Cancer Person

"What was that just now?"

Zhang Fusheng collapsed into the alley, gasping for breath as he recalled the thunderous shout expelled by the Snake Fist Gym's School Master.

He had seen it clearly. That old monster had cupped his hands before his abdomen into a strange seal, stomped his foot, and barked, "Strike."

Then a savage peal of thunder had exploded.

No, it had not merely been thunder.

Zhang Fusheng swore that, in that instant, he had truly seen flickers of lightning between the old monster's teeth as he shouted!

After thinking it over, he could not resist copying the old man. He formed a hand seal, pressed his hands together, stomped, pulled forward, and shouted:

"Strike!"

A passing stray cat looked at him as though he were an idiot.

"Why does this stance seem familiar?" Zhang Fusheng frowned, unable to recall where he had seen it for the moment.

Where had he seen it?

He had a vague impression.

"Whatever. Taking care of business comes first." Zhang Fusheng shook his head and decided not to dwell on that neurotic old freak for now.

That old freak was definitely more than merely Second Refinement—his strength might have been roughly comparable to Second Refinement, but...

He recalled what the Snake Fist Gym's School Master had said.

"Second Refinement? I am now."

"He wasn't Second Refinement before? Did he fall down to this level for some reason?"

Touching the gun at his waist, Zhang Fusheng exhaled a breath of Pure Qi. He glanced at the brick walls on either side, cracked apart by the tremendous noise in the alley, then left with his head lowered.

Ankang Oncology Specialist Hospital was the only hospital in the entire Lower-Level District that could treat cancer.

It might not be able to cure it completely, but it could prolong a patient's life.

Living conditions in the Lower-Level District were naturally much worse. Its residents were considered a high-risk group for tumors, so Ankang Hospital was always packed to the rafters.

"So what exactly is a Quasi-Morgue?"

Dean Long looked at the pitch-black muzzle of the gun. After a moment of silence, he carefully chose his words.

"A Quasi-Morgue means exactly what it sounds like. You know, the Lower-Level District is relatively poor. When many patients reach the later stages, they can no longer afford medical bills, and their families no longer want them either, so..."

He glanced at the unconscious security guard, then at the surveillance cameras whose red lights had stopped blinking, and said cautiously:

"So we place those patients who are unwanted, unable to pay their medical bills, and already close to death in the Quasi-Morgue, where they wait to die naturally."

The masked youth's eyes widened.

"You people are beasts?"

Dean Long's lips trembled, but he did not speak.

Zhang Fusheng stared at the bald old dean for a long while, then sighed.

"So if it weren't cancer, and their organs could still be used, would that place be called a 'voluntary organ donation operating room'?"

Dean Long gave a dry laugh.

"Organ trafficking is against the law."

"Is throwing people into a morgue to wait for death not against the law?"

"Uh, we provide basic food and water. We simply do not provide treatment. That isn't illegal."

Zhang Fusheng fell silent.

He held the gun on the bald dean with one hand while moving the mouse with the other, reviewing patient files on the computer.

There were more than thirty patients in the Quasi-Morgue. The oldest was ninety-eight, with terminal liver cancer.

Zhang Fusheng then pulled up the records of every patient in the hospital and examined them one by one.

"This one is a hundred and forty-two years old. Seriously?"

He pointed at the computer screen.

Dean Long carefully glanced at it and nodded like a pounding garlic pestle.

"I remember this patient. He is very... tenacious!"

"Tenacious?"

Curiosity stirred in Zhang Fusheng's heart as he carefully reviewed the file.

[Huang Qiuxian, male, date of birth: January 23, 2000]

Today was June 30, 2142.

[Advanced primary liver cancer, advanced primary lung cancer, advanced primary bone cancer.]

There was a dense string of primary cancers.

Primary meant that this centenarian had developed several cancers at once, rather than having a single cancer metastasize throughout his body.

Zhang Fusheng swept his eyes over it. The medical record was packed full.

Truly packed full. Every part of his body that could develop cancer had probably developed it, and all of them were "primary cancers."

"A Cancer Person?" he murmured blankly, continuing to scroll down the file.

[Admission date: October 9, 2140]

[Treatment plan: None at present]

Dean Long said quietly:

"When he was admitted, tests had already found more than thirteen types of primary cancer. Every one of them had progressed to the middle or late stages. He also had several rare diseases, as well as some baffling conditions we could not identify."

Zhang Fusheng was utterly stunned.

"He's still alive??"

Dean Long nodded weakly.

"That's why I said he was very tenacious."

Zhang Fusheng was dumbfounded.

Was that a human?

Was that still human?

One hundred and forty-two years old. Either he had been injected with a longevity gene serum, or he was a cultivator. But for a cultivator to extend his lifespan, he had to reach the level of a Martial Arts Master.

That was a realm beyond the Twelve Refinements. It was said to belong to true "non-humans."

Such a figure would never come to Ankang Hospital.

As for gene serums?

Tsk, tsk. Only the Upper-Level District had people who could afford those things.

"A person born with a long life, whose body is absurdly tenacious?" Zhang Fusheng muttered to himself.

Dean Long nodded cautiously, smiling ingratiatingly.

"That was the conclusion we reached when we held a meeting back then."

"Is he in the hospital now?"

"No."

The dean shook his head.

"Old Huang thought the disinfectant in the hospital smelled awful, so two months ago, he went home to wait for death. He comes in for a checkup once a month. He was here just yesterday."

Zhang Fusheng fell into thought and continued reviewing Huang Qiuxian's records. Unlike the others, there was no phone number, no home address, and the occupation field was blank—other than his date of birth and name, no information had been left behind.

"Is there any way to contact him?"

The dean silently shook his head.

Zhang Fusheng frowned. Strange. This was far too strange.

He quietly committed the name Huang Qiuxian to memory, then regretfully began searching through the records of other patients.

He could not possibly wait around for a month.

After searching back and forth, he eventually returned to the files of the patients in the Quasi-Morgue.

As Dean Long had said, the patients in the Quasi-Morgue had been abandoned by their families and had completely entered a state of waiting for death.

Though it left a sour taste in his mouth, such people were undeniably the most likely to accept a deal.

Even any kind of deal.

Because they no longer had the slightest shred of hope, yet there had to be things they still held close in their hearts.

"Zhou Changhong, sixty-two years old, retired teacher."

"Zhang Zixuan, forty-four years old, sanitation worker."

"Zhong Shan, eighty-two years old, martial arts instructor... Martial arts instructor?"

Zhang Fusheng's eyes brightened slightly. Pointing at the name, he asked:

"Do you remember this patient?"

Dean Long leaned closer to look, then nodded with certainty again.

"Yes! I really do remember this one. Old Zhong is a First Refinement martial artist. Before he fell ill, he was the School Master of a martial arts gym near my home."

Zhang Fusheng froze.

"How did a First Refinement martial artist end up in your Quasi-Morgue?"

Dean Long answered in a humble tone:

"I'm not sure. I heard that after his illness became incurable, his children got busy fighting over the inheritance, so... no one took care of him."

"Is his condition serious?"

"He has only a few days left."

Zhang Fusheng understood. He had a clear picture now.

This was a perfect target for a deal.

But this time, he did not merely intend to buy Zhong Shan's various skills and cultivation [time].

He also wanted to buy his

[person].

Or rather, his [identity].

Zhang Fusheng felt a faint sense of crisis. He had grown far, far too quickly. In just two or three days, he had gone from an ordinary person to a First Refinement martial artist.

He had even brought the Visualization Method to Great Accomplishment and pushed the Spring Thunder Technique's limit to Minor Perfection.

As he grew stronger, he would encounter trading targets of higher "value," and his rate of growth would only become faster and faster.

By then, someone with ulterior motives would certainly notice that something was amiss.

"I need another face, another identity."