3:00 AM.
Inside the underground clinic, the second hand of the wall clock ticked away, “click, click.”
Aside from this monotonous mechanical sound, a grating noise echoed in the air the sound of bones and muscle fibers being violently torn apart and forcibly reorganized at a hundred times the normal speed.
On the stainless steel operating table, Bruce Wayne’s body was undergoing inhuman torture.
The domineering nature of the Special Medical Recovery Potion lay in how it violently compressed a three-month self-healing process into a mere few dozen minutes.
Cells were dividing frantically, and the jagged ends of broken ribs intertwined and healed like living vines.
The spleen and muscle tissue pierced by bullets were rapidly reshaping under the drug’s effects.
This bone-deep agony was enough to cause a grown man to suffer an instant Spiritual breakdown.
But Bruce did not scream.
In a semi-conscious state, he clenched his teeth tightly.
A strong metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and his muscles bulged and tightened like blocks of pig iron.
Sweat poured out like a waterfall, flowing down his perfect muscle lines, instantly soaking the cold stainless steel surface and dripping down the drainage grooves.
“Huff—”
A low growl, like that of a dying Beast, escaped his throat.
His hands gripped the edges of the operating table so hard his nails nearly left scratches on the metal.
Ten full minutes passed.
The tearing pain inside him finally receded like the tide.
Bruce snapped his eyes open.
There was no post-awakening confusion in his deep pupils, only extreme wariness and a tangible killing intent.
Like a startled leopard, he exerted sudden force from his core, springing off the operating table instantly.
He landed firmly on his feet, assuming a perfect defensive stance.
There was no sensation of tearing, nor the weakness of internal bleeding.
Bruce looked down at his torso.
The life-threatening gunshot wound through his abdomen and the hole in his thigh had completely vanished!
Not even a scar remained, only two faint red Marks.
Looking at the floor, his tactical gear—worth tens of thousands of dollars and embedded with Kevlar bulletproof fibers—had been cut into a pile of tattered rags, soaking in a pool of blood.
He now stood naked in this unfamiliar Underground Room.
His gaze swept across the surroundings like radar.
Cold surgical instrument trays, gauze soaked in dark red blood, and at least 1,500cc of accumulated blood in a nearby drainage bottle.
Finally, his gaze locked onto a spot five meters away.
In a dim corner sat a worn-out swivel chair.
William was curled up in the chair, wearing a rumpled shirt.
He held a chipped mug with “I LOVE NY” printed on it, blowing on the foam of some cheap instant coffee.
Bruce’s brain completed a frantic calculation within a tenth of a second.
Years of paranoia, combined with an extreme wariness of unknown powers, led him to an instant conclusion: this Asian man with mysterious medical techniques was extremely dangerous.
He wasn’t sure if the man was friend or foe, nor if a tracker or miniature bomb had been implanted in his body.
He had to strike first—subdue, interrogate, and take control.
The whole nine yards!
Action followed thought; Bruce didn’t waste any words.
His toes gripped the rough concrete floor, and his calf muscles bulged with sudden power.
“Bang!”
The ground beneath him seemed to emit a dull thud as his massive frame blurred into a black shadow.
With the sharp whistle of tearing air, he delivered a high roundhouse kick capable of snapping solid steel rebar, aimed straight for William’s neck.
It was ruthless and decisive, without a hint of hesitation.
Facing this sudden lethal attack, William didn’t even blink.
He was even slowly sipping that scalding coffee.
The moment Bruce’s kick was less than ten centimeters from his neck, William moved.
The “Master-level Combat Muscle Memory” he had just fused required no command from his brain; his body responded perfectly on its own.
William held the mug steadily in his left hand while raising his right hand seemingly at random.
His palm sliced precisely into the weak point of Bruce’s kick.
“Smack.”
A dull thud of flesh hitting flesh.
Bruce’s sure-fire strike, powerful enough to shatter a skull, was caught firmly by that slender hand.
The ferocious attack felt like hitting cotton, neutralized instantly.
Not a single drop of coffee spilled from the mug in William’s left hand; he was incredibly steady.
A flash of extreme shock crossed Bruce’s eyes.
He knew the power of his kick all too well.
He was a master of dozens of World-class combat styles and had traveled the globe to hone his body to the human limit.
Even a Siberian brown bear would have its ribs shattered by that kick.
Yet this Doctor before him, with heavy dark circles and a sickly, exhausted appearance, had caught it with one hand?
Refusing to believe it, Bruce immediately changed his move.
He yanked back his captured right leg, using the counterforce to forcibly twist his waist in mid-air.
His left leg, like a battle-axe, slammed down from above—a Karate move: the Axe Kick!
“You really won’t give up until you’re in a coffin.
Fine, I’ll spar with you properly!”
William sighed and casually placed his mug on a nearby metal table.
He let loose completely.
The irritability accumulated from back-to-back shifts in the ER in his past life perfectly meshed with the violent aesthetics granted by the system.
William didn’t retreat.
Instead, he advanced.
He dropped his right shoulder and lunged like a cannonball, slamming hard into Bruce’s chest.
Baji Quan, Iron Mountain Lean!
(Can you block the power of two and a half years of training?!)
“Boom!”
Bruce was sent flying by the massive force, crashing heavily into a surgical cart.
The cart instantly fell apart.
Hemostats, scalpels, and medicine bottles scattered everywhere with a clatter, glass shards flying in all directions.
Ignoring the sharp pain in his back, Bruce rolled to dissipate the force and pushed off the ground with one hand, lunging back into the attack.
The two of them became two blurs in the cramped underground clinic, trading blows!
The dull thuds of fists hitting flesh were constant.
Bruce’s moves were bold and expansive, alternating between various World-class combat styles.
Every strike aimed for a vital point, attempting to use his weight and strength advantage to drag William into a war of attrition.
But the more they fought, the deeper the chill in Bruce’s heart grew.
This underground Doctor was a total monster!
Not only could he perfectly predict every feint and transition Bruce made, but more terrifyingly, his moves were more ruthless and underhanded than any mob hitman Bruce had ever encountered!
Bruce feinted with a jab, attempting to close in for a rear-naked choke.
William couldn’t care less about combat etiquette.
Two fingers, like a snake’s tongue, flicked out toward Bruce’s eyes.
Bruce was startled and jerked his head back to dodge.
William’s right toe had already kicked out silently, aiming precisely for Bruce’s crotch.
An incredibly insidious Groin Kick!
No one could see this move and not dodge!
Cold sweat broke out on Bruce’s skin as he forcibly twisted his hips, narrowly avoiding the crippling blow.
He slid back half a step in an ungraceful retreat.
That half-step was the opening.
William instantly closed the gap.
His left hand, like an iron pincer, clamped onto Bruce’s right wrist while his right hand slammed into the elbow joint, pressing down hard.
A Joint-lock Reversal!
Bruce felt as if the bones and tendons in his entire right arm were being twisted off.
The intense pain forced a grunt from him.
William sneered, his voice echoing through the dilapidated clinic with blatant mockery: “Is this how you treat your savior?”
He suddenly increased the pressure, forcing Bruce to double over.
“Or is it that Master Bruce Wayne, the richest man in Gotham, wants to skip out on the million-dollar medical bill?!”
“Bruce Wayne.”
Those two words hit Bruce’s cerebral cortex like a bolt from the blue.
His whole body shuddered, and his pupils constricted violently.
How was this possible?!
Tonight was his first time operating under a mask, and he hadn’t carried any identification.
Even the Maroni Gang members who shot him and the corrupt Police only saw him as a reckless “Masked Freak.”
How could this underground Doctor hiding in The Slums see through his true identity at a glance?!
Extreme shock caused a fatal 0.5-second pause in Bruce’s well-honed muscles.
In a life-and-death struggle, half a second is enough to die ten times over.
William wasn’t about to miss this opportunity.
Aligning his waist and stance, he exploded with full-body power.
Gripping Bruce’s arm tightly, he used the moment of hesitation to execute a perfectly standard and violent Shoulder Throw.
“Boom!”
The heavy two-hundred-pound body was slammed hard onto the rigid concrete floor.
A web of cracks radiated out from where he hit the ground.
Bruce felt as if his internal organs had shifted.
His breath was trapped in his chest, and his vision swam with darkness.
Before he could recover, William’s right knee like a match-ending final blow pressed firmly against his throat.
The pressure made it impossible for Bruce to breathe.