I Disagree With This Marriage

The severely wounded Steve was brought back to S.H.I.E.L.D. for treatment.

Doctors and nurses had been on standby throughout the serum test.

After his upper clothing was removed, three bloody gunshot wounds were clearly visible.

"Forceps."

The doctor took the medical tools passed by the nurse and froze upon looking at the wounds.

The bullet holes were slowly wriggling, and soon a bullet was squeezed out.

It was as if his body was rejecting it, his muscles expelling the bullet bit by bit.

"What's going on?"

The doctor didn't dare to operate casually. Steve's identity was now different; he was the only successful case of the serum. He instructed the nurse, "Please get someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. to come over."

A short while later.

S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel arrived in the operating room.

"What happened?"

Carter asked worriedly, "Is Steve beyond saving?"

Colonel Phillips waited grimly for the doctor's response.

The events of the day were an unprecedented blow to S.H.I.E.L.D.

Not only had Dr. Erskine perished, but the only super-soldier had also died with him, effectively declaring years of research worth hundreds of millions of dollars to be in vain.

Hundreds of millions of dollars were enough to arm an entire army division in this era.

"No, he's fine now."

The doctor glanced at Steve lying on the hospital bed, unsure how to explain.

While they waited, the wounds had stopped bleeding and scabbed over. Based on years of medical experience, wounds where a finger could fit would take at least two to three days to granulate and scab, and at least ten days to half a month before he could get out of bed. But in this situation, he might heal in just one day.

"Doctor, thank you so much," Carter said, relieved.

"I didn't do anything; he healed himself," the doctor replied awkwardly.

Healed himself?

Wasn't that a bit of an exaggeration?

For an ordinary person, three gunshot wounds would mean preparing for a village funeral.

As the doctor lifted the bandage, blackened, scabbed wounds were revealed to everyone.

"The result of the serum?"

Colonel Phillips asked in disbelief.

On the battlefield, a gunshot wound to the torso was basically considered fatal. If all soldiers were serum-enhanced, they would only need bulletproof helmets to charge forward.

"Impossible."

Howard shook his head. "I've seen the serum data. It can increase physical fitness severalfold, but its healing ability is not just severalfold, it's dozens of times. Something must have mutated."

If the healing ability were truly that high, the serum alone would be priced at millions of dollars per dose, and even capitalists would be willing to spend money to buy it.

Wilson, who had accompanied them, couldn't help but look at Allen and tentatively asked, "Did you do this?"

"Allen, the atmosphere wasn't even set, and you're exposing me,"

Allen said indignantly, "You're making me sound as cheap as a software engineer who softens hardware in an alley."

"What did you do?" Colonel Phillips asked, shocked.

Originally, everyone thought Allen was just a slacker, a mentally ill person they didn't want to bother with, but he could actually create surprises.

If he could take over the serum research and fill the void left by Dr. Erskine, it would be an unexpected joy.

"I didn't do anything, I just added a little of my own stuff,"

Allen said shyly, "Just a little of my 'essence' (urine)."

It was a double entendre, and no one thought of excrement.

"This is bad. If the serum falls into the hands of the Axis powers, they could crack the formula and mass-produce super-soldiers," Howard worried.

Tens of millions of super-soldiers who were immune to external injuries would be a disaster for the Allied nations.

Imagine soldiers leaping onto tanks and tearing apart cannons with their bare hands, or charging into friendly positions like a tide, slaughtering everyone. It wouldn't be a war anymore, but an unequal massacre.

Allen picked his nose, nonchalant. "They won't be able to research an identical serum. I already stole the serum and processed it. There are eight doses, divided into A and B types, requiring paired injections. Each type alone has side effects, and they can't replicate it either. I'm not telling them what I added."

Actually, what Allen referred to was his urine. As for the Serpent's Blood, it wasn't a secret.

It could definitely be detected through samples, but finding it would be very troublesome.

Ordinary, impure Serpent's Blood was in the hands of The League of Assassins, and they wouldn't hand it over willingly.

Pure Serpent's Blood was in Gotham, and at this point in time, only Allen knew the secret.

"You did very well. I hope you continue to do so."

Colonel Phillips now recognized Allen's value. A little eccentricity wasn't a problem as long as he had real talent.

"Boss, give me triple pay, and I'll come up with some more brilliant ideas for you."

"Are you short on cash?"

Colonel Phillips found Allen's request strange.

This guy didn't spend money on food, lodging, or anything else while at S.H.I.E.L.D., so why he needed so much money was quite intriguing.

"If you don't give me triple pay, my former and current partners will go on strike."

Allen explained with his hands raised, blushing slightly, "Mainly, I want to buy them lace gloves to add a little spice when we're getting intimate."

"..."

Could your excuse be any more ridiculous?

"No problem, I'll arrange it for you."

Colonel Phillips readily agreed. In the context of research funds that often ran into the millions, triple pay was truly a trivial matter.

"Howard, I have money now. I want to buy shares in your Stark Industries."

Allen said proudly, looking at Howard, "Name your price. I'm loaded now."

"What Stark Industries?"

Howard looked completely bewildered. He was just an employee. Let alone an entire industry, he couldn't even afford a factory.

Now it was Allen's turn to be bewildered. He immediately said with disdain, "Good heavens, after I groveled and tried to get close to you, it turns out you're a broke bum now."

Being so direct about preferring the rich over the poor, that's really hurtful.

Howard couldn't help it. His research fields were all capital-intensive projects that weren't suitable for civilian use. If it weren't for the war, he probably would have chosen to teach at a university.

In less than fifteen minutes, Colonel Phillips and Howard led everyone away to handle Dr. Erskine's posthumous affairs.

Carter accompanied them by the bedside.

She touched the scabbed wound on her abdomen. With just a light touch, the scab fell off, revealing newly grown, tender skin. Her hand unconsciously traced the clear lines of her abdominal muscles.

Her breathing became slightly rapid.

"Are you done touching?"

"You didn't leave?"

Carter looked at Allen, who was squatting in the corner. She had initially thought everyone had left.

Allen said solemnly, "I will not agree to your marriage with Steve. Please don't have any improper thoughts."

"..."

Carter chuckled, then said calmly, "What right do you have to interfere with Steve's relationships?"

"He's my creation. As a new father, I naturally have to consider Steve's well-being." Allen scanned her from head to toe, evaluating, "Besides being good-looking, having a great figure, good temperament, high education, and being upright, along with a respectable job, generous income, and a solid family background, you're otherwise useless. I absolutely won't let Steve suffer because of you."

"..."