The atmosphere in the observation wing was suffocating. Dr. Chen stood behind the reinforced glass of the consultation room, staring at the telemetry monitors. He hadn't slept in twenty-four hours.
"His cellular density is increasing," Chen whispered to the Hospital Director. "Look at the bone marrow scans. It's as if his body is rewriting its own genetic code. Yesterday he was a shattered husk; today, his vitals are more robust than an Olympic athlete's. If we discharge him, we lose the medical discovery of the century. If we keep him against his will... frankly, Director, his eyes... they make me feel like I'm the one who's dying."
Inside the room, Mo Jue sat cross-legged on the sterile white bed. To the doctors, he was a medical anomaly. To himself, he was a god trapped in a cage of rusted iron.
Mo Jue closed his eyes, ignoring the rhythmic humming of the hospital's electronic grid. He was sifting through the "trash" memories of Li Tian, organizing them like a commander mapping enemy territory.
Ye Bingyao... The name felt like a drop of acid in his mind.
He visualized her sitting on a throne of jade back in his original realm, likely basking in the stolen glow of his Origin Core. He didn't just want her dead. A quick death was a mercy he had granted to a thousand enemies. For her, he would need something more.
I will cultivate this weak mortal shell until it can tear through the void, he plotted. I will return to the Nine Hells, and I will strip her of her beauty, her followers, and her divinity. I will make her watch as I burn every sect that conspired with her, until she is the last living soul in a world of ash.
The sheer intensity of his killing intent caused the water in a nearby glass to vibrate and eventually crack, the liquid spilling across the tray in a frozen, jagged pattern.
The quiet of the ward was shattered by the thunder of heavy boots and the frantic shouting of the hospital's security detail.
"Clear the hall! Get the Chief of Surgery down here NOW!"
A gurney was rushed past Mo Jue's room, surrounded by six men in charcoal-grey suits with earpieces—professional bodyguards who moved with military precision. Behind them followed the Hospital Director, sweating profusely and bowing to a middle-aged man who looked like he could buy and sell the entire district.
On the gurney lay Elder Song, the patriarch of the Song Conglomerate—one of the "Hidden Dragons" of the city's underground and legitimate business worlds. The old man's face was the color of lead, his breathing shallow and rattling.
"He's in V-Fib!" Dr. Chen shouted, abandoning Mo Jue's window to join the chaos. "Defibrillator! Charge to 200!"
Mo Jue stood up, his movements fluid and silent. He walked to the glass door of his room. Through the window, he watched the "high-ranking" mortals scramble. He saw the monitors flatlining and the desperate look on the faces of the bodyguards.
In his old life, Mo Jue could have healed this man with a flick of his finger. In this body, his spiritual qi was nearly non-existent. However, he possessed the Heaven-Peering Eye. He didn't see a "heart attack"—he saw a blockage of the Yang meridians, a spiritual stagnation common in those who held too much power but lacked the soul-strength to balance it.
The old man wasn't just sick; he was being consumed by his own unspent life-force.
This old ant has influence, Mo Jue mused, his violet eyes narrowing. In this world of machines, influence is the currency of power. If I am to find the resources to cultivate and protect the sister of this vessel, I will need a hound with sharp teeth.
The "Thump" of the defibrillator echoed through the hall. "Clear! Again!"
"He's gone, Doctor," a nurse cried out. "There's no pulse."
Mo Jue leaned against the doorframe, a cold, predatory smile touching his lips. He reached out with a thin thread of his newly formed Demonic Essence, a needle-thin strand of black energy that slithered across the hallway, unnoticed by the frantic doctors.
"I haven't given him permission to die yet," Mo Jue whispered.