Chapter 3: A Bunch Of Quacks

Byron rushed forward, pinched an acupoint to stop his father's bleeding, and checked his injuries with practiced hands. Relief swept through him. He'd made it in time; any later and the consequences would have been unthinkable. Moments later, the ward door banged open. The attending physician, Timothy Casson, strode in, muttering curses. "Damn it, what's this? Who the hell tries to kill themselves in a hospital?" When Timothy saw that the patient was Oliver, his temper flared. "So it's you, you penniless piece of trash. If you want to die, do it outside. Don't you know croaking in here wrecks my stats? Damn, what rotten luck." Byron's jaw tightened, anger burning through his chest. "You quack," he shot back, "Do you have any conscience left? My father's like this, and you're still spouting garbage?" Timothy just crossed his arms, a cold smirk tugging at his mouth. "Can't squeeze a dime out of you, and you're nothing but trouble. Don't want treatment? Then get the hell out." "What did you just say?" Byron stepped in, grabbed Timothy by the collar, and slapped him hard across the face. Smack! Timothy reeled, glasses shattering. "You… you want trouble? I'm warning you. Don't cause trouble here. Security! Security!" "Security?" Byron raised his hand and kept going. The sharp sound of slaps echoed through the ward. "Aah, stop! Stop! I get it, I was wrong, please..." Timothy's face was raw and bloody, his screams piercing the air. The uproar spread through the hospital. Security guards and several administrators rushed in. "Enough! This is a hospital, not a place for you to brawl," a middle-aged man barked. Amber darted in, grabbing Byron's arm. "Bro, stop. Dad's health comes first; don't make a scene." "Please… sir… I'm sorry… please don't hit me…" Timothy sobbed, all bravado gone. Byron took a long breath, glared at him, then tossed him to the floor. "Out of my sight, you useless quack." Gasps went up around them. Timothy's face was so mangled it was hard to tell he was human. Amber stepped forward, pleading with the doctors. "Please, doctors, my dad is fading. Help him. Please save my father." Blank, icy faces stared back. A hospital administrator, Henry Sabey, answered in bureaucratic jargon. "You beat our doctor and still expect treatment? Dream on. Not unless he kneels and apologizes to Dr. Casson." "How could you..." Amber looked up through tears that brimmed on her lashes. "Dr. Casson insulted my father first. Why should my brother apologize? Don't any of you care about what's right?" "Right?" Henry sneered. "My word is law. No kneeling, no treatment." Amber flushed with humiliation, trembling and lost. Byron gave a short, cutting laugh. "Pfft. A bunch of useless quacks, all puffed up and nothing to show for it." "What did you say?" Fury swept through the roomful of physicians. "Bro…" Amber's voice quivered with panic. "Come here," Byron said, steady. "We don't beg from trash. I can treat Dad myself." "Ha…" The doctors scoffed. "You? Some hot-headed punk who thinks he's a healer? Quit spinning stories." "Yeah. Don't make things worse for the patient. You'll regret it." Byron ignored them. He went to Oliver's bed and began his examination. "Bro… can you really do it?" Amber asked, anxious. "Trust me," Byron said gently, "Prison wasn't a waste of time." He placed his palm over Oliver's chest. True Essence flowed, calm and steady, from his body into his father's. Color returned to Oliver's pale face, visible to the naked eye. The doctors stared, stunned. Eyes bulged. No transfusion, no standard treatment, so how could the patient's vitality rebound in moments? Byron drew seven silver needles, his focus sharpening. "Seven Ghost Needles." He flicked his fingers. The seven needles seemed to come alive, arcing gracefully through the air and settling precisely into seven key acupoints. With each needle placed, Oliver's body gave a slight, controlled shiver. Byron lifted his hands and cupped the air, working as if kneading from a distance, guiding energy through meridians, clearing blockages, and realigning bones with ease. Amber's eyes widened. She bit her lip, afraid even to breathe too loudly. Finally, Byron withdrew the needles and let out a long breath. "Am I dead…" Oliver's eyelids fluttered open. Byron's face came into focus. "Byron… son?" Oliver's eyes slowly cleared. "Is this a dream? Son, you… you're back!" Byron smiled. "Dad, it's not a dream. I'm back. Your paralysis is gone. Try standing." A collective gasp went up. "That's impossible. He's joking," someone muttered. Then they saw it. Under everyone's gaze, Oliver pushed upright, braced against the bed, and hauled himself to his feet. His steps wobbled, but he walked on his own. "How… how is that possible?" A young doctor blurted, voice stripped raw with disbelief. "My God. That's a miracle." Nurses whispered, shaken. "We heard the case was hopeless. This is unreal." "Yeah. How did he even do that?" Henry stood speechless, his face darkening by the second. In the crowd, a doctor watched, eyes lighting up. The chairman of the Thubron Group had collapsed with sudden paralysis three months ago; a parade of famous specialists had been useless. His daughter had posted a public bounty, searching for a miracle worker to restore her father. This young man's methods were uncanny. Perhaps he could be recommended to that icy woman, with a nice referral fee. The doctor tucked the thought away. Byron didn't spare them another glance. He gathered his father's belongings, took Oliver and Amber by the hands, and said, "Dad, Amber, we're leaving. No reason to stay in this dump." The security guards moved to block them, voices harsh. "Stop! This isn't settled. No one leaves." Smack! Without a word, Byron slapped a guard so hard he flew backward. "Aah!" The guard crashed to the floor, clutching his face and screaming. "Cocky punk!" The others charged. Byron's kicks landed, boots hitting ribs and shoulders. The guards crashed to the ground. "Ow!" They sprawled on the floor, groaning in pain. Clatter! A black token slipped out of Byron's pocket and skittered across the corridor tiles. Seeing Byron's ferocity, the remaining guards froze, fear draining their faces. They backed off, opening a path without another word. Byron led his father and sister out without a hitch. "You useless lot can't even stop one man. Why does the hospital pay you?" Henry stormed from the ward, swearing. His eye caught the black token lying on the floor. He bent and picked it up, turning it over in his hand. It was old-world in design and beautifully crafted. "Mr. Sabey, what's that?" a physician asked. "How should I know?" Henry squinted at it, muttering. "No idea what it's made of. Looks valuable…" A low, steady voice sounded behind him. "Why are you all gathered here? What's going on?" Henry spun around. Surrounded by dozens of men in black, a middle-aged man with a commanding presence strode in at an unhurried pace. "Oh my God, it's Mr. Farrell!" The newcomer was Porter Farrell, a kingpin rumored to run both sides of the law across five cities and thirteen towns. "Good day, Mr. Farrell!" The doctors bowed deeply, not daring to look up. Usually, they only saw a man like this on television. Seeing him in person made every throat tighten. Henry snapped to attention and hurried forward with a bow. "Mr. Farrell, what brings you here?" Porter shot him a look. "You are…" "I… I'm Henry Sabey, deputy director of the hospital." "Oh." Porter's face remained unmoved. "My dog was struck and injured. Your director was nearby and arranged for it to be put in the ICU. I'm here to pick up the dog." Henry laid it on thick. "You're a busy man, Mr. Farrell. You could've just sent someone." Porter started to reply, then his gaze dropped to the Token in Henry's hand. His expression froze. In one swift motion, he snatched the Token and examined it, his face turning grave. There was no doubt. It was the Jever Sect's Drakorn Token. Its appearance meant the Divine Lord had emerged. "Mr. Farrell… what is it?" Henry stammered, rattled. People said that when Porter wiped out the richest family in Zerton, he hadn't looked this severe. "Talk." Porter grabbed Henry by the collar, his voice razor-sharp. "Where did this Token come from?" Sabey shook so hard he wet himself. His teeth chattered. "It… it fell from a patient's relative." "A relative? Who?" "I… I don't know yet. I'll have to send someone to check the records…" "Useless. You can't answer my question!" Two open-handed slaps cracked across his face. In an instant, Henry's face swelled up like a pig's head. The other physicians trembled as if caught in a winter gale.