Considering how difficult Carlos was to deal with, Sloan wore a grim expression as he thought things through. "Tell the assassination team this: if they don't want to keep seeing their comrades killed, they need to bring back Carlos's head at all costs. Otherwise, the only fate waiting for us is destruction or disbandment."
Hearing this, the bald subordinate, whose face twisted with rage at the memory of comrades killed by Carlos, replied with a vicious grin. "Don't worry. I'll deliver your message to them personally. If we can't bring back Carlos's head, none of us will return."
"Good." Sloan nodded solemnly. "Don't blame me—everything we do is for our mission. God bless us."
"God bless the Brotherhood. Wait for my good news."
Watching the subordinate leave with a determined expression, Sloan allowed himself a rare smile. It had been surprisingly easy to convince seven people to risk their lives against Carlos.
But then the thought crossed his mind: quality often trumps quantity. He wasn't confident in the assassination team's success. After a moment of reflection, he decided that training Carlos's son, Wesley, couldn't be abandoned just yet.
The plan was simple. If news came in a few days that Carlos had been dealt with, Sloan would immediately get rid of Wesley. If not, Wesley would continue to be manipulated into fighting his father.
Having made up his mind, Sloan left his office and saw the still-frightened Wesley. The young man, looking around anxiously, locked eyes with Sloan, who appeared to be a kindly, white-haired elder.
Sloan's appearance was deceptively benevolent, and with a bit of persuasion, the somewhat naive Wesley began to half-believe the story that his father was the legendary assassin, "Mr. X."
Still, the only way to confirm the truth was to contact William. Wesley's primary thought was to ask William if his long-absent father was truly dead.
After wandering aimlessly all day, Wesley finally received a call from William in the evening. William told him bluntly to stop reaching out and avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Fearful of being hunted down, Wesley reluctantly returned to the textile factory.
From that day forward, Wesley's life consisted of shooting practice, sparring sessions with the mechanic, knife fights with the butcher, and being carried unconscious, covered in injuries, to the recovery chamber to heal in a special restorative pool.
This restorative liquid, which accelerated red blood cell division and healing, greatly shortened recovery times. It also caught William's attention as a highly valuable resource.
Unlike his own healing magic, this liquid could be openly used and even commercialized.
Thus, only a few days after Wesley entered the textile factory, Sloan began using the restorative liquid liberally to speed up Wesley's training. Sloan didn't care about potential long-term side effects and personally prepared additional supplies for Wesley. Predictably, Sunday recorded the entire process.
Watching Wesley get punched in the face by the mechanic or have his hand stabbed by the butcher, William couldn't help but wince in sympathy. Yet, no matter how severe Wesley's injuries, a few hours in the recovery pool left him as good as new, ready to resume training.
Anyone with even basic medical knowledge would understand that human cells have a limited capacity for division and growth. Using this liquid daily, as Wesley did, was bound to have consequences for his lifespan.
However, since Carlos—Wesley's father—didn't seem to mind, William saw no reason to intervene.
As for directly asking Carlos for the recovery liquid, William dismissed the idea immediately. Why ask when he could quietly steal the formula from Sloan?
If Carlos wasn't aware of the formula, asking would be futile. If he was aware, William was sure Carlos would share it. But using the formula commercially in the future would then obligate William to share profits with Carlos and Wesley.
Paying them outright would feel too transactional, potentially damaging their relationship. Yet failing to offer compensation could lead to outright conflict. And giving away equity in the venture? William wasn't that generous.
The solution was simple: don't ask Carlos at all.
By keeping personal interests separate, William could avoid potential tensions. He also understood that while his current relationship with Carlos was good, even the strongest bonds could fray if stretched too far.
Once William had the formula in hand, Wesley's integration into the Assassin Brotherhood would have fulfilled half of William's goals. The other half would depend on Wesley's progress in training.
With Wesley's training on track, William's focus naturally shifted to exploring the commercial potential of the recovery liquid.
There was no question about its effectiveness—Wesley's daily usage was proof enough. With such results, the financial prospects were equally undeniable. Even just selling the formula could fetch at least $1 billion.
But selling the formula outright was out of the question. Why settle for a one-time payout when creating a specialized therapeutic business could yield far greater profits?
Even if the service was initially exclusive to athletes, annual earnings could easily reach billions. And once the product went public, the potential valuation could soar to tens or even hundreds of billions.
William couldn't help but ponder the broader implications. If this technology became widespread, sports that involved physical collisions—like soccer, rugby, or basketball—might become even more aggressive.
Broken bones or torn ligaments wouldn't seem so daunting if surgery and a single night in a recovery pool could fully heal them. This could embolden technical players to take more risks.
Alternatively, William could keep the technology private, exclusively for his own use. If so, his Chelsea team would become an unparalleled magnet for talented players.
Offering this service to the general public seemed unlikely, though. William had no intention of making it affordable. Small injuries? $100,000. Major injuries? $500,000. A broken leg? If you can't pay $1 million, don't bother.
Thinking about the potential, William instructed Sunday, "Set up a task to analyze this recovery formula. I need detailed data."
"Understood, sir. The task has been created, but we lack test subjects."
"That's easy. This is New York—we have no shortage of scumbags here. Prepare the lab first, then identify the worst offenders who deserve to go straight to hell. Once you find them, I'll have them sent to the lab."
"Understood, sir. The lab will be ready in three hours."
"Ha, I'm not even in a rush, but you seem eager," William chuckled. "You know the type of people I hate most, right?"
"Yes, sir. Such individuals are abundant in New York. I've already identified over a hundred suitable candidates in just this short time."
"Impressive. Show me."
Moments later, William's 3D virtual display filled with images of various criminals. Among them were some truly vile individuals.
One name caught William's attention immediately: Clarence Dobby. Just looking at the man's face annoyed him, and a quick glance at his record—particularly his involvement in a massacre—sealed the deal.
"This guy. I want him captured. After the experiments, dispose of him."
"Understood, sir."
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Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
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Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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