The third day.
Kamui stood guard by his daughter’s hospital bed.
He watched the medicinal liquid in the IV drip fall drop by drop.
Pomona was asleep, her mouth slightly open, her breathing very shallow.
Sunlight shone in through the gap in the hospital room curtains.
It illuminated the girl’s pale face.
Kamui’s left hand was tucked into his cotton-padded jacket pocket, the heat in his palm still present.
That sensation of wriggling beneath his skin had never disappeared.
But he had discovered one thing.
His right knee no longer hurt at all.
It was completely healed, as if it had never been injured.
He tried walking back and forth in the hospital room twice, feeling no discomfort whatsoever.
The same went for his right shoulder.
That ligament tear that had plagued him for five years.
That stabbing pain that would come every time he raised his hand above his head.
It had vanished.
Kamui sat on the hospital room windowsill.
He repeatedly moved his right shoulder, lifting it left and right, rotating it front and back; there was absolutely no issue.
Five years.
For five years, he hadn’t even dared to lift a bottle of mineral water high with his right hand, and now, it was miraculously healed.
He glanced at the palm of his left hand.
The surface of the skin showed no abnormalities; it was exactly the same as a normal person’s.
But he knew that thing was inside.
The thing that had healed his knee and shoulder.
The thing that had turned him into a two-meter-three-tall gray giant.
Kamui withdrew his gaze and looked at his daughter on the hospital bed.
They were still short over a hundred thousand for the surgery fees.
He hadn’t thought too much about what happened at the nightclub last night; there was only one thought in his mind: was the wages Sun Debiao owed him, plus damages for emotional distress, enough for his daughter’s surgery fees?
The answer was no.
He had smashed up the nightclub and vented his anger, but he hadn’t gotten a single cent.
That money wasn’t in the nightclub’s safe.
Thinking of this, Kamui clenched his fist.
The nurse pushed the door open to change the medication and smiled when she saw Kamui sitting on the windowsill.
“Mr. Pom, your daughter is in better spirits today; she even talked to the person in the bed next to her this morning.”
“Thank you for taking care of her.”
The nurse changed the IV bag for Pomona, adjusted the drip rate, and left.
Kamui’s phone vibrated.
A text message, unsigned, from an unknown number.
The content was only one line.
“Referee Geoven, address: Room 301, Building 17, Fenglin Garden residential complex, North City.”
Kamui stared at the text message for a long time.
Geoven.
That referee.
Five years ago, at the provincial boxing championships, by the sixth round of the semifinals, Kamui was already leading on points.
Before the start of the seventh round, he noticed his opponent’s coach exchanging something with a referee at ringside.
Then, in the seventh round, a blatant blow to the back of his head by his opponent was not called as a foul, and the subsequent hook hit his right shoulder. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
A torn rotator cuff ligament.
He gritted his teeth and finished the last three rounds, winning the match.
But he couldn’t compete in the finals because his shoulder was ruined.
Retirement.
Later, someone told him that the referee of that semifinal match had taken money from his opponent’s coach and intentionally let that illegal blow slide.
Kamui had gone to the sports bureau and the boxing association at the time, but no one paid him any mind.
A retired second-tier boxer—who cared how his shoulder was ruined?
Geoven.
Kamui silently repeated this name three times.
He didn’t know who sent this text message, nor did he know if this address was real or fake.
But he remembered that referee’s face.
A plump, fair face, wearing Gold-rimmed Glasses, standing by the boxing ring during the match.
When his opponent hit him in the back of the head, he pretended not to see it, and then turned around and gave his opponent a high score on the scorecard.
Kamui clenched his right hand on his knee, his knuckles cracking.
He deleted the text message.
Then he turned off his phone.
At eight in the evening, Pomona was already asleep.
Kamui tucked the quilt in for his daughter, touched her forehead, and tiptoed out of the hospital room.
Two hours later.
North City, Fenglin Garden residential complex, Room 301, Building 17.
Geoven was fifty-seven years old this year.
After retiring, he opened a boxing training class; business was good, and he had bought a new Audi A6 last year.
At ten in the evening, he had finished showering and was sitting in the living room in a bathrobe watching TV, with a cup of brewed Longjing tea by his side.
His wife was away on a business trip, his son was working in another city, and he was alone at home.
He picked up the teacup and took a sip.
Then he put it down.
The living room window made a slight sound.
Geoven turned his head to look.
The window was closed, the curtains were drawn, and he couldn’t see outside.
He thought it was the wind, didn’t pay it any mind, and continued watching TV.
The second sound was louder than the first.
It sounded like something was applying pressure to the window frame, and the metal frame made a slight creaking sound of deformation.
Geoven stood up, walked to the window, and reached out to pull open the curtains.
Outside the window, on the third-floor windowsill, crouched a person.
No, not a person.
That thing was over two meters tall, crouching on the windowsill like a large predatory beast.
Its entire body was covered in dark gray liquid fluid, and two white, sunken eye sockets stared straight at him.
Geoven’s teacup dropped from his hand, shattering on the floor, hot tea splashing everywhere.
He opened his mouth to scream, but fear made him unable to speak.
Bang!
The window shattered.
The entire window was pushed in from the outside, and the frame, along with the glass, collapsed onto the living room floor.
Riot stepped over the broken glass and into the living room.
Its body almost reached the ceiling.
Geoven backed up three steps.
His back hit the armrest of the sofa, and he tumbled onto the sofa.
“Who, who are you? What do you want?”
Then the liquid fluid slowly receded from its face, revealing the countenance beneath.
Geoven’s eyes widened.
He recognized that face.
Although it was much thinner than five years ago and the eye sockets were sunken, he recognized it.
“Pom, Kamui?”
Riot did not speak.
It raised a hand and grabbed Geoven’s right arm.
Its fingers dug into the position of Geoven’s elbow joint, slowly applying force.
Geoven’s mouth opened wide enough to see his back molars, and the pain turned his voice into a shrill wail.
“What, what are you doing! Let go! Let go!”
“2016, provincial boxing championships, seventh round of the semifinals.”
Kamui’s voice came from Riot’s throat, carrying a low, resonant quality.
“My opponent hit the back of my head, and you pretended not to see it.”
Geoven’s face twisted, and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.
“I, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“How much money did you take from his coach?”
“I didn’t take any money! I didn’t!”
The fingers tightened a little more.
Geoven let out a shriek.
“Fifty thousand! Fifty thousand! They approached me first! I couldn’t help it!”
Kamui looked at his face.
Fifty thousand.
His torn right shoulder ligament, retirement, losing everything—it was worth fifty thousand.
Riot’s hand continued to apply force.
Until a crisp snapping sound echoed in the living room.
Geoven screamed and passed out.
Kamui released his arm.
Geoven slid to the floor, his right arm bent at an unnatural angle.
Kamui looked at him for two seconds, then turned and vaulted out through the shattered window.
The third-floor height was like jumping off a step for Riot.
When it landed, two deep footprints were pressed into the lawn beneath its feet.
The liquid fluid completely receded before it walked out of the residential complex gate.
Kamui, wearing that gray cotton-padded jacket, hands tucked in his pockets, walked step by step back toward the hospital.
Half an hour later, he sat on the folding bed in the hospital room, looking at his daughter’s sleeping face, with a bowl of cold instant noodles in front of him.
He picked up his chopsticks and ate the noodles.
Deep within the underground rock layers of the city, Knull received the emotions fed back by Riot.
Unlike the time at the nightclub, the emotions this time were quieter and colder.
There was no rage, no roaring, only a somber pleasure derived from precise, purposeful violence.
Cold-blooded brutality.
Knull savored this taste, its main body trembling slightly on the rock wall.
The first offspring Symbiote, Carnage, was an out-of-control raging fire.
The second offspring Symbiote, Riot, was a controlled iron hammer.
Two extremes, two flavors.
Knull was very satisfied.
It’s just that Riot wasn’t very smart; it had exposed everything it should have exposed.
That was fine, too; there would be more fear.