I am a necromancer, and I absolutely love America.

Chapter 129 The Second Seed of Plague (13K long chapter, please vote and subscribe)

Richard asked, "Excuse me, where is the station manager, Gary? I'm a new part-time worker."

A new part-time job? For men? A group of female blood collectors looked at Richard scrutinizingly, but no one spoke.

The entire blood donation center has a total of nine blood collectors, eight of whom are women, and Richard is the only man.

Richard was also somewhat surprised, never expecting to fall into a den of women.

In his experience, working in such an environment is usually not very pleasant.

A few seconds later, just as Richard was about to go find it himself, a white female nurse with a ponytail said, "Hey, hello, new here? I'm Chloe."

"Hello, my name is Richard."

"Is Gary's office at the very back?"

Thank you.

After Chloe finished speaking, she lowered her head and continued organizing the forms in her hands, without saying another word. She maintained a polite and restrained distance, her enthusiasm just right, neither too much nor too little.

Richard understood that this was the standard social distance between white and Asian people.

Richard walked towards the innermost office.

A Black female phlebotomist in her early twenties was working while keeping an eye on Richard.

The nameplate on the other person's chest read "Tiffany".

Tiffany's eyes held an undisguised scrutiny, caution, wariness, and an inexplicable sense of disgust.

Richard calmly nodded to her.

Tiffany curled her lip: "A yellow person actually showed up!"

Richard casually turned his head and glanced at Tiffany.

This is Richard's daily life in the United States: seemingly polite but actually distant white people, and black people who openly display their racism.

He was used to it long ago.

Black people occupy a very strange position in the social ecology of the United States.

They themselves bear the heaviest burden of racial discrimination, yet instead of retaliating against white people, they openly discriminate against other people of color.

Once a group of Black elites rise to prominence, they will desperately try to prove that they are already very much like white people.

Try to emulate white people in every aspect of life: the way you speak, your table manners, the music you listen to, and even the way you walk.

They no longer use street slang, no longer listen to hip-hop, and no longer greet their former neighbors.

They try to wash away their "Blackness" as if that would make them acceptable to the white world.

Unfortunately, just as a person who is educated will always be educated, a Black person will always be a Black person, and white people even went so far as to invent the one-drop rule for this.

Gary was a fat white man in his fifties, wearing a faded blue uniform, the buttons bulging slightly from his belly.

He briefly explained the shift system to Richard: part-time blood collectors work four-hour shifts and earn $28 per hour, which is higher than regular blood collectors, but they do not receive any social security benefits.

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Wages are paid daily, and can be paid by check or cash, but a 5% handling fee will be deducted for cash payments.

"It's the usual practice," Gary said, winking as if hinting at some kind of perk.

Richard knew that cash was tax-free, but he still chose the check.

He doesn't care about the price difference, but he cares a lot about the IRS.

In the United States, being targeted by a group of armed tax police is more troublesome and pointless than being targeted by a gang, at least the gang won't investigate your bank statements for three years.

Gary pursed his lips, and the smile on his face faded slightly.

FXXK Dongdaren!

They're all cowards!

He couldn't figure out Richard's background. Someone who could get the highest part-time salary from above must have some connections, but not too big ones.

People with real connections usually don't work as frontline blood collectors at plasma collection stations.

Blood collection workers are considered to be in a very high-risk profession in the United States.

A hematoma caused by a failed needle puncture is the mildest consequence. The most serious consequence is a needlestick injury. Being pricked in the finger by a used needle means facing the full set of post-exposure prophylaxis for HIV, hepatitis B, and hepatitis C, taking a month of PEP medication, and waiting for a six-month window period. During this period, every cold can be terrifying.

There are also blood clots hidden in veins, blood vessels deformed from repeated punctures, and the occasional venous spasm where the needle goes in, the blood vessel suddenly contracts, and the entire needle gets stuck in the middle of the blood vessel wall, unable to go in or out.

Not to mention those irritable blood donors, some of whom suddenly fainted halfway through the blood draw, sliding off the chair and knocking over the entire blood collection rack.

Some people, because they had to wait too long, threatened the blood collectors with a gun to let them have their blood drawn first.

Some people use fake IDs to impersonate healthy individuals, but their blood is full of residues of banned drugs.

Every blood collector wears two layers of gloves; it's not that they're being fussy, it's that they're genuinely afraid of dying.

In the United States, blood collectors face threats from both physical and magical harm.

Armed protesters can physically remove blood collection workers.

Medical exposure can magically send the blood collection worker away.

However, Richard was not afraid.

He is immune to all poisons and magic damage, and besides, a gun can no longer threaten him at close range.

Gary's on-the-job training was perfunctory; in less than 20 minutes, Richard was standing in front of his blood collection table.

The entire blood collection area of ​​the plasma station is a row of open cubicles, with each workstation separated by a semi-transparent plastic panel. You can see the shadows of the people next to you, but you can't see their faces.

The blood collection chair is dark blue with countless tiny cracks on its leather surface, and the armrests have developed a patina from wear.

On the instrument table next to it were blood collection needles, vacuum tubes, positive blood collection bands, and iodine swabs.

"Here, your worktable is." Losing 5% of the benefits made him very unhappy.

Gary finished making the arrangements and left in a hurry, not bothering to look back.

Tiffany, the black blood collection worker wearing a headscarf, immediately walked up to Richard: "Since you're new here, let's get this straight."

Her voice was not loud but very clear.

Everyone was looking at her.

"Everyone comes in order, numbered by the system, one number per person, no one can slack off! Just work hard here and don't think about anything else. No matter where you've worked before, this is where you are."

Richard glanced at her.

Tiffany seemed to be implying something.

Strange, I just got here, what's the rush?

But Richard didn't care; he was only there to earn "fresh flesh and blood."

be lazy?

Only a fool would slack off; I'd be eager to do it myself!

"OK," Richard said succinctly.

Tiffany muttered something and returned to her workstation.

The blood collection clerk next to her whispered, "Don't worry, Tiffany, it's your turn this time! Don't fret!"

"FXXK! It's always like this!" Tiffany was furious.

Tiffany has worked here for six years and is one of the most senior blood collectors in the entire blood donation center.

His technical skills are impeccable, and he works very hard.

In six years, he was never promoted!

She witnessed her supervisor being transferred three times, and each time she felt it would be her turn, only to be disappointed each time.

Every time, the male employee is the one who wins in the end!

Damn male chauvinism!

The last man just left, and now another one has arrived!

He's a student from Tokyo University!

And the technology is so good!

She could tell from the first person Richard Zha was no novice; his hands were so steady that the needle barely paused when it entered the skin.

After a brief arrangement, Richard began his work.

The first customer was a young Latina mother, whose name was Maya on her registration card, with a boy who looked to be about six or seven years old.

Maya pressed the child down onto a plastic chair in the waiting area, bent down, and poked the child's chest with her finger, warning him slowly and deliberately, "Listen! Sit here. Don't run around. Don't touch anything. Look at me, Jimmy! Do you hear me?"

Jimmy pouted, "Mom, I'm hungry."

"You'll have money soon," Maya snapped at the child again, making sure he wouldn't slip away while she lay down.

Jimmy was relatively well-behaved, sitting in the chair with his legs dangling over the edge, watching his mother lying on the blood collection chair with curiosity.

As Maya sat down across from Richard, she glanced at him and immediately frowned. "Why is it a man? Could you please find a woman?"

She immediately pulled her arm back and screamed, "Rude men always hurt me!"

Gary poked his head out of the office, his expression extremely impatient: "Take it one step at a time! If you don't want to, you can get out!"

Maya was a little scared and muttered a Spanish phrase.

Richard couldn't understand, but judging from the tone, it was probably an insult.

She still stretched out her hand, staring at Richard: "Newbie! You better watch out! Otherwise, I'll make you regret it!"

Richard didn't say a word.

He applied the tourniquet, selected a vein, disinfected it, and inserted the needle.

The whole procedure was completed in one smooth motion, so fast that she didn't even have time to hold her breath before the needle was steadily inserted into the vein, and the blood returned quickly and smoothly.

Maya opened her mouth slightly, then closed it again in annoyance; she couldn't find a reason to complain.

Chloe, working at the next station, saw the needle insertion through the semi-transparent plastic partition. The angle, depth, and blood return speed were all precise.

She glanced at Richard again, but wasn't too surprised.

He was probably a poor international student from the University of Tokyo. His family had sold everything they owned to send him abroad to study medicine, and he earned his living expenses by working part-time in his spare time.

The difference between second-generation immigrants (ABCs) and newly arrived international students is huge; you can tell at a glance.

ABCs' smiles are exaggerated; they accurately mimic the mouth shapes of white people.

The exaggerated angle of the upturned corners of the mouth, the number of teeth revealed, and the timing of the eyebrow and eye coordination all looked like they had been practiced hundreds of times in front of a mirror.

Richard did not have that smile on his face.

He simply completed his task quietly, and then began to extract fresh flesh and blood.

If you're not going to be polite to me, then smoke more.

Tiffany watched the whole thing from her workstation next door.

She cursed inwardly.

This kid's skills are amazing.

It was so good that it annoyed her.

She recalled the time last year when that white guy got promoted; that bastard's puncture skills weren't even as good as hers!

Now another man has arrived!

Maya watched as the blood bag filled up smoothly and then curled her lip.

"More skilled than she looks." She took the cash, stuffed it into her jeans pocket, and pulled the child's hand as she walked out.

"Mommy, I want to eat Doritos tortilla chips!" the child tugged at her arm.

"No way! Fifty cents can buy two eggs! Let's go home!"

The child pouted, turned around and made a face at Richard, then skipped and hopped after his mother until they disappeared through the door.

Richard looked at the child's unrestrained funny faces and remembered the legs dangling from the edge of the chair. He was too young to understand that his mother was worried about rent and food, which was why he was so happy.

Perhaps when I was a child, I was just like this child, unaware of what my parents were arguing about, unaware of why the atmosphere at home was so tense, unaware of how many hardships my parents were hiding behind their furrowed brows.

When Richard grew up and understood, he no longer had the joy of that child.

When the second old man sat down, Richard smelled his scent and frowned slightly.

It was a mixture of sweat, engine oil, food residue, and the sour smell accumulated from not showering for a long time.

The old man was wearing an orange sanitation worker's uniform, the reflective strips on his chest were worn white, his beard was gray, and his hair was messy and sticking up.

Richard glanced at it; his registration card read Joseph.

"Kid, I've never seen you before." Joseph sat down on the blood-drawing chair.

Richard nodded. "Hello, Joseph. Left hand or right hand?"

"Was it the left or right side last time? I can't remember." Joseph muttered, flipping his arm over. "It should have been the right side. So, the left side today."

My forearm is covered with needle marks, layer upon layer of marks from different healing stages.

The old one was white, the new one was dark red.

There are also a few scabbed, inflamed red spots.

Richard touched it; Joseph's vein had become thick and hard after repeated punctures, its surface bulging like a twisted rope, surrounded by dark pigmentation caused by damage to the blood vessel wall.

Repeated punctures can cause scar tissue to form on the vein wall, reducing the elasticity of the blood vessel and narrowing the lumen.

If Joseph needs intravenous fluids or dialysis in the future, medical staff will find that his blood vessels are no longer usable.

More seriously, repeated punctures in the same area can lead to varicose veins, thrombophlebitis, and even subcutaneous arteriovenous fistulas.

But these things... didn't seem to matter to Joseph.

He's over sixty years old; he probably won't live to see the day when complications come his way.

Richard quickly stabbed, healed, and then waited.

Joseph muttered, "It would be better if we could come three times a week, since we can only come twice a week."

"A little more money means I can pay more for my daughter's tuition."

He sat on the blood collection chair, as if talking to himself, or as if confiding in the air.

No one at the blood plasma station answered him.

In this place, everyone is used to all kinds of struggles at the bottom of society, and no one will respond to a sanitation worker's complaint.

Who doesn't need money?

Who doesn't have difficulties?

Tiffany, who was tidying up the equipment, didn't even look up: "Old man, the quality of your blood is getting worse and worse. If this continues, you won't even meet the blood collection standards."

A hint of disappointment flashed across Joseph's face.

His lips moved a few times, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he just sighed deeply.

"What should we do then?"

His tone was flat; it wasn't a question, but rather a repetition of a dilemma with no answer.

"What should we do then?"

He took the cash, clutched the few banknotes in his hand, and slowly pushed open the door to leave.

The figure in orange overalls became increasingly blurry behind the glass door.

Richard's third customer was a man in his early thirties.

The suit was pressed very crisply, but upon closer inspection, it was discovered that the collar was starting to wear out and the fabric on the cuffs had turned a faint white from wear.

Richard glanced at the registration card; the name was Allen.

A white blood collector, taking a break from his busy work of sorting blood bags, peeked over from the next workstation and sneered, "Don't let Allen's respectable appearance fool you, this guy used to work on Wall Street! Wall Street bastards! Every pore of their skin is rotten! They're the ones who stole all our money!"

Allen pursed his lips and said nothing.

He always chooses to come at this time, when it's almost closing time, when there are the fewest customers at the blood plasma station and the probability of running into acquaintances is also the lowest.

Richard glanced at him.

The female blood collection worker smiled and extended an invitation: "My name is Kayla. You're quite pretty. Come to my house tonight. I've never tried an Asian person before."

Richard glanced at her up and down: "I don't like small ones."

"FXXK!" Kayla cursed and shrank back.

The female blood collection workers burst into laughter.

Allen's blood has been drawn.

Another nurse handed him a bottle of mineral water and a pack of biscuits, which are standard supplies given to blood donors after blood collection.

Allen coldly said "No need," took the cash, and turned to leave.

"What are you pretending for! Just because you're wearing a suit doesn't make you any different from us!" Tiffany said dismissively.

Throughout the entire morning, Richard only drew blood from about 30 people.

One every 10 minutes, in Richard's view, the pace was as slow as taking a break.

But that's the speed of America.

Customers are called in turn, and there are also physical examinations, health inquiries, and rest periods for observation in between, so there's no rush.

Of the 30 people, Richard collected less than 3 units of fresh flesh and blood. It wasn't out of pity, but because each of them looked like they were about to collapse at any moment. Richard suspected that if he extracted even a little more, they would go into shock right in front of him.

The white pickup truck was parked on the side of the road next to the Lyon apartment, just in time to see the windows of Lyon through binoculars.

The vehicle was painted with the logo of a pipe repair company, and even the phone number was real.

If you call, someone will answer and say, "We can arrange for home service tomorrow morning."

The two people in the car were drinking coffee that had gone cold.

They are retired Delta Force security personnel who worked for private security companies for several years and now specialize in this kind of work—clean, quiet, and no reports required.

The person in the driver's seat was older, probably in his early forties, with his hair shaved very short, revealing a dark red scar on the back of his head.

The younger man in the passenger seat had long hair and was chewing gum.

The older man put down the binoculars and rubbed his eyes.

My eyes are so dry from staring at that motionless shadow behind the curtains for so long.

The young man took the binoculars and suddenly sat up straight.

"The curtains moved!"

It wasn't blown by the wind; someone pulled a crack open from the inside.

Lyon's face flashed through the gap in the curtains and then disappeared.

Something's not right!

The older man immediately took the binoculars, stared at them for a while, and then picked up his phone.

After the call connected, he didn't exchange pleasantries: "Lyon may have found us."

"6

"FXXK!" There was a two-second silence on the other end: "Why? Aren't you guys professionals?!"

"What do we do now!" The older man, without dwelling on his mistake, calmly reported the situation: "It seems he hired a bodyguard. There's a black Cadillac Escalade parked downstairs; it wasn't there yesterday. It's an armored car! It's someone from a professional security company!"

The young man spat out the car window, then took a weapons case from the back seat and began assembling a sniper rifle.

The older man started checking the safety of his handgun while making a phone call.

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then a voice deepened: "Is Leon planning to run away?"

"It seems so. A normal person wouldn't stand by the window looking at the scenery for that long. The way he pulled the curtains..." The young man imitated with two fingers: "He turned to the side, pinching the edge of the fabric with his knuckles, not just pulling it open casually, but controlling the force, slowly pulling it open a crack. He's looking for something and doesn't want to be found. He's looking for us, but hasn't found us yet."

"So, should we handle it in advance?"

After a moment, the person on the other end said, "No! I found his plane ticket; he's going to Canada! If he really wants to escape, catch him before he gets to the airport. I want him alive!"

"Arrest a rich kid at the New York airport? Alive?! FXXK! Do you know what you're saying?"

"Double the pay!"

The older man and the younger man exchanged glances, hesitated for a few seconds, and finally said, "Boss, this is really too dangerous..."

'

"double!"

"Deal! But I can't guarantee he's fully functional."

"No problem, as long as it can speak."

OK.

Just as Richard was about to finish his shift, the last customer arrived.

A young girl, probably in her early twenties, had her name tag read "Lina".

She had a split tongue, a silver lip stud, and her hair was dyed in three colors: pink, blue, and purple.

The false eyelash on her left eyelash had come unglued and was hanging halfway on her eyelid, trembling with each blink.

She clearly had a crazy night.

My mental state is currently in an abnormal state of excitement, not the kind of alertness you get after drinking coffee, but rather an over-discharge of the nervous system.

Richard glanced at the inspector: "Is this normal?"

In theory, blood should not be drawn from someone who is taking drugs.

"She said she didn't take drugs." The tester shrugged and whispered, "Don't worry. Let's draw her blood first. Her blood is of poor quality. Good blood goes to the rich, and poor blood goes to the poor; both can be sold for money."

Awesome! Richard was genuinely impressed by this theory.

As expected of the stronghold of capitalism, even blood is divided into different classes; the essence of capitalism has permeated every capillary.

Such poor blood quality is roughly equivalent to scooping water from an abandoned drainage ditch; the person receiving the transfusion can only hope for the best.

Lina plopped down in the blood collection chair with a nonchalant air, casually draping her left arm over the armrest as if she were lounging on her own sofa.

From the moment she lay down, she didn't glance at her arm once, her eyes fixed on Richard's face the entire time: "Hey, handsome Eastern guy. Let's chat, are you Japanese or Korean?"

"Your whole family are Japanese!" Richard straightened her arm, quickly inserted a needle, and then violently pulled out [fresh flesh and blood].

Lena exclaimed excitedly, "There was an underground party in Bushwick last night! Wow! Everyone was going crazy! The DJ flew right in from Berlin! Cool! Everyone says I look like Taylor Swift, especially from the side. Look at me from this angle..."

'

She tilted her head, struck a pose, and her left arm, which was resting on the armrest, looked like it was about to move.

"Don't move!" Richard pressed her back down.

"What are you afraid of? It's just a blood test! At worst, you'll have to get another shot!" Lina still didn't look at his own arm.

Then she suddenly started coughing violently.

It wasn't choking on saliva, but a deep cough that surged up from the bottom of my chest, five or six times in a row, each time feeling like something was being squeezed out of my lungs.

Richard frowned, instinctively leaning back and touching his mask.

Oh, I almost forgot, I'm immune to all poisons.

Lina laughed even more unrestrainedly: "It's just a little cold! Look how scared you are, you coward!"

Richard did not answer.

He placed his hand on her arm, pretending to speed up the blood draw, but actually scanned her entire body with flesh and blood reconstruction.

There was something in her blood and skin that he had never seen before!

A strange virus!

They are densely distributed around blood and skin cells, like some kind of parasitic hyphae.

What is the purpose of this thing?

It is not any known virus.

After Richard obtained the Seed of Plague, he specifically asked Christina to provide a batch of pathogens in order to collect more Seeds of Plague.

He observed everything carefully.

HIV virus particles appear as spherical, protruding particles under a microscope.

The spirochetes of syphilis will shimmer in dark vision.

Vibrio cholerae looks like a small comma.

However, none of these powerful and deadly viruses triggered any system alerts.

He once thought the "Seed of Plague" was a virus, but now it seems that's not the case at all.

For example, nuclear radiation is not a virus, but the system treats it as a kind of "plague".

Common viruses are not recognized by the system.

The system clearly has its own set of standards, and it only recognizes certain special things.

Richard is still unclear about the system's criteria for determining a "seed of plague," but in summary, the virus is not considered a "seed of plague."

Just then, something unexpected happened. The system suddenly issued a notification: "Ding! You have found a plague seed: Parasite Seed (Common)."

2

What? Richard was surprised.

Isn't the virus not considered a "seed of plague"?

Why did the system suddenly approve it again?

What's so special about this virus?

Richard quietly tried to transform the unknown virus into "fresh flesh and blood," but unfortunately, nothing changed.

Any cell in any living organism can be transformed into uniform [fresh flesh and blood].

Richard secretly drew an extra tube of blood, about five milliliters, and sealed it in a separate blood sample bottle.

Lina was completely unaware.

She was engrossed in recounting anecdotes from last night's party, talking and laughing.

Richard finished drawing blood while Lina continued talking.

He put the extra blood sample into a separate sealed bag and mixed it with the other blood bags.

After get off work, he would deliver the bag of blood samples to Christina's laboratory.

Lina walked away, grinning foolishly.

Richard watched her retreating figure.

Where did this silly woman get infected?

Fabian sat in a hamburger shop across from the Oak Grove Medical Research Center for three days.

On the table lay a half-read copy of The New Yorker and a cup of ice-cold black tea.

-

He wasn't hungry; he just needed an excuse to sit on the street without seeming suspicious.

He wore thin-rimmed glasses, had neatly styled hair, and wore a dark blue Oxford shirt with the cuffs buttoned up, making him look like a literature professor from a nearby university.

This image was the most effective disguise he had ever used in his more than 20 years of investigative career; no one would be wary of a scholar.

At the Oak Grove Medical Research Center, two security guards come here to eat every day.

Fabian was raising the black tea to his lips.

Two security guards, one old and one young, walked over.

Both men were carrying semi-automatic rifles, but the burger shop employee ignored them, calling out from a distance, "Hey! Same old story?"

"Still the same!"

"You know me." The two sat down with a smile, glancing casually at Fabian.

Fabian nodded to them in a friendly manner.

The chubby security guard responded in a friendly manner.

Fabian closed the magazine and said in the tone of strangers waiting for a meal, "Hey, what is this place? Why..." He pointed to the gate of the oak grove, "I've passed by several times, and every time I see those two guard posts, I think it's a military base."

The old security guard took the hamburger from the boss, squeezed two packets of ketchup on it, and casually said, "You wouldn't want to know about this place."

The young security guard added, "This is where people who are about to die make their last desperate attempt."

"What do you mean?" Fabian leaned forward slightly. "I'm a writer. I'm curious about places like this; maybe it can inspire me."

The old security guard glanced at him.

He's worked here for over a decade and can tell that Fabian isn't much of a threat.

"It's the kind of mid-to-late stage cancer, or the late stage of Alzheimer's disease. It's mostly cancer. I've worked here for over ten years, and I've never seen a single one leave alive."

The Oak Forest Research Center is indeed kept secret, but not in the military's way of "if you tell, you're shot." The secrecy here is more like a respectable barrier.

Those inside the wall don't need pity, and those outside don't need to know the truth.

Failed self-developed drugs are of little concern to anyone except investors.

"That sounds very sad."

"Yes, it's a really sad place," the old security guard sighed as well.

Seeing a bunch of patients walk in full of hope every day, only to be turned into corpses and carried away, would make anyone feel bad.

He took a bite of the hamburger, ketchup spilled from the corner of his mouth, wiped it with the back of his hand, and then licked it into his mouth.

The young security guard sipped his coffee and said, "That father and daughter have been really lucky lately. They're truly blessed by God—oh, no, by the Holy Maiden..."

'

The old security guard glared at him: "Tom!"

The young security guard immediately shut up.

In a place like this, secrecy is the first lesson.

This secrecy is less a security measure and more a final act of respect for the dying.

If you don't respect them, and you get caught, the fine could be enough to cover his expenses for a thousand years.

"Sorry, it's on me," Fabian immediately raised his hand.

The old security guard didn't pay any attention to anything.

The young security guard's words didn't reveal much information; he didn't mention any specific names or the patient's condition.

The two finished their meal quickly and left in a hurry.

Fabian swallowed the last bite of his hamburger, drank the now-cold black tea, and returned to his car.

He's been following Debbie for three days now.

He noticed nothing unusual over the three days, except that she came to the oak grove twice.

Fabian certainly knew what the Oak Grove Medical Research Center did; he could find out online, and with his powerful data-gathering abilities, it was a piece of cake.

Not only that, he also knew that the BOSS here was Christina Shepard.

A top academic tycoon, one of the three leading figures in the field of medicine and biological sciences in the United States, he is jokingly referred to as the "Biochemical Tyrant" by insiders.

Therefore, this is by no means a den of fraud and deception, but a legitimate research institution.

However, there is no hope for patients with advanced cancer.

This is true all over the world.

He didn't believe Shepard could break this curse.

She is indeed one of the top three biomedical giants in the United States, but being one of the top three in the scientific field means mediocrity. She is not capable of dominating an entire era, so she is not a groundbreaking genius like Newton or Einstein.

Therefore, Fabian does not believe that Dr. Shepard can cure cancer.

According to the information leaked by the young security guard, a father and daughter seemed to have improved under the influence of the saint.

Fabian took a tablet computer out of his briefcase.

The screen displayed all the photos he had taken over the past three days:

Debbie's daily schedule and clothing choices.

Every place Debbie has been.

Riding in that Porsche every day... damn it!

The car owner was Richard, a boy from the University of Tokyo, Shepard's academic successor, and also Debbie's boyfriend.

But why does the saintess have a boyfriend?

Fabian forced himself to skip over this idea that made him very unhappy.

He has been conducting this kind of investigation for over twenty years and is an expert in it.

Fabian is a top expert in the field of tracking supernatural events, examining historical archives page by page, and cross-referencing eyewitness testimonies.

Every question he raised was based on a solid chain of evidence.

At the last memorial service, the scarf fell on Debbie's shoulder. Fabian saw it with his own eyes and was very shocked, but he still had doubts.

This situation could indeed be an accident.

No matter how small the probability, there is always the possibility of coincidence.

This time, he's going to find conclusive evidence that Debbie is a saint, or to overturn it!

Throughout history, saints and holy women have often used the healing of terminal illnesses to demonstrate miracles.

Debbie came here, clearly also for treatment of her terminal illness.

But unlike those historical miracles that were theatrical, she did not go public; she even specifically sought out this private research center.

This shows that she didn't want anyone to know at all.

Is it because she lacks confidence in her abilities, or because she simply doesn't care about her reputation?

Fabian drove to a secluded corner and took out a $3,000 custom-made drone from the back seat.

It is quiet and small in size, and you can't hear it at 50 meters. The bottom is painted in a blue and white camouflage color similar to the sky, so it is almost invisible when viewed from the ground.

Fabian has always treated each rising "miracle" with the same caution he would use to investigate unsolved cases.

Fabian launched the drone, which rose to a height of over 100 meters in the sky.

The image quickly came back, clearly showing the Oak Forest Research Center on his phone.

Fabian is still trying to find the father and daughter's hospital room, which is not an easy task.

The plants inside were so dense that it was difficult to find a suitable angle to see what was happening inside the ward.

Just then, Debbie and a middle-aged man pushed out a wheelchair with a girl sitting in it.

Fabian zoomed in on the image.

He immediately recognized the man: Aaron Hope, the Oscar-winning actor from fifteen years ago, a renowned superstar.

Fabian still remembers what Aaron looked like 15 years ago. He stood on the red carpet, impeccably dressed in a suit, with thick hair, full of vigor, holding a trophy and smiling at the camera, as if everything was about to begin.

Just a few years later, the man on the screen seemed to have reached the age of seventy or eighty and was on his deathbed.

Aaron was extremely thin, with a stubble beard, gray hair, and a weight that was about 30 pounds lighter than normal.

A girl was sitting in a wheelchair, wearing a pink woolen hat, with a thick blanket covering her legs. She was dressed in thick clothes, looking like a snowman.

It should be Aaron's daughter, Clara.

Debbie pushed very slowly, carefully with each step, as if she were pushing a cart full of fragile items.

The girl looked up and said something to Debbie.

Debbie and Aaron both laughed.

Fabian carefully observed Clara's smile.

That kind of smile wasn't a forced smile from a patient to a visitor; it was a smile that the patient quickly turned away after saying "I'm fine" to avoid losing control.

Clara's smile spread from the corners of her mouth to her entire cheeks, her eyes curving into arcs.

The walk in the yard lasted only ten minutes.

A nurse, perhaps worried about the cold weather, rushed out and pushed Clara back inside.

Clara kept looking back at the yard, appearing very reluctant to leave; she hadn't been outdoors in a long time.

Fabian brought the drone down.

Can someone in the terminal stage of osteosarcoma still take a walk in the yard?

Fabian was puzzled.

Or perhaps, did Debbie really heal Clara?

He began searching for information about Aaron Hope online.

It was found very quickly.

The Oscar-winning actor from fifteen years ago moved into number 1200 in Baytop Villa seven years ago, and then there was news from five years ago:

The entire family of three was diagnosed with cancer and became known as "Unlucky Aaron," and the house was called "Aaron's Curse."

His wife died of breast cancer two years ago, his daughter was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, and he himself was diagnosed with lymphoma on his deathbed.

Apart from that, there has been no new information in the past two years.

Continuing his search through Aaron's information, Fabian found Clara's social media accounts.

Clara stopped updating her content three years ago. Her last post featured a picture of the view outside a hospital ward: a gray-white building with a faded slogan on it.

Clara, who was only 14 years old at the time, wrote in her most innocent tone: "Cancer is not scary. My mother and I can beat it."

Fabian enlarged photograph.

He carefully observed the floor structure, the shape of the characters in the slogans on the building, the jagged edges of the lines, and the location of the slogans.

Then he searched for photos of the exterior walls of major cancer centers in New York and compared them one by one.

They quickly identified it as the Cage Cancer Center, one of the top five cancer treatment institutions in the world.

Fabian started the vehicle, and Richard's familiar Porsche slowly drove into the Oak Grove Medical Research Center.

The boy is here again. Why would an Asian man stay by the saint's side so often?

Without giving it much thought, Fabian drove to the Cage Cancer Center.

He soon arrived at the Cage Cancer Center, parked his car, straightened his collar, and walked toward the security desk at the main entrance.

The security guard was a bald, middle-aged man who was watching rugby highlights on his phone.

Fabian placed his press pass on the table: "I am a journalist. I heard that there is a family of three here who have all been diagnosed with cancer, a very rare case, and I would like to interview them."

The bald security guard didn't even look up: "Unrelated people aren't allowed in. Only patients and their families are allowed here."

Fabian lifted his press pass, revealing a twenty-dollar bill.

The bald security guard's gaze shifted from his phone screen to the banknotes. He quickly glanced at them from side to side before swiftly stuffing the money into his pocket. "Aaron, you're talking about the Aaron-Hope family, they're big stars! His wife died of illness, but he has a daughter, I think her name is Clara. I don't know anything else, you can go inside and ask the nurses."

Thank you.

Fabian walked into the lobby on the first floor.

A slightly overweight middle-aged nurse was sitting at the nurses' station, entering something into the computer.

Fabian stepped forward and said, "I am a relative of Aaron Hope and I wanted to come and see him."

"Aaron Hope?" The nurse looked up at him, her tone somewhat impatient.

As a big star, Aaron Hope was quite famous among his patients.

"Didn't you know Aaron has moved away?"

"He moved away?" Fabian looked confused. "He told me he was living here a while ago. I happened to be in New York on a business trip today and wanted to visit him."

The nurse had no suspicions.

"A few days ago, Aaron was persuaded to transfer to another hospital. Apparently, someone can cure his daughter's cancer, and he believed it. Also, he hopes that the saintly woman who's all over the internet will come and see his daughter..." She shook her head. "She's definitely a fraud. But I think it's a good thing. Late-stage osteosarcoma is a terminal illness; he's doomed. Being able to fulfill his last wish and die quickly is much better than staying here and dying in agony."

Her tone was flat. No one can retain any extra pity when faced with endless death.

Sentimental people can't work in a cancer center.

"Thank you. I don't know why, but I can't get through to Aaron on the phone right now." Fabian pressed, "Is it confirmed that Clara has been diagnosed with osteosarcoma?"

"Of course! A family of three, lymphoma, breast cancer, osteosarcoma, I remember it very clearly. Aaron Hope was a big celebrity back then, he even won an Oscar," the nurse said with emotion.

She remembered how Aaron looked when he first came to the hospital; he was full of energy back then.

When he left, his hair was gray, his back was no longer straight, he had heavy eye bags, and his fingers were trembling when he bent over to sign the discharge papers.

She had seen too many patients like this, but Aaron was a big star after all, making him memorable, and the condition of a family of three was indeed rare.

"Who is his attending physician?"

The nurse checked it on the computer.

"Mitchell, the attending physician in the osteosarcoma department. You can find him on the third floor, section A. However, I think Aaron might not want to be disturbed. He just wants to spend his last moments with his daughter in peace."

"I understand, thank you."

Fabian went up to the third floor and found Mitchell's office.

Mitchell's face bore the weariness typical of oncologists, the helplessness of having to tell patients "I'm sorry" every day.

He wanted to make money, but he also didn't want to see patients die endlessly.

"Dr. Mitchell, my name is Fabian, and I'm a writer. The story of the Aaron-Hope family deeply moved me, and I'd like to adapt their story into my next book. I'd like to obtain his permission. I heard he's changed his contact information; could you please pass on my message?"

Mitchell glanced at him and categorized Fabian into one type of person: vultures.

A vulture that eats other people's corpses!

However, Mitchell still spoke up, a hint of smugness in his voice: "Aaron has moved to the Oak Grove Medical Research Center, a place that conducts end-stage trials of investigational drugs. If you want to find him, you'd better hurry; his daughter is dying. If Clara dies, he won't want to see anyone for the next few months, I'm quite sure of it."

Fabian suddenly jotted down a line in his notebook: "Could I include you in the book too? A minor character, a positive one, named Mitchell."

Mitchell paused, then a hint of interest appeared on his face: "You can do that?"

"Of course. What position do you want, Director?"

"No, I'll become an attending physician." Mitchell was very confident. "I will become a chief physician in the future, but not now."

"OK. Do I want my last name to be the same as yours?"

Mitchell found it quite interesting. "OK. My name is Graham, Mitchell Graham."

"OK. I'll call you when the book is published." It was just a trivial little deal; he didn't even care what famous works the author had. It was just a harmless spice to add to his mundane life.

Mitchell relaxed. Fabian's sensible nature made him feel he should help her: "When Clara Hope left me, her median life expectancy was two to four months. But in a place like the Oak Forest, she'd be lucky to survive a month. Apparently, she wanted to see the Saintess dance at the Super Bowl..." A faint hint of sarcasm appeared on Mitchell's lips: "She definitely won't make it."

He paused, then added sarcastically, "A saintess dancing cheerleading. Ha. How rare."

This is blasphemy! Fabian suppressed his anger.

He shook hands with Mitchell.

"Thank you so much for your message. I will start writing as soon as possible and include you as a character in the novel. I will send you the first draft when it's finished, and I can change the name if you think it's inappropriate."

Mitchell nodded, a hint of curiosity rising within him.

"When you see Aaron, tell me that if Aaron really can't make it, tell him to come back immediately."

"yes!"

Fabian remained vigilant.

He left the office and found Mitchell's picture on the doctors' photo wall.

Mitchell Graham, an attending physician specializing in osteosarcoma, the information matches up perfectly, no doubt about it!

Fabian got back into the car, his breathing becoming increasingly rapid.

Debbie is truly a saint!

In his more than 20 years of investigative work, he has encountered all sorts of scams, some sloppy and some as sophisticated as an instrument.

He had been deceived several times, so he learned to use the simplest method to test things out: seeing is believing.

Every piece of evidence must present the most definitive aspect.

He then searched the Cage Cancer Center's official website online, reviewed several papers authored by Mitchell, and found several presentation videos from industry conferences.

The conclusion is that Mitchell is indeed the top oncologist in the field of osteosarcoma under 4,000 years old in the United States.

Such people cherish their professional reputation very much.

Every stage assessment and every signature on a pathology report is crucial; he would never cooperate with someone in a scam, as that would completely destroy his career.

The saint is real! Fabian tried to calm himself down.

Fabian went over all the information in his mind again: Mitchell's words were very credible; he wouldn't gamble with his professional reputation. His assessment of Clara was that she had terminal osteosarcoma and couldn't be taken off the ventilator, let alone go out into the yard. But what Fabian had just seen in the video was that Clara was sitting in the yard, outdoors, without a ventilator, and chatting and laughing with her father!

Fabian typed the final sentence on the keyboard: "I can assure you, Clara's condition is improving."

"This improvement can only be attributed to the medication or the saintess. Based on the effects of oral small molecule targeted drugs, it would take at least three days to take effect, but Clara's condition is clearly not something that can be recovered in three days. Even three months would not be enough for her to recover to the point where she can walk in the yard!"

There is no record of this new drug anywhere in the world, and Shepard has not written any preliminary research papers, not even some simple preliminary experimental data.

Therefore, unless Shepard suddenly breaks through some crucial bottleneck that can solve cancer, it can only be Her Highness.

it is true!

Her Highness is real!

Fabian clenched his fist heavily, excitedly repeating the thought to himself.

He watched the girl's condition in the video repeatedly, becoming more and more certain each time he watched it.

Getting a more accurate answer is very simple; he just needs to observe every day.

That girl longs for the outdoors so much, she will definitely come out again.

As long as her condition improves day by day, Fabian can confirm whether the girl's condition is getting better!

He started the engine.

By this point, his belief that Debbie was a saint had reached ninety-nine percent.

Finally, we must show respect for Christina Shepard's academic abilities.

Richard walked into the Oak Grove Medical Research Center building.

The entire building was permeated with an apostolic faith, so thick that you could almost see the fine golden threads.

His mana bar jumped from half full to overflowing in a few seconds. Ever since Clara started to recover, this building had become his regular mana regeneration fountain.

Aaron's once desperate father now clutches his cross and prays every day, his faith as pure as freshly refined gold.

Who still says Western gods don't have KPIs?

Richard ran into Aaron in the corridor.

Aaron was pushing Clara's wheelchair back from the yard.

Clara exclaimed happily, "Now I can spend twenty minutes outdoors every day!"

"You will recover," Richard said with a smile.

Aaron nodded to Richard.

Clara lifted her head from her wheelchair, her face flushed with the weak rosy hue typical of someone recovering from a serious illness.

"Richard! Debbie's inside. She said she's going to try out today." Her voice was steadyer than last time, and she wasn't as breathless.

"OK!" Richard found Debbie in the lounge.

She sat on the sofa, clutching an unopened bottle of water, staring at the opposite wall as if she were staring at an opponent that only she could see.

Her toes tapped lightly on the floor, at a rate as fast as her heart rate.

"Let's go. Giants, New Jersey, time to head out."

"Okay!" Debbie took a deep breath and stood up.

Clara's wheelchair was parked in the yard, and she watched Debbie walk by.

Debbie stopped in front of her and bent down: "I'm going to try out in New Jersey."

"Go for it! You're a saint!" Clara exclaimed excitedly. "I'm sure I'll see you in the Super Bowl."

Debbie's lips curled up slightly.

She knew that even if she was selected, she would only be a substitute.

She couldn't even get on stage. On Super Bowl day, her biggest advantage was probably having the best seats to watch the game until the very end.

Debbie said guiltily, "You'll see."

The car drove onto the highway towards New Jersey.

The Giants' training facility is in Meadowlands, about a 40-minute drive from Oak Grove Medical Center.

Just then, his phone rang. Richard saw it was Daniel: "Hi, Daniel!"

"Big brother, help! The dean is trying to kill me!"