Put simply: the basic Healing Jutsu was the blunt instrument of the three. You flooded the injured area with chakra energy and hoped for the best — whether the cells actually absorbed it depended entirely on the severity of the wound. Salvageable injuries responded; unsalvageable ones didn't, no matter how much chakra you threw at them.
The Mystical Palm Technique was a massive refinement. It used precisely controlled chakra to stimulate cells at the wound site. Even if the local cells had died, it could trigger division in surrounding healthy cells, achieving remarkable recovery speeds for both internal and external injuries.
Maya's medical ninjutsu went a step further still. Even with dead cells at the wound site, her sensory perception could reach inside individual cells, controlling the organelles directly — even repairing damaged cells from within. The healing results were on another level entirely.
There was a group-scale medical ninjutsu — the Healing Resuscitation Regeneration Technique — where multiple medical ninja sustained prolonged chakra application to a patient's cells, essentially trying to brute-force their way through sheer volume to achieve the same effect Maya could manage on her own.
So why hadn't Madam President been able to perform medical ninjutsu before, despite being able to perceive cellular structures all along?
Because she hadn't known how to stimulate these cellular structures. Just dumping raw chakra onto them didn't work.
Remember Maya's Hansen Sage-Ninja Method? Its principle was controlling her version 0.1 sage chakra and letting it dissipate across different parts of her body, where cells would absorb the energy and strengthen. In other words, simply delivering chakra to cells only reinforced them — it didn't heal.
What Nonō Yakushi's exclusive medical skill card had given Maya was a single Silver-level Healing Jutsu — a technique so basic that every medical ninja in the Naruto world knew it. It was the "Introduction to Medicine" of the shinobi world.
But it was precisely because it was foundational that it provided the method for stimulating cells. And Madam President had taken that method, combined it with her Super Senses, and used it to stimulate organelles directly — achieving the most granular possible control over wound recovery.
Maya thought through the theory while using the chakra-coated nail of her right thumb to draw a light scratch across the back of her left hand. A thin line of blood welled up immediately.
In the Naruto world, the standard move would have been to cover her right palm in chakra, press it against the wound, and wait for it to close.
But that wasn't what Maya did. This was her own body — she didn't need an external hand. A faint blue glow appeared over the wound on her left hand, and the scratch vanished at a speed visible to the naked eye.
The blood that had seeped out slowly reversed course, flowing back into her body. In the span of that brief moment, she hadn't just sealed the wound shut. She'd gone deeper: the cells that had been sliced open were repaired at the organelle level, their ruptured cell walls mended. The cytoplasm that had leaked out was reabsorbed by neighboring cells. Not a single drop wasted.
Of course, the whole process took considerably longer than what the Naruto world's top medical ninja could manage. Someone like Kabuto, Tsunade, or Sakura could heal a wound like this with a single touch. Maya could match that speed, actually — if she gave up on the destroyed cells entirely and simply expelled them from the body.
Thanks to Lucius's visit, dinner conversation that evening revolved around their neighbor's recent fortunes. His album had sold close to a million copies. He might be moving out of Hell's Kitchen soon. He was apparently pursuing the daughter of some doctor — and that doctor happened to be the personal physician of some Upper East Side big shot. He could afford to rent out the Rainbow Room for an evening, so his net worth had to be in the hundreds of thousands at least. And so on.
Oh — and Jennifer, determined as ever to see her husband make something of himself, spent the rest of the evening riding Jack to stay up late and grind out pages, because clearly the path to becoming a world-famous director started with a better screenplay.
Maya didn't share Jennifer's particular brand of envious admiration for Lucius's success. She was confident that her own future earnings would dwarf his.
Technically speaking, with her abilities, she could stroll through any gang hideout and walk out with as many stacks of cash as she could carry. But that would be pointless — dirty money was dirty money, and you couldn't spend it.
Certain power moves that were perfectly badass back in China didn't fly in America. In China, you could walk into a real estate office lugging a sack full of hundred-yuan bills and the sales agent would probably think you were a boss. In America, you'd barely get through the door before someone quietly pressed the alarm. Five minutes later, you and your cash were both sitting in a police station.
Or say some nobody back in China suddenly found a box of cash in the attic and told everyone it was an old family heirloom — it might even trend on WeChat. In America? "You can't explain where this money came from? I'm sorry, we suspect these are illicit funds. Please come with us."
As for money laundering in the West — if you walked away keeping thirty percent, you'd found yourself a charity. Twenty percent meant your laundering service had a conscience. Ten percent? That was standard market rate.
And note: the person getting the big cut wasn't the one with the dirty money. It was the clean hands doing the washing.
After dinner, Madam President retreated to her bedroom, and with a soft pop, a Shadow Clone materialized. Same as always, the clone dutifully dressed and strapped on gear — but tonight she also had a pillow strapped to her back. Yes, an actual pillow. Not something shaped like a pillow. A pillow.
Over in the Murdock apartment, Matt was "watching" TV with his father when his senses flickered. "Dad, it's nine already. I'm going to bed."
Jack Murdock glanced at the clock and said, puzzled, "This early? Tomorrow's Saturday — you could sleep in."
"No, I'm tired. I'm locking my door. Don't come knocking."
Watching his son stride off looking entirely too alert for someone claiming to be sleepy, old Murdock considered this for a moment, then broke into a knowing grin. "Matt, you're hitting puberty. I get it. I get it. Just, uh, take it easy, all right?"
Matt stared blankly. "Dad, what exactly do you get?"
"You just want to go to bed early so you can wake up in the middle of the night for the, uh, late-night programs, right? What's the big deal? Don't be shy — every young guy goes through it! Back in my day, all I had was a poster of Marilyn Monroe..."
Before old Murdock could finish that sentence, Matt was already slamming his door shut, face dark as a thundercloud. "Madam President, couldn't you come a little later? Nine o'clock is way too early. Or does this mean I get off work early tonight?"
The Spider-Man Shadow Clone slipped out of the shadows with an expression that radiated pure righteousness, and declared: "Matt, you need to remember — we're not out there doing bad things. We're saving people. We are the guardians of this city. We are superheroes! Every minute earlier is one more person we can save — uh, earn — I mean, one more Influence — one more life we can protect!"
Faced with such an impassioned, overwhelmingly righteous Madam President, Matt found himself at a loss for words. He even felt a stab of guilt. All he did was sit on a rooftop, feel the breeze, and relay information. The esteemed Madam President was out there swinging from building to building, fighting criminals and saving innocents without a moment's rest. She was definitely working harder than he was. He really shouldn't be slacking off.
Filled with renewed determination, Matt threw open his closet and started rummaging.
"What are you looking for?"
"It's almost summer, but three hundred meters up on a rooftop? Even behind the wall it's freezing. The night wind cuts right through you. I need to bring a down jacket tonight." Matt didn't even look up as he spoke.