B+ Grade Talent

His brain had already completed the threat assessment—although the right hand of Frank Castle was holding a gun.

However, the pulse frequency in his wrist indicated that his blood pressure had already dropped to a critical level.

Given his current physical condition, the strength in the finger pulling the trigger could last for thirty seconds at most.

After thirty seconds, his hand would automatically go limp.

But within those thirty seconds, a .45 caliber bullet fired from six meters away was enough to blow a hole in his head.

He hadn't obtained Indestructible yet; he was still a mortal of flesh and blood.

"It depends on whether you can afford it." Lynn spoke, his voice steady.

Frank tilted his head, likely not expecting someone staring down the barrel of a gun to talk about money first.

"Heal me. One hour." Frank said.

Every word sounded as if it were squeezed out from between his teeth, yet every word was clear.

"If you can't heal me, you don't need to be responsible for it. Because in one hour, I will either walk out of this door or die on your operating table."

The system panel popped up.

[Automatic diagnosis initiated—]

[Patient: Frank Castle (Codename: Punisher)]

[Injury assessment:]

[1. Over 30 gunshot wounds from 9mm and 7.62mm rounds across the body, 17 pieces of shrapnel embedded;]

[2. Right kidney puncture, renal capsule rupture, bleeding rate approx. 12ml/min;]

[3. Two penetrating wounds to the left lung, hemopneumothorax forming;]

[4. Splenic rupture, bleeding rate approx. 15ml/min;]

[5. Multiple soft tissue injuries and hairline fractures throughout the body;]

[6. Blood loss has reached 38% of total body volume, early stage of hemorrhagic shock.]

[Comprehensive mortality rate: 89.3%]

[Estimated time until natural death: 43 minutes.]

Then came that line of text.

[Heal this target, estimated copyable: B+ Grade Talent!]

B+. Not considered high.

Batman had given S+, Daredevil had given A+, but Frank Castle was only B+.

However, Lynn's Super Intelligence had already retrieved all the information he knew under the keyword "Punisher"—

Frank Castle, retired Marine, had experienced countless life-or-death battles.

His body had mutated after undergoing certain secret military experiments, granting him recovery and pain tolerance far exceeding that of an ordinary person.

Over thirty gunshot wounds, a ruptured spleen, a punctured kidney, two leaking lungs—if it were any normal person, they would have died twenty minutes ago.

But Frank Castle could still stand, still hold a gun, and still speak in complete sentences.

This ability to "refuse death" was not as simple as willpower.

It was that his body possessed a survival mechanism at the biochemical level that ordinary people did not have.

Healing Factor.

Although it was only B+ grade, it was exactly what Lynn needed most right now—a passive recovery ability.

With it, he would no longer be a fragile person who might break a bone from a single punch.

"Put the gun down." Lynn walked down the stairs and headed toward the operating room. "I won't need an hour."

Frank stared at his back for two seconds.

Then he returned the gun to the holster at his waist.

Not because of trust.

It was because he had no other choice.

Frank stumbled when he walked into the operating room, his left hand bracing against the door frame.

Lynn reached out to steady him, only to be pushed away.

"No need."

He walked to the operating table by himself and threw his coat onto the floor.

The sound of the black coat hitting the ground was heavy—the pockets inside contained at least six magazines and two backup pistols.

Then came the bulletproof vest.

He tried to reach out to undo the Velcro on his chest, but his fingers failed to pull it open after two attempts.

Lynn stepped in and helped him rip it off.

"I said no need—"

"Your right radial artery pressure is already below sixty. If you keep acting tough for another five minutes, you'll be lying here for the rest of your life."

Frank shut his mouth.

After the bulletproof vest was removed, Lynn saw his body.

It wasn't his first time seeing a scarred torso—the time with Batman had already prepared him mentally.

But Frank Castle's body was completely different from that of Bruce Wayne.

Batman's injuries were the result of "being hit," while Frank's injuries were the result of "taking it head-on."

Old scars layered over new wounds; dozens of knife marks, burn marks, and indentations left by bullets covered his entire chest and abdomen.

The healing texture of some scars was clearly different from that of an ordinary person—the granulation tissue at the edges of the wounds was exceptionally dense, indicating that his body's repair speed was indeed much faster than a normal person's.

The new wounds were even worse.

Over thirty bullet holes were distributed across his torso and limbs; some were still oozing blood, while others had already coagulated, forming dark red scabs on the surface of the skin.

"Lie down." Lynn said.

Frank lay on the operating table.

Lynn washed his hands, put on gloves, and turned on the surgical light.

Super Senses fully activated.

His fingers started from the back of Frank's neck, tracing down along the spine across his entire back.

His sense of touch was terrifyingly acute—the location, depth, and shape of every piece of shrapnel were clearly perceived by his fingertips.

To the right of the third thoracic vertebra, 1.5 centimeters under the skin, one 9mm bullet, intact.

To the left of the seventh thoracic vertebra, 2.7 centimeters under the skin, one 7.62mm bullet fragment, irregular shape.

The location of the right kidney—he heard the sound of bleeding inside that organ.

It wasn't a "drip-drip" sound, but a continuous, faint "hissing" sound. The tear in the renal capsule was about three centimeters long; the bleeding rate wasn't too fast, but it hadn't stopped.

Left lung. Two penetrating wounds had caused a hemopneumothorax—he could hear the sound of liquid sloshing in the lung cavity and the extremely faint "whooshing" sound of gas leaking.

Spleen. The rupture was about three centimeters long, and the bleeding rate was the fastest among all the internal injuries.

Super Intelligence mapped out an optimal surgical path in his mind.

Handle the spleen first—this was the largest source of bleeding.

Then the right kidney.

Then address the pneumothorax in the left lung.

Finally, remove the shrapnel in batches.

Total time budget: thirty-five minutes.

Lynn picked up the scalpel.

"What are you doing?" Frank turned his head to look at the blade in his hand.

"Surgery. Your spleen is ruptured; it can't be fixed without cutting it open."

"Are you using anesthesia?"

"Do you want to use it?"

Frank was silent for a second.

"No."

"I figured as much."

The blade descended.

The first incision cut through the left abdominal wall, entering the abdominal cavity along the optimal tangent marked by the system.

Frank's muscle layer was much thicker than an ordinary person's, and the fascia was tougher; the scalpel required about twenty percent more force to cut through smoothly.

The moment he entered the abdominal cavity, a large amount of blood surged out.

The rupture in the spleen was exposed under the surgical light—it was indeed a three-centimeter-long tear with irregular edges, as if it had been punctured by a blunt object and then torn further due to the body's movement.