Batman Arrives Gravely Wounded

[Detected that the host's life is about to face an irreversible threat.]

[The Divine Physician System has officially activated.]

[Loading core system functions...]

[Core Function One: All-Things Diagnosis—instantly diagnoses all illnesses and injuries in any lifeform/mechanical entity/energy entity.]

[Core Function Two: Saintly Hands Copy—when healing a target, can copy one of its core abilities/talents/knowledge. The more severe the target's injuries, the higher the copy quality.]

[Core Function Three: Ability Forge—consumes Reputation Points to fuse multiple copied abilities and create entirely new composite abilities. (Current Reputation Points: 0. Not yet unlocked.)]

Lynn abruptly opened his eyes.

A pale blue, translucent panel floated in the center of his vision, its cold glow reflecting off his blood-smeared face.

He stared at the panel, his pupils trembling slightly.

There was no wild joy.

On his third day after transmigrating, he had already mentally prepared himself for this world's absurdity.

What concerned him was something else.

Heal a target, copy an ability.

The worse the injury, the stronger the copy.

His gaze slowly shifted to Snake Eyes's corpse on the operating table.

Could the dead still be healed?

As if responding to his thoughts, the System Panel refreshed with a new line:

[Novice mission issued: Heal a superhero or supervillain. Reward: Novice Gift Pack ×1.]

[Note: The target must possess extraordinary abilities/talents/genes. Ordinary humans do not count as mission targets.]

Lynn gave a derisive snort.

It wanted him to heal a superhero?

He was locked inside a sealed operating room, with Kingpin's territory outside the door, and someone coming to kill him at dawn.

Where was he supposed to find a superhero?

He had a cheat, but no chance to use it.

That was probably fate's most vicious mockery.

Lynn smiled bitterly and was about to close his eyes when he suddenly heard a deep, muffled boom in the distance.

Like an explosion.

No, not like one—it was an explosion.

It came from Gotham's direction.

Three streets away, perhaps even closer.

Then came gunfire.

Dense, frenzied gunfire, mixed with hysterical laughter.

That laughter pierced through the brick walls and the night, sharp enough to chill him to the bone, like a saw scraping beside his ear.

Lynn had heard that laugh before.

Everyone in Gotham had.

Joker.

The gunfire continued for around three minutes.

Then it stopped abruptly.

There was silence for roughly forty seconds.

Just as Lynn thought it was over, the operating room's back door was slammed open from outside by a terrifying force.

The entire metal door flew off and crashed into the equipment cabinet with an ear-splitting metallic clang.

A tall black figure staggered through the doorway and collapsed inside.

He wore black armor riddled with bullet holes and cracks. Most of his cape had been burned away, and the bat emblem on his chest was completely covered in blood.

A strangely shaped dagger was buried deep beneath the ribs on the left side of his chest, its blade coated in some liquid that glowed an eerie green.

He fell to the floor, breathing fast and weakly. His fingers tried to pull out the dagger, but they shook so badly that he could not even grasp it.

Batman.

Lynn froze where he stood, his mind blank for half a second.

The next instant, the System Panel began flashing wildly:

[High-value treatment target detected!]

[Automatic diagnosis initiated—]

[Patient: Bruce Wayne (codename: Batman)]

[Injury assessment:]

[1. Stab wound between the fourth ribs on the left chest. Blade is 1.7 centimeters from the heart, accompanied by infection from Joker's Special Compound Toxin. The toxin is spreading into the myocardial layer at 0.3 milliliters per second.]

[2. Three fractured ribs on the right side. Bone fragments have pierced the lung lobe, causing pneumothorax.]

[3. Comminuted fracture of the left tibia.]

[4. Seventeen gunshot wounds/shrapnel wounds across the body. Blood loss has exceeded 35% of total blood volume.]

[5. Concussion and minor intracranial hemorrhaging.]

[Overall fatality rate: 98.7%.]

[Estimated natural time of death: 17 minutes.]

[Healing this target is expected to copy an S-rank talent!]

S-rank.

Lynn's breathing stopped for a beat.

He looked down at the dying Batman on the floor, then up at those horrifying injury statistics that were enough to drive anyone to despair.

A 98.7% fatality rate.

Seventeen minutes.

Ten minutes ago, he would have considered this an impossible task.

A dropout using the most primitive equipment in an illegal clinic to save a Batman on the brink of death in seventeen minutes?

What kind of joke was that?

But things were different now.

He had the system.

All-Things Diagnosis had clearly marked the precise location of every injury, the rate of spread, and the optimal treatment plan on the panel.

This was not a gamble.

It was an open-book exam, and he already held the answer key.

The only question was whether there was enough time and whether his hands were steady enough.

Seventeen minutes.

Lynn took a deep breath and walked toward the equipment cabinet.

He did not hesitate.

Not because he was brave.

But because he understood too well—this man, stabbed clean through by Joker, bleeding all over the floor, and seventeen minutes away from death, was his only chance to survive.

Heal Batman, and he could copy an S-rank talent.

Heal Batman, and he would have the means to survive in this world.

Heal Batman, and Kingpin, Leo, and those damned documents would no longer be problems.

As for saving a life itself...

That was merely incidental.

Lynn pulled open the equipment cabinet and swept his eyes over its contents.

Scalpels, hemostatic forceps, sutures and needles, adrenaline, several bottles of expired saline, and an ECG monitor that barely worked.

Enough.

Not much, but enough.

If the system said it was enough, then it was enough.

He put on gloves, crouched beside Batman, and pressed his fingers against the man's carotid artery.

The pulse was weak and rapid, like a violin string about to snap.

"Sir, can you hear me?" Lynn's voice was so calm that even he found it surprising.

Batman's eyes opened slightly. His pupils were unfocused, but he was still conscious.

He seemed to want to say something, but only a muddled breath escaped his throat.

"Don't talk. Don't move." Lynn pressed a hand against his shoulder, his voice gentle but leaving no room for refusal. "You have less than twenty minutes."

"Put your life in my hands."

Batman's clouded eyes seemed to focus for an instant.

He looked at the blood-covered young man before him and, for some reason, did not resist.

Perhaps he no longer had the strength to resist.

Or perhaps it was because the gaze behind those gold-rimmed glasses held a calmness and certainty wholly at odds with Lynn's age.

Lynn picked up the scalpel.

At that moment, the pale blue System Panel fully unfolded before his eyes. Every injury was marked with the optimal treatment route, like a precise surgical navigation map.

Poison first.

Then stop the bleeding.

Then the pneumothorax.

Finally, suture the wounds.

The seventeen-minute countdown to death had become his racetrack.

The blade came down.

The system prompt sounded in sync:

[Treatment initiated.]

[Saintly Hands Copy activated...]

[Copy progress: 0%...]