American Medicine God: Starting by Inheriting a Pharmaceutical Company and Selling Medicine

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Thank you all for your comments and gifts! A special thank you to the generous gift from "书荒2077" for the extra chapter!

I've noticed many people are quite averse to the younger sister's character's storyline, so let me clarify again: there will absolutely be no melodramatic plot twists later on. The younger sister was introduced primarily to make Victor's self-analysis more straightforward and natural. After his enlightenment in Longchang, he becomes a pure embodiment of capitalism, a capitalist demon walking among humans! To paraphrase the new Three Kingdoms, he has been completely corrupted by fate! The later plot is even more ridiculous!

The following preview is about the story of Xiao Rizi. After the ending, there will be stories told by Prison A and Easter eggs to satisfy your expectations!

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Philadelphia. A persistent drizzle. The ghosts of the past have appeared.

St. Mary's Sanatorium is located on the edge of the city and is a Victorian red-brick building constructed in the late 19th century.

This is a shelter, and also a garbage dump.

It houses people forgotten by society: those with advanced Alzheimer's, those with severe schizophrenia, and addicts whose brains have been completely burned out by chemicals.

Fox Mulder pushed his wheelchair along the backyard path, which was covered with rotting leaves.

His six months in federal prison changed him.

The once spirited FBI agent is gone. Now, he's lost twenty pounds, his cheekbones are prominent, and he has a stubble of unshaven hair on his chin. But his eyes no longer hold the idealistic passion they once did; instead, they are as deep as a dry well, concealing a stubborn obsession that makes it hard to look directly at him.

He is no longer Agent Fox Mulder. Now, his file identifies him as a private investigator with a criminal record, barely making ends meet by helping wealthy women catch cheating husbands and investigating insurance fraud cases for insurance companies.

"I don't understand why we even came here."

Miller, his partner, followed behind, carrying two steaming cups of cheap convenience store coffee.

Miller was still the same, except his hairline had receded a bit, and his eyes held a hint of weariness and helplessness. After Mulder went to prison, he was completely marginalized within the department and transferred to the "Backlog Case Clearance Department" to organize files—which was essentially a disguised form of exile. Now, he was on annual leave.

"It's been a week, Mudd. We come here every day, spending four hours here every day. But it's pointless."

Miller pointed to the middle-aged man in the wheelchair with his head tilted to the side and clear drool hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"This guy can't do anything except drool and wet his pants. His cerebral cortex has shrunk to the size of a walnut. The medical report says he's in a vegetative state."

The man in the wheelchair is named Sean O'Malley.

Eight years ago, he was a top enforcer for the Irish gang in Philadelphia, known for his ruthlessness and drinking prowess.

But on that "Purple Water Night," he and dozens of his brothers, led by the gang leader, held a wild party to celebrate snatching a batch of "specially supplied goods."

They mixed that batch of "cough syrup" into the whiskey.

The result was disastrous. Overnight, almost the entire leadership of the Irish gang was wiped out.

Sean is the only survivor.

Although he survived because he drank less, severe poisoning encephalopathy caused him to lose most of his memory and language abilities, and his IQ regressed to the level of a three-year-old child.

"He knows the truth."

Mudd stopped, squatted down, took out a tissue, and wiped the drool from the corner of Sean's mouth.

"He was the only eyewitness to that massacre. He was the only link connecting Victor Corleone to the gangster's past. He was also the only living witness to prove that the syrup was a 'Trojan Horse'."

"So what?" Miller sighed, handing him the coffee. "Even if he could speak, his testimony would be worthless in court. Any recent law school graduate could refute him. The defense attorney would portray him as a madman, a drug addict."

"I don't need him to appear in court."

Mude took the coffee but didn't drink it; he just held it in his hand to warm it.

"I only need a name. A clue. A starting point. As long as I can prove that the batch of syrup from back then was deliberately left behind, and not accidentally stolen, I can expose Victor's disguise."

Just then, the gloomy sky was suddenly torn apart by a blinding bolt of lightning.

Followed by.

"Boom!"

A deafening clap of thunder boomed over the sanatorium, like the roar of God.

Sean, in his wheelchair, shuddered violently. His eyes widened abruptly, his pupils contracting sharply, and his previously cloudy, dull gaze became crystal clear in that instant, filled with extreme terror.

The fear did not stem from the thunder, but from some deep-seated memory that had been awakened.

"No...don't drink it..."

A hoarse roar escaped Sean's throat. His withered hands suddenly gripped Mulder's trench coat collar tightly.

"Mold! He's talking!" Miller exclaimed, nearly spilling his coffee.

Mudd immediately threw down his coffee, grabbed Sean's wrist tightly, and brought his face close to Sean's: "Sean, look at me! Who gave you the drugs? Who?"

Sean's body trembled violently, as if he were seeing demons from hell. His lips quivered, uttering a few syllables in fits and starts.

"Fat... Fat Tony..."

"It was him...he abandoned the goods...it was a trap! It was a trap!"

Mulder's heart pounded. Fat Tony. The mob boss who was already dead in prison.

"I know it was Fat Tony!" Mulder pressed urgently, his voice trembling with excitement. "Who made Fat Tony do this? Who else?"

Sean's eyes began to glaze over, the clear light in them fading rapidly, like a candle flickering in the wind.

The sound stopped abruptly. His body went limp, his eyes rolled back, and he fainted. Drooling again came from the corner of his mouth.

"Damn it!" Mulder growled, slapping Sean's cheek hard. "Wake up! Sean! Finish what you're saying!"

But Sean had completely lost consciousness.

The raindrops began to pelt down, and in an instant, it turned into a torrential downpour.

Mudd stood in the rain, letting the cold water soak his trench coat and hair. He clutched the miniature recorder in his pocket tightly in his hand.

The red recording light is still flashing.

"Fat Tony. It's Fat Tony again. This is a dead end." Miller wiped the rain off his face and shouted, "I investigated him before he went to jail. He was supposed to be a witness for the prosecution, but he got his neck stabbed with a sharpened toothbrush during exercise time in prison. The trail went cold!"

"No, this isn't it! This is exactly what makes everything work. His men are still around!" Mulder put the tape recorder into his inner pocket. "If we can find the people who helped Fat Tony transport the goods back then, we can put this piece of the puzzle together."

Mud turned around, his eyes shining frighteningly bright in the rainy night.

"Mulder, wake up!" Miller grabbed Mulder's shoulders, trying to shake him awake. "Fat Tony is dead! Sean's a madman! You only have a fuzzy recording! You want to use that to indict Victor Corleone? He's a pharmaceutical tycoon, philanthropist of the year, and the governor's best friend! He has the best legal team in the country!"

"A simple murder charge certainly wouldn't do him any good."

Mudd pushed Miller's hand away and said coldly.

"Who said I'm going to charge him with murder?"

"So what do you want to do?"

"We're going to use RICO."

"RICO?" Miller froze, then gasped. "The Anti-Extortion and Bribery Organization Act? You're trying to label him a Mafia godfather?"

"That's who he always was."

"Think about it, Miller. Everything that's happened in these past eight years."

"The Irish gang massacre, the corruption scandal involving key FDA officials, the intimidation and takeover attempts against his business rivals, and this ridiculous politically funded wedding..."

"If you treat them as isolated cases, Victor can always get away unscathed. Because he can always find a scapegoat."

"But what if we put them all together?"

Mude stretched out his finger and drew a line in the air.

"This is a network. It's a criminal corporation operating for mutual benefit. Victor is the CEO of this corporation."

"Under the RICO Act, we don't need to prove that Victor personally killed anyone. We only need to prove that these separate crimes are connected and served the interests of the same organization. Then, as the head of the organization, Victor Corleone would be held responsible for all the crimes, including the dozens of lives lost eight years ago."

Miller fell silent.

He looked at his former partner, now dismissed and disgraced. He suddenly realized that six months in prison hadn't destroyed Mudd; instead, it had forged him into a sharper, more dangerous blade.

The old Mude believed in law and justice. The current Mude only believes in results.

“This requires evidence,” Miller’s voice lowered. “A massive amount of evidence. We need wiretapping, we need to track complex offshore fund flows, we need to recruit tainted witnesses from the inner circle. And now… you don’t even have FBI credentials. You can’t even apply for a search warrant.”

"I don't need a search warrant."

Mudd pulled a crumpled business card from the pocket of his soaked trench coat. It was given to him by a hacker he met in prison; it only contained an encrypted dark web address.

"The law restricts us, but it also protects them. Now that I've been kicked out of the game, I'll play by the rules outside the game."

"We just need the truth. By whatever means necessary."

Mude pushed his wheelchair again and walked towards the sanatorium building. His figure appeared lonely and resolute in the rainy night, like a lone hero heading to battle.

"The ghosts of the past have awakened, Miller. Victor's retribution will come."

"And I am that retribution."