The severely wounded Steve was brought back to S.H.I.E.L.D. for treatment.
Doctors and nurses had been put on standby throughout the serum trial earlier.
After his shirt was cut away, three bloody bullet holes were clearly visible on his torso.
"Forceps."
The doctor took the medical instrument handed over by the nurse, then froze when he looked at the wounds.
The bullet holes were slowly wriggling. Before long, a bullet was squeezed out.
It was as though his body was rejecting it, his muscles gradually forcing the bullet out.
"What's going on?"
The doctor did not dare operate carelessly. Steve's status was different now; he was the only successful serum subject so far. He instructed the nurse, "Get the S.H.I.E.L.D. people in here."
Before long.
Everyone from S.H.I.E.L.D. arrived in the operating room.
"What happened?"
Carter asked anxiously, "Is Steve beyond saving?"
Colonel Phillips waited for the doctor's response with a grim expression.
What had happened today was an unprecedented blow to S.H.I.E.L.D.
Not only had Dr. Erskine died, but their only super soldier had nearly died as well. It was equivalent to declaring that the hundreds of millions of dollars invested in research over the years had gone down the drain.
Hundreds of millions of dollars were enough to arm an entire army division in this day and age.
"No, he's fine now."
The doctor looked at Steve lying on the hospital bed, unsure how to explain it.
While they had waited, his wounds had already stopped bleeding and scabbed over. Based on his years of medical experience, wounds deep enough to stick a finger into should have taken at least two or three days to grow new tissue and scab over, and the patient should have been bedridden for ten days or half a month. Yet at this rate, he might recover completely within a day.
"Doctor, thank goodness for you," Carter said with a sigh of relief.
"I didn't do anything. He healed himself," the doctor said awkwardly.
Healed himself?
Wasn't that a little exaggerated?
An ordinary person who took three bullets would have the whole village preparing a funeral feast.
As the doctor lifted the gauze, the blackened scabs over the wounds appeared before everyone.
"A result of the serum?" Colonel Phillips asked in disbelief.
On the battlefield, a gunshot wound to the torso was generally considered fatal. If every soldier had the serum, they would only need to wear bulletproof helmets and charge forward.
"Impossible."
Howard shook his head. "I've seen the serum data. It can improve physical fitness several times over, but this Healing Ability is more than several times stronger—it's dozens of times stronger. Some sort of mutation must have occurred."
If it truly granted such powerful healing, even at several million dollars per injection, capitalists would probably be willing to throw money at it.
Wilson, who had come along, could not help looking at Allen. He asked tentatively, "Was this your doing?"
"Allen, before the mood could even build up, you exposed me."
Allen said angrily, "You made me look as cheap as some back-alley hardware softening engineer."
"What did you do?" Colonel Phillips asked in shock.
Originally, everyone had thought Allen was just a mentally ill slacker and had not wanted to deal with him. Who could have expected him to deliver such a surprise?
If he could take over the serum research and fill Dr. Erskine's void, that would be an unexpected blessing.
"I didn't do much. I just added a little something of mine."
Allen said shyly, "Just a little of my stuff."
It was a double entendre, but no one imagined he meant bodily waste.
"This is bad. If the serum has fallen into Axis hands and they crack the formula, won't they be able to mass-produce enhanced super soldiers?" Howard said worriedly.
Hundreds of thousands or even millions of super soldiers unafraid of external injuries would be a disaster for the Allies.
Imagine several soldiers leaping onto a tank and dismantling its turret with their bare hands, or charging into friendly positions like a tide and slaughtering everyone there. That would no longer count as a war, but an unequal massacre.
Allen picked his nose and said indifferently, "They won't be able to develop the exact same serum. I already stole the serum and modified it. The eight doses are split into A and B versions, and they need to be injected together. Either one alone has side effects. Besides, they can't replicate it anymore. I'm not telling them what I added."
What Allen meant was urine. As for Serpent's Blood, it was not exactly a secret.
It could certainly be detected through sample testing, though locating it would be troublesome.
The ordinary impure Serpent's Blood was all in the hands of The League of Assassins, and they would not be willing to hand it over.
The 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 keep it up."
At that moment, Colonel Phillips had already recognized Allen's value. A few strange mannerisms were not a problem; what mattered was genuine ability.
"Boss, triple my salary, and I'll come up with more rotten ideas for you."
"Are you that short on money?"
Colonel Phillips found Allen's demand strange.
The guy ate, wore clothes, and lived at S.H.I.E.L.D. for free, and he never seemed to spend money outside. Why would he need so much money?
"If you don't triple my salary, my ex and my current one are going on strike."
Allen raised both hands in explanation, then said shyly, "Mainly, I want to buy them lace gloves, so things can be a little more interesting when we're improving our relationship."
"..."
Could your excuse be any more ridiculous?
"No problem. I'll arrange it for you."
Colonel Phillips agreed immediately. Compared to research funding that started in the millions, triple salary was truly an insignificant matter.
"Old Howard, I've got money now. I want to buy shares in Stark Industries."
Allen looked smug as he said to Howard, "Name your price. I'm loaded now."
"What Stark Industries?"
Howard looked utterly confused. He was only an employee himself. Forget an industrial empire—he might not even be able to afford to open a factory.
Now it was Allen's turn to look utterly confused. He immediately said with disdain, "Holy crap, I shamelessly tried to cozy up to you earlier, and it turns out you're just a poor bastard right now."
Did he have to be so blunt about despising the poor and favoring the rich? That was hurtful, okay?
What could Howard do? His research projects all required enormous funding and were simply unsuitable for civilian use. If not for the war, he would probably have chosen to teach at a university.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, Colonel Phillips and Howard led everyone away to make arrangements for Dr. Erskine's funeral.
Carter remained by the hospital bed.
She touched the scab over the wound on his abdomen. With just the lightest touch, the scab fell away, revealing newly grown, pale and tender skin. Her hand unconsciously drifted over the clearly defined contours of his abs.
Even her breathing became slightly hurried.
"Have you touched enough?"
"You didn't leave?"
Carter looked at Allen, who was squatting in the corner. She had thought everyone had left.
Allen said solemnly, "I will not approve of your marriage to Old Man's eldest son. Please do not entertain any improper thoughts."
"..."
Carter laughed in exasperation and said blandly, "What right do you have to interfere with Steve's feelings?"
"He is my masterpiece. As a new father, I naturally have to think about Old Man's eldest son." Allen looked her up and down before judging, "Other than being pretty, having a nice figure, good temperament, and a high level of education, being upright, having a respectable job, a generous income, and a well-off family, you have nothing else going for you. I absolutely will not let Old Man's eldest son suffer by following you."
"..."
Before you continue