him.
After a long pause, the doctor mused, “Your last checkup was last month.
Judging by these reports, a second surgery should be feasible.” A surge of warmth rushed through Jake’s chest, but before he could celebrate— “However, your condition is quite special.” The doctor placed the reports back on the desk and tapped his finger on several pages with abnormal values.
“Reoperative radical correction for Tetralogy of Fallot is inherently one of the most difficult procedures in cardiothoracic surgery.” “The surgical technique used in your childhood, the current state of adhesions inside your chest cavity, and the actual extent of right ventricular impairment caused by pulmonary valve regurgitation cannot be accurately judged purely from past reports.” The doctor pulled a stack of blank test request 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 need a joint consultation with other departments before the surgery.” “Whether we can operate, how the surgical plan will be determined, and how high the risks are—all of that will depend on the outcome of the consultation.” Jake took the stack of test slips.
“How long will it take to finish all of them?” “There’s a long queue,” the doctor said, leaning back against his chair.
“The fastest would be a week.
Once all the results are out, I’ll notify you…” A week?
That was a bit long…
Unable to get tested immediately, Jake felt a touch of regret.
“By the way, Doctor…” He nodded, remembering something else.
“If all the tests meet the surgical indications, roughly how much will the total cost be?” The doctor pondered for two seconds.
“Reoperative radical correction for Tetralogy of Fallot, plus cardiopulmonary bypass, ICU monitoring, and the rest…
altogether, it’ll be around 150,000 to 200,000 RMB.” “Medical insurance can cover part of it, but imported consumables and out-of-pocket expenses are considerable.
You’d better prepare around 150,000 RMB in cash.” “Two hundred thousand…” Jake nodded, muttering to himself.
He currently had 50,000 euros in his bag—that was 400,000 RMB in cash.
Even if he couldn’t exchange it now, he still had nearly 110,000 euros in the game.
If he manifested it all into 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 leaked through the gaps in the clouds, bathing his face in warmth.
It was still early.
Jake pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts for a moment, found the director’s number, and dialed it.