The moment Tòumíng's feet hit the pavement outside Eric's truck, the night air was still thick with the smell of the warehouse, cocaine, blood, and industrial grime.
He'd barely taken two steps before the Ice Queen materialized from the skyscraper's entrance like a pale, furious specter. She shoved past a cluster of her own men, not even glancing at them as they stumbled out of her way like startled pigeons.
"Get out of my way," she snapped, her heels clicking against the concrete in a rapid-fire staccato that matched the frantic energy radiating from her. Her pale blonde hair was slightly disheveled, a rare breach in her usual immaculate composure, and her eyes were fixed on Tòumíng with an intensity that bordered on manic.
Tòumíng raised a hand in a weak, conciliatory gesture, the other hand pressing an ice pack he'd grabbed from Eric's truck against his swollen cheek. "Hey, I'm fine, really, it's just—"
He didn't get to finish the sentence. The Ice Queen closed the distance in three swift strides and grabbed his head with both hands, yanking him forward into an embrace that was less hug and more full-body collision. His face was immediately smothered by the soft, overwhelming pressure of her breasts, and whatever breath he'd had left was crushed out of him.
"Oh, my poor baby," she cooed, her voice muffled by the fabric of her gown and the sheer force of her enthusiasm. "I was so worried! Do you have any idea what I've been doing for the past three hours? Pacing! I've been pacing! The guards thought I was going to destroy the lobby!" Her fingers combed through his hair, checking his scalp, his neck, his jaw.
"Are you hurt? Do you have any broken bones? Tell me everything, don't leave anything out!"
Tòumíng's voice came out strangled, his words pressing against her chest. "I can't breathe."
"Nonsense! You're breathing fine!" She pulled back just enough to examine his face, her pale blue eyes scanning every bruise, every cut, every angry red patch of skin. "You look terrible. Absolutely terrible. You're covered in blood is any of it yours? Of course it's yours, you're the one who was fighting a superhuman killer while I was stuck here trying to coordinate your rescue!"
"I can explain—"
"Bing him to the trauma room!" the Ice Queen barked over her shoulder, her voice snapping from tender concern to commanding authority in the space of a single breath. "Now! Move! I want a full team on him immediately!"
Two of her guards, massive men who looked like they could bench press a small car, stepped forward and each took one of Tòumíng's arms. Before he could protest, he was being lifted off his feet and carried toward the skyscraper's entrance like a sack of potatoes. His legs dangled uselessly beneath him, his ice pack slipping from his grip and clattering to the ground.
"Wait, I can walk—"
"You'll do no such thing!" The Ice Queen was walking beside him, her hand resting on his forehead as if checking for a fever. "You're going to be examined by the best medical staff money can buy, and you're going to stay in that trauma room until I'm satisfied that you're not about to drop dead. Understood?"
Tòumíng opened his mouth to argue, but the guards were already carrying him through the lobby, past the marble floors and the massive chandelier and the wide-eyed staff who'd stopped what they were doing to watch the spectacle. He was taken to a private medical wing on the third floor, a space that looked more like a luxury spa than a hospital room, with pristine white walls, state-of-the-art equipment, and a bed that was easily the most comfortable thing Tòumíng had ever laid on.
The medical team descended on him like vultures. They stitched his chin, even though he tried to tell them it would heal on its own. They stitched his forehead, where the gash from his headbutting spree was still raw and angry. They stitched his shoulder, where Lù Jī's blade had left a long, shallow trench, and his rib area, where the skin had split from the impact of their fight. Every time he opened his mouth to explain that he had a healing factor, that the stitches were unnecessary, that he was fine, really, the Ice Queen would lean over him with those pale eyes and say something like, "Just let them work, darling," and he'd shut up.
Three hours later, Tòumíng was propped up against a mountain of pillows in the trauma room's recovery bed, sipping a juice box through a straw.
The straw was arguably the most insulting part of the whole experience. The medical staff had also informed him that he had two herniated discs and a broken rib, none of which were currently bothering him because his Metabolic Healing had already started working on them, but he couldn't exactly explain that to the doctor who'd given him the prognosis with a grave expression.
"You'll need to stay here for at least two months," the doctor had said, her voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Minimum. Your body needs time to heal properly. We'll need to monitor your spinal alignment, your rib cage, and your soft tissue to ensure there's no long-term damage."
The Ice Queen, who'd been hovering at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed, nodded approvingly. "Two months. That's fine. He'll stay here as long as he needs to. I'll have his room prepared with everything he might want, books, entertainment, whatever he prefers."
Tòumíng sighed, the sound long and exhausted. He didn't argue. Partly because he was too tired to argue, and partly because it was better this way.
The Ice Queen had no idea about Cupid or his powers, no idea that he could heal from just about anything given enough calories and time. If he'd suddenly bounced back from a twenty-five-foot fall and a fight with a superhuman killing machine, she would have asked questions. Too many questions. Questions he couldn't answer without revealing things he wasn't ready to reveal.
Better to look beat up. Better to let her fuss over him. Better to play the role of the injured, helpless victim while his body quietly repaired itself beneath the surface.
He took another sip of his juice box, the sugary liquid doing little to revive his spirits.
Before he could dwell on his situation further, Cupid's voice cut through his thoughts like a bell. "Hurry up and check your notifications, you idiot. They've been piling up while you've been lounging around."
Tòumíng's eyes widened slightly. His mental system interface had been buzzing in the background all evening, but he'd been too distracted by the chaos to pay it any attention. He focused inward, pulling up the notification log, and was immediately met with a cascade of blue text.
He'd gotten five notifications.
His grin spread slowly across his face as he scanned them, the juice box forgotten in his hand.
The first notification detailed a new skill: Iron Shin. His legs were now twice as dense and durable as before, the bone structure reinforced at the molecular level. It was perfect for someone who spent half his life kicking, dodging, and getting hit by things that should have turned his legs to jelly.
The second notification explained Purity Extract, a skill that let him extract impurities from gems to make them even purer. No cooldown, and he could process up to five pounds at a time. This was massive. It meant he could turn mediocre stones into premium ones, increasing their value exponentially with almost no effort.
The third notification was a level-up for Stone Henge and Stone Crusher. The descriptions were vague, something about expanded manipulation range and reduced cooldown, but Tòumíng would need to test the specifics later.
The fourth notification was the most exciting one he'd read in a while. Mineral Magnetism. He could emit a magnetic field from his hands, up to a total of 0.002 teslas. It wasn't strong enough to lift cars or stop bullets, but it was enough to attract small metallic objects, disarm enemies, and probably do some cool party tricks if he ever found himself at a party. Which he never did.
The fifth notification was a level-up for his Suicidal Idiot title. It had gained a new property: a danger sense, active within twenty feet of his body, with no cooldown. He could now sense killing intent aimed at him, a passive ability that would alert him to threats before they materialized. It wasn't combat precognition, but it was close.
And underneath all of that, there was a final note that made his grin widen impossibly further: his David title had gained a subtitle. Achilles. When fighting someone fifty pounds lighter than him and at least three inches shorter, his speed was increased by fifty percent. It wasn't applicable in every fight, but against smaller, faster opponents, people like Lù Jī—it would be a game-changer.
"Finally," Tòumíng whispered, his voice carrying the weight of hours of waiting. "Took you long enough."
He set the juice box aside and leaned back against the pillows, his body aching but his spirit buoyed by the fresh abilities. The Ice Queen was still hovering at the foot of his bed, her expression a mixture of relief and worry, but Tòumíng barely noticed her.
His mind was already racing ahead, thinking about how to use his new powers, how to test their limits, how to keep the Ice Queen from noticing that he was healing much faster than any normal person should. It was a delicate balancing act, but Tòumíng was getting used to balancing.
He closed his eyes, a tired smile still playing at his lips, and let the comfortable darkness of the trauma room's soft lighting wash over him. He had new abilities. He had a plan. And he had a few hours before the Ice Queen inevitably found another reason to fuss over him.
The Ice Queen's voice broke through his thoughts, softer now. "Get some rest, darling. You're safe now."
Tòumíng didn't respond. He just let the warmth of the room, the softness of the bed, and the weight of his exhaustion pull him down into a deep, dreamless sleep.