B+-Tier Talent

His brain had already completed its threat assessment. Frank's right hand was raised, holding a gun.

But the pulse in his wrist showed that his blood pressure had already dropped to a critical level.

In his current condition, his finger could keep enough strength to pull the trigger for thirty seconds at most.

After thirty seconds, his hand would relax on its own.

But in those thirty seconds, a .45-caliber bullet fired from six meters away would be more than enough to put a hole in his head.

He hadn't gotten Indestructible yet. Right now, he was still only flesh and blood.

"That depends on whether you can afford it." Lynn spoke calmly.

Frank tilted his head. He probably hadn't expected someone with a gun pointed at him to bring up money first.

"Fix me. One hour," Frank said.

Each word seemed forced through clenched teeth, but every one was perfectly clear.

"If you can't fix me, you won't be held responsible. Because in an hour, I'll either walk out that door or die on your operating table."

The System Panel appeared.

[Automatic Diagnosis Initiated—]

[Patient: Frank Castle (Codename: Punisher)]

[Injury Assessment:]

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

[2. Penetrating wound to the right kidney, renal capsule torn, bleeding at approximately 12 ml/min;]

[3. Two perforating wounds in the left lung, hemopneumothorax developing;]

[4. Ruptured spleen, bleeding at approximately 15 ml/min;]

[5. Multiple soft-tissue injuries and bone fractures across the body;]

[6. Blood loss has reached 38% of total blood volume; early hemorrhagic shock.]

[Overall mortality rate: 89.3%]

[Estimated time to natural death: 43 minutes.]

Then came that line.

[Estimated copyable talent upon healing this target: B+-Tier Talent!]

B+. Not that high.

Batman had given him an S+, Daredevil an A+, and Frank Castle only a B+.

But Lynn's Super Intelligence had already pulled up everything he knew under the keyword "Punisher"—

Frank Castle, former Marine, veteran of numerous life-or-death battles.

After undergoing certain secret military experiments, his body had mutated, giving him far greater resilience and pain tolerance than an ordinary person.

Over thirty gunshot wounds, a ruptured spleen, one kidney shot through, and both lungs leaking air—any normal person would have been dead twenty minutes ago.

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

This ability to "refuse to die" wasn't just a matter of willpower.

At a biochemical level, his body had a survival mechanism that ordinary people lacked.

A Healing Factor.

Though it was only B+-Tier, it was exactly what Lynn needed most right now—a passive ability to recover.

With it, he wouldn't be so fragile that one punch might break his bones.

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

Frank watched his back for two seconds.

Then he slid the gun back into its holster.

Not because he trusted him.

Because he had no other choice.

Frank staggered as he entered the operating room, catching himself against the doorframe with his left hand.

Lynn reached out to help him, but Frank shoved him away.

"Don't."

He walked over to the operating table himself, took off his jacket, and tossed it onto the floor.

The black jacket landed with a heavy thud—the pockets held at least six magazines and two spare pistols.

Then came the bulletproof vest.

He tried twice to undo the Velcro on his chest, but his fingers couldn't manage it.

Lynn simply stepped in and tore it open for him.

"I said I don't need—"

"Your right radial pulse pressure is below sixty. Keep pushing yourself for another five minutes, and you'll be lying here for the rest of your life."

Frank fell silent.

Once the bulletproof vest was off, Lynn saw his body.

This wasn't his first time seeing a battered torso—his previous operation on Batman had prepared him for it.

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

Batman's injuries were the kind you got from being "hit." Frank's were the kind you got from "taking the hits."

Old scars layered over new ones. Dozens of knife scars, burn marks, and bullet dents covered his chest and abdomen.

Some of the scars had healed in ways that were clearly abnormal. The granulation tissue at their edges was unusually dense, showing that his body really did heal much faster than an ordinary person's.

The fresh wounds were worse.

More than thirty bullet holes dotted his torso and limbs. Some still oozed blood; others had already clotted, forming dark-red crusts on his skin.

"Lie facedown," Lynn said.

Frank lay facedown on the operating table.

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

Super Senses at full capacity.

His fingers started at the back of Frank's neck and traced down his spine, moving over his entire back.

His sense of touch was frighteningly acute. He could feel the position, depth, and shape of every piece of shrapnel, all with perfect clarity.

Right of the third thoracic vertebra, 1.5 centimeters beneath the skin: a complete 9mm bullet.

Left of the seventh thoracic vertebra, 2.7 centimeters beneath the skin: an irregular fragment from a 7.62mm bullet.

At the right kidney, he could hear the organ bleeding internally.

It wasn't a "drip, drip" sound. It was a quiet, constant "hiss." The tear in the renal capsule was about three centimeters long. The bleeding wasn't especially fast, but it hadn't stopped.

The left lung. The two perforating wounds had caused a hemopneumothorax—he could hear fluid sloshing in the lung cavity and the faintest "whoosh" of air escaping.

The spleen. Its rupture was about three centimeters long, and it was bleeding faster than any of the other internal injuries.

Super Intelligence mapped out the optimal surgical route in his mind.

Treat the spleen first—it was the biggest source of blood loss.

Then the right kidney.

Then the pneumothorax in the left lung.

Finally, remove the shrapnel in batches.

Total time: thirty-five minutes.

Lynn picked up a scalpel.

"What are you going to do?" Frank turned his head to look at the blade in Lynn's hand.

"Operate. Your spleen's ruptured. I can't treat it without cutting you open."

"Are you going to use anesthesia?"

"Do you want it?"

Frank was silent for a second.

"No."

"Figured."

The blade came down.

The first incision was along the left abdominal wall, following the optimal line marked by the system into the abdominal cavity.

Frank's muscles were much thicker than an ordinary person's, and his fascia was more resilient too. Lynn had to apply about twenty percent more force than usual to cut through it cleanly.

The instant he entered the abdominal cavity, a large amount of blood gushed out.

The ruptured spleen lay exposed beneath the surgical light. The tear was indeed three centimeters long, its edges ragged, as if it had been pierced by a blunt object and then torn wider by the body's movement.