Three in the morning.
Inside the underground clinic, the wall clock's second hand ticked away.
Beyond that monotonous mechanical sound, a faint, teeth-grating noise lingered in the air-the sound of bones and muscle fibers being violently torn apart, then forcibly rebuilt at a hundred times their normal speed.
On the stainless steel operating table, Bruce Wayne's body was undergoing inhuman torment.
The brutal power of the Specialized Medical Recovery Potion lay in how it violently compressed three months of the human body's natural healing into a few short dozen minutes.
Cells divided frantically. The jagged ends of his broken ribs intertwined and healed like living vines. His bullet-pierced spleen and muscle tissue rapidly rebuilt themselves under the potion's effects.
Pain that reached this deep into the marrow could shatter a grown man's sanity in an instant.
But Bruce did not scream.
Half-conscious, he clenched his teeth so tightly that the thick taste of blood filled his mouth. Every muscle in his body bulged and tightened like lumps of pig iron.
Sweat poured from him like a waterfall, running down his perfectly defined muscles and instantly soaking the cold stainless steel surface before dripping noisily through the drainage channel.
"Hhrrgh-"
A low growl like that of a dying animal escaped his throat. Both hands clawed at the edges of the operating table, his nails nearly scratching the metal.
A full ten minutes passed.
At last, the agony that felt as though it would tear him apart receded like a tide.
Bruce's eyes snapped open.
There was no groggy confusion in his deep-set eyes, only extreme wariness and an almost tangible killing intent.
Like a startled leopard, he powered through his core and sprang off the operating table, landing firmly on both feet in a flawless defensive stance.
No tearing pain. No weakness from internal bleeding.
Bruce glanced down at his torso. The potentially fatal gunshot wound through his abdomen and the bloody hole in his thigh had completely vanished! Not even a scar remained, only two faint red marks.
He looked at the floor. His tactical gear, worth tens of thousands of dollars and reinforced with bulletproof Kevlar fibers, had been cut into a heap of ragged strips soaking in bloody water.
He now stood stark naked in this unfamiliar basement.
His gaze swept the room like radar.
A cold tray of surgical instruments. Gauze soaked in dark red blood. A drainage bottle beside him containing at least 1,500 cc of blood.
Finally, his gaze locked onto a spot five meters away.
A battered swivel chair sat in a dim corner.
Yang Ming was curled up in it, wearing a wrinkled shirt and holding a chipped mug printed with "I LOVE NY." He was looking down, blowing on the foam floating atop his cheap instant coffee.
Bruce's mind raced through its calculations in a tenth of a second.
Years of paranoia, combined with an intense distrust of unknown powers, brought him to an immediate conclusion: this Asian man with some mysterious medical method was extremely dangerous.
I don't know whether he's a friend or an enemy. I don't know whether he's implanted a tracker or a miniature bomb inside me.
Strike first, subdue him, interrogate him, take control. Give him the full package before anything else!
Decision made, Bruce acted without a word.
His toes gripped the rough concrete floor, and his calf muscles instantly swelled with force.
Bang!
Even the floor beneath his feet seemed to give a dull thud. His massive frame became a dark blur, accompanied by the sharp whistle of air being torn apart. A high roundhouse kick powerful enough to snap solid steel rebar shot straight toward Yang Ming's neck.
Ruthless and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.
Faced with this sudden, lethal attack, Yang Ming did not even lift his eyelids.
He was still leisurely sipping his scalding coffee.
The instant Bruce's sweeping leg came within ten centimeters of his neck, Yang Ming moved.
The newly integrated Master-Level Combat Muscle Memory needed no command from his brain. His body had already delivered the perfect response.
Yang Ming held the mug steady in his left hand and raised his right with apparent casualness.
His palm intercepted Bruce's kick precisely at its weakest point.
Thwack.
An exceptionally dull sound of flesh striking flesh.
Bruce's supposedly certain blow, powerful enough to shatter a human skull, was caught firmly by that slender hand. The vicious attack was neutralized in an instant, as though it had struck cotton.
Not a single drop of coffee spilled from the mug in Yang Ming's left hand. It remained perfectly steady.
Utter shock flashed in Bruce's eyes.
He knew exactly how powerful that kick was. He had mastered dozens of the world's finest martial arts and traveled the globe, honing his body to the limits of human capability.
Even a Siberian Brown Bear would have suffered broken ribs from that kick.
Yet this doctor, with his heavy dark circles and sickly, exhausted appearance, had caught it with one hand?
Bruce refused to accept it and immediately changed his attack.
He sharply pulled back his captured right leg. Using the resulting force, he twisted at the waist in midair, bringing his left leg crashing down like a battle-axe. It was a Karate technique-Axe Kick!
"You really won't quit until you've learned the hard way. Fine, I'll give you a proper workout!"
Yang Ming sighed and casually set his mug on the iron table beside him.
He stopped holding back.
The pent-up temper and aggression from endless emergency-room shifts in his previous life meshed perfectly with the system's aesthetics of violence.
Yang Ming did not retreat. Instead, he advanced, dropping his right shoulder and slamming into Bruce's chest like a shell fired from a cannon.
Bajiquan, Mountain-Leaning Strike! (Can a little hater like you withstand my idol's two and a half years of training?!)
Boom!
The tremendous force sent Bruce flying backward, crashing into a surgical trolley.
The trolley collapsed instantly. Hemostats, scalpels, and medicine bottles clattered across the floor, and glass fragments flew everywhere.
Ignoring the searing pain in his back, Bruce rolled with the impact, planted one hand on the floor, and lunged into another attack.
The two became blurs inside the cramped underground clinic, testing each other's moves!
The dull thuds of fists striking flesh came without pause.
Bruce fought with broad, forceful movements, cycling through the world's finest martial arts. Every strike targeted a vital point as he tried to use his advantages in weight and strength to drag Yang Ming into a battle of attrition.
But the longer they fought, the deeper the chill in Bruce's heart grew.
This underground doctor was a monster!
Not only could he perfectly anticipate every feint and change of attack, but his moves were even more vicious-and dirtier-than those of any mob assassin Bruce had ever seen!
Bruce feinted with a jab, trying to close in for a rear naked choke.
Yang Ming cared nothing for fighting etiquette. Two fingers darted straight toward Bruce's eyes like a snake's flicking tongue.
Alarmed, Bruce jerked his head back to dodge.
The toe of Yang Ming's right foot had already lashed out silently, aimed precisely at Bruce's groin.
An utterly underhanded groin kick! No one could see that coming and refuse to dodge!
Cold sweat broke out across Bruce's body. He forcibly twisted his hips, narrowly avoiding the blow that would have ended his family line, and slid awkwardly half a step backward.
That half step was all the opening needed.
Yang Ming immediately pressed in. His left hand clamped around Bruce's right wrist like an iron vise, while his right drove into Bruce's elbow joint and pressed down hard.
Reverse Joint Lock!
Bruce felt as though every tendon and bone in his right arm was about to be twisted apart. The agony drew a muffled grunt from him.
Yang Ming sneered, his voice echoing through the dilapidated clinic with undisguised mockery. "Is this how you treat the man who saved your life?"
He abruptly increased the pressure, forcing Bruce to bend at the waist.
"Or are you planning to stiff me on that million-dollar medical bill, young master Bruce Wayne, Gotham's richest man?!"
"Bruce Wayne."
That name struck Bruce's brain like a bolt from the blue.
His entire body jolted, and his pupils contracted sharply.
How was that possible?!
Tonight had been his first outing in a mask. He had carried no identification.
Even the Malone Crime Family members who had shot him and those corrupt cops had only seen him as a reckless "masked freak."
How had this underground doctor hiding in the slums seen through his real identity at a glance?!
The overwhelming shock caused a fatal half-second pause in Bruce's rigorously trained muscles.
In a fight to the death, half a second was enough to die ten times.
There was no way Yang Ming would let that chance slip.
Driving through his waist and rooted stance, he unleashed his full strength. Both hands gripped Bruce's arm, and in that instant of hesitation, he executed an exceptionally clean and brutal shoulder throw.
Crash!
Two hundred pounds of body weight slammed into the hard concrete floor.
The impact smashed a web of cracks into the concrete.
Bruce felt as though all his internal organs had been knocked out of place. A breath caught in his chest, and his vision darkened in waves.
Before he could recover, Yang Ming's right knee drove firmly against his throat like the final, match-ending blow.
The pressure left Bruce unable to breathe.