The smoke and dust had yet to clear.
Rubble slid off broken rebar and splashed into the standing water.
A raging green aura tore straight through the gray haze. Yang Ming stepped out, planting his foot on a broken load-bearing column.
He was unhurt. Not even a scratch.
The pitch-black armament haki coating his body slowly faded, revealing muscles flushed red from the blood surge caused by the Eight Gates.
Yang Ming stopped.
His dark eyes slowly swept across the vast underground space.
The pungent smell of formalin.
Dozens of rusty operating tables.
Rows of glass cylinders in the corner, filled with dark gold fragments.
And orphan records scattered across the floor, stained with blood.
[Subject number: 074. Origin: Gotham's East End, orphan. Skeletal reinforcement failed. Disposed of.]
Yang Ming stared at that line.
In his previous life, he had worked forty-eight hours straight in the emergency room just to pull a child critically injured in a car accident back from death's door. He had even died saving a drowning child, his own lungs filling with river water until he suffocated.
He was a doctor.
To him, life was something to respect and save with every ounce of strength he had.
But now, dozens, perhaps hundreds of children had been treated like lab rats. Their flesh had been sliced open, their bones removed, and metal poured into them, only for them to end up labeled "disposed of."
Yang Ming neither shouted nor cursed.
He simply raised a hand, slowly pulled off his half-charred tie, and tossed it to the floor.
The air changed.
Leaning against the corner, Tim suddenly found it incredibly difficult to breathe. Not from a lack of oxygen, but because the killing intent pouring off Yang Ming had grown so thick it seemed ready to