August was humming a song as he got up in the morning. His wife Anna, hearing him from the kitchen, poked her head out to look at him with a hint of surprise in her eyes: "Did you win the lottery today or get elected as the Chancellor of Germany?"

While tying his tie, August laughed: "Something even more delightful than that."

He didn’t say much more, and Anna didn’t inquire further. After more than twenty years of marriage, she was already accustomed to this German man’s occasional mysticism.

In fact, the thing that had put him in such a good mood had happened three days ago, yet every time he thought of it, he couldn’t help but let a smile play on his lips.

Three days ago, at the annual meeting of the European Spinal Surgery Society held in Paris, something occurred that he would never forget for the rest of his life.

It was the last afternoon of the conference, and all the major reports had been concluded, leaving only some free exchanges and tea breaks. He was standing in front of the exhibition stand discussing issues with some young German doctors when he suddenly felt someone approaching from behind.

He turned around and saw Milton.

The Englishman stood two meters away, dressed in a dark blue suit, his hair meticulously groomed, and behind his signature square-frame glasses was a face showing a complex expression.

August froze for a moment. He had known Milton for almost twenty years, having clashed with him at various academic conferences since their younger days. They argued about surgical approaches, choices of internal fixation, the merits of fusion versus non-fusion, and practically every debatable issue. This debate lasted for over a decade and later evolved into a more direct competition for the position of president of the European Spinal Surgery Association.

Three years ago, August was elected, and Milton, unwilling to accept his defeat, refused to shake hands with him after the meeting.

When Milton stood in front of him, August’s first reaction was: What does he want to do?

The nearby young doctors obviously felt the subtlety in the atmosphere and quickly found excuses to disperse, leaving only the two of them standing face to face.

"August," Milton spoke first, his voice slightly lower than usual, not as aggressive as during academic debates.

"Milton," August nodded, waiting for him to continue.

After a moment of silence, Milton said something that made August doubt his own ears.

"I’ve always been reluctant to admit," Milton said, each word spoken slowly and with difficulty, "but today, I must formally acknowledge, your paper on complex spinal deformities, I’ve read it, and those surgical videos, I’ve seen them, I couldn’t do it, I’ve tried, but I never managed to succeed."

August was taken aback.

Milton continued, "Over the years, we’ve been arguing, and I thought we simply had different viewpoints and were on par in terms of skill. But after looking at your work in the past two years, I realized I was wrong. You’ve moved ahead, far ahead, and I can’t keep up."

He finished and extended his hand.

August looked at that hand, remaining silent for a long time.

Then he took it.

"Thank you, Milton," he said, his voice a bit hoarse, "these words mean a lot to me."

Milton nodded, said nothing more, and turned to leave.

This was Milton’s clear and formal acknowledgment of defeat to August, although he had privately hinted at this many times before, this was the first formal expression.

August stood in place, watching his old rival’s figure disappear into the crowd, and a complex emotion welled up inside him. There was the joy of victory, the satisfaction of being acknowledged, and a bit of indescribable melancholy, suddenly feeling an emptiness inside.

A rival of twenty years had finally conceded inferiority to him.

Three days later, sitting in the study of his home in Munich, August was still contemplating this matter.

The study wasn’t big, but it was very tidy. One wall was a bookshelf filled with various professional books and journals. On the other wall hung a Chinese painting, which he had brought back from Sanbo. The painting was of bamboo, with an inscription of a poem beside it: "Humble bamboo lowers its head, proud plum has no upturned flowers."

He understood the poem and liked the painting very much.

Three years ago, at forty-eight, he had gained some fame in the German spinal surgery circle but always felt he had reached a bottleneck. He could perform surgeries, write papers, and speak at conferences, yet he felt something was missing. It was an indescribable sense of stagnation, like a train that had reached the plains, seeing the end in sight, without any more mountains to climb.

By chance, he saw Yang Ping perform surgery in Malaysia and, after much deliberation, made a decision that none of his colleagues could understand: to go to China for three months of further study.

"Are you crazy?" his colleagues said, "You’re already well-known. Going to China to learn from a young doctor?"

He didn’t explain.

Some things don’t need explaining.

Three months, not too long, not too short. But those three months changed his understanding of surgery and his perspective on medicine.

He recalled the first time he entered the operating room at Sanbo and saw Yang Ping perform an extremely complex spinal scoliosis correction. The patient’s spine was curved over ninety degrees and had severe rotational deformities, which conventional methods couldn’t handle. Professor Yang stood calmly by the operating table, and he watched as Yang slowly straightened that twisted spine, watched those screws accurately placed where they should be, watched those osteotomy surfaces perfectly align.

After the surgery, he asked Professor Yang, "How did you do it?"

Yang Ping thought for a moment and said, "The more you do, the more you think; the more you think, the better you do."