The eccentric doctor never makes a misdiagnosis!

Page 365

“Mr. Tromé, the previous deployment of the [Skin-Coating] artworks was only a small-scale experiment, and the batch from the Drowned Theater has no traceable origin. Not to mention, the goods were activated prematurely when facing the Hunters and have already been destroyed…”

"Noisy."

Tromé clicked his tongue, silencing Sinclair.

"Do you think your explanation is more credible than the entire incident report provided by 'Wolf Eye'? I didn't bring you here to listen to your nonsense."

"After that, the duties of managing the Drowned Theater will be taken over by another Meredith, so you don't need to worry about it anymore."

Tromé mentioned the Wolf Eye, and at the time, Pedro was the only Wolf Eye present at the Drowned Theater, which sent a chill down Sinclair's spine. Undoubtedly, the other side had taken some measures to protect themselves.

He sacrificed himself.

But what Tromé said gave Sinclair a glimmer of hope.

Perhaps the other party also knew that a hunter of the Recruiting Waiter level had arrived at the Drowning Theater, and under such enormous external pressure, it was almost impossible to make effective remedial efforts.

Perhaps, after being punished, I will be transferred to another position?

Before Sinclair could recover from his speculations, a sharp pain suddenly shot through his arm. Before he could realize what was happening, he could only instinctively curl up and let out a few indistinct groans.

But his entire left arm had been torn off.

Tromé was methodically gnawing on the arm. The seemingly serious and stern old man seemed to have shed all pretense and demeanor, his expression revealing only the pleasure of his hunger being relieved, and a hatred as intense as that pleasure.

"Get out."

Clearly, Tromé didn't like having other people standing next to him while he ate, even if they were the ones providing the food.

“Little fellow, you should be glad that the blood flowing in your veins isn’t so thin, otherwise you would have paid a price far more than just an arm. This is my mercy to you worthless descendants, remember it.”

"As for other warnings, I will not say them again; you should know them yourself. As for the consequences of not knowing them, you probably don't want to experience them firsthand."

After saying this, the old man ignored Sinclair and focused on chewing the food in his mouth.

He sliced ​​off flesh and bones, sucked blood and marrow, seemingly unwilling to waste a single scrap. He only stopped when the arm was completely inside his abdomen in the form of a paste.

Sinclair left the Zero Courtroom as if granted a pardon.

Although the intense pain, so severe it numbed his nerves, kept radiating from his severed arm, the first emotion that welled up in his heart was relief—relief that he had survived…

After all, the way Tromuz had looked at him just now didn't seem like he was looking at a fellow descendant of the same race, but rather like he was eyeing food on a plate. That deep-seated desire sent chills down his spine, to the point that he no longer had the courage to say anything.

Tromé, having finished his meal, showed no sign of satisfaction, but remained in a cold silence.

After a few breaths, he finally faced the empty courtroom and spoke again.

"Meredis's pride, Meredis's shame, the lone red wolf... one day, I will make you feel the pain of having to tear apart your own kin. That disgust, that bewilderment, and that insatiable satiation..."

"Or perhaps, I will devour you and the wounds you have caused, in this utterly hideous form."

After a barely perceptible whisper, Tromé hesitated several times, clutching his scepter, before returning to his seat as judge.

He was also one of Meredith's people present at the trial of Red Wolf.

In fact, it was a ruling that he announced and executed himself.

Was Tromé lying? He clearly stated that no one except Aheng and Heda had ever left Trial Chamber Zero alive.

The answer is probably self-evident.

As someone who has survived by cannibalizing his blood relatives, dignity and decency are things he can no longer obtain. But it is precisely because of the intense emptiness caused by this lack that he is even more unwilling to disguise himself with base lies or deception.

Tromé was still alive, but he never left Trial Chamber Zero again, so that night had no end for him.

A gentle breeze stirred, causing the candlelight to flicker.

In the courtroom, the shadows of everything were in their proper places, stretching and extending away from the light. Only the deep black shadow beneath the old man's feet was freed from the light source... firmly fixed in the center of the courtroom, unable to move an inch.

One can see a straight sword, light gray in color and intricately patterned, standing at the edge of Tromé's shadow. It was this sword that pinned the shadow to its spot, and a name that had been crossed out was engraved on the hilt.

Aheng Meredith.

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Soup! (Last recommendation vote used; every day is a do-or-die battle with perfect attendance)

Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Night of the Saloon

After disinfection, wound cleaning, suturing, blood transfusion, and other medical procedures, Sinclair has been out of danger due to the loss of his left arm.

However, due to the complete amputation of his limbs and the inability to recover the missing parts, he will obviously be able to maintain a one-armed state for a considerable period of time. And the limit of this time may be the rest of his life.

Anger is an inevitable emotion, but he doesn't know who this anger should be directed at.

His current wealth, status, reputation, and potential future security all stem from the Meredith name; his family is a deep-seated imprint on his being. It is precisely because of this that he cannot even harbor the slightest resentment towards the former judge, Trompe.

Resentment may not be entirely absent, but the moment this emotion surfaces in the mind, it is swallowed up by an even stronger fear.

So, can this hatred be directed at the Hunters?

U.S. Sinclair did indeed do so, but he lacked the courage to turn his desire for revenge into action.

Look at the fate of Tromé Meredith, the once high-spirited and powerful chief judge, now a sinister ghost bound and confined in a dilapidated hall.

The description "ghost" might not be entirely accurate, since Tromé is still biologically alive. His current state is more like that of a ghoul clinging to life by the spirits and flesh of his blood relatives.

A complex mix of conflicting emotions overwhelmed Sinclair, leaving him in turmoil and ultimately tormented.

In a secluded private room deep within the Shaluo Tavern, empty bottles piled up on the round table in front of him, and cigarette butts, having burned down to their last bit of tobacco, filled the ashtray, yet new cigarette butts continued to be stubbed out.

"Damn it, how did it turn out like this..."

Sinclair shook the empty whiskey bottle, instinctively reaching for another cigarette in the pack with his left hand, but all he received in return was a phantom pain.

Although he had received special pain relief treatment, Meredith's doctor still advised him to abstain from smoking and alcohol for the time being, and to eat a light diet while consuming appropriate amounts of protein. Of course, he no longer cared about these warnings at the moment.

He only wanted to let his mind sink into intoxication, to forget the fear, torment, and pain.

Just then, the sound of the lock clicking came from the door of Sinclair's secret chamber. The door was then pushed open, and a man wrapped in an Ahanta-style robe looked around before slowly walking inside.

"I am not against alcohol and tobacco."

"Often, fragile mortals need external stimuli like this to maintain their fragile spirits. Even if the essence of such stimulation is to overdraw on and harm life... but 'abuse' is utter folly."

The man waved his hand, dispelling the drifting gray smoke and smell of alcohol. Although he tried to conceal it, a fleeting look of disgust could still be seen in his eyes.

"It seems our deal has cost you."

His eyes shifted slightly, and his gaze quickly focused on Sinclair's severed arm.

"Since you knew... you still dared to come here? Although my family protected me, we still owe the Hunters an explanation! Aren't you afraid that a squad of Hunters will come right now and you'll be riddled with bullets?"

"Mr. Sinclair, please refrain from saying such things that could damage our business relationship. I provide the goods and unparalleled preferential prices, while you provide negligible funding and distribution support; everything is fair and reasonable."

"As for the changes in your transportation channels, I can only express my sympathy; there's really nothing I can do to help you in other aspects. Let's think about it on the bright side: my goods will exhibit strong aggression after being activated, which will then entice the Hunters to destroy them."

"Otherwise, the price you'll have to pay will be much higher than this, won't it?"

The man waved his hand, completely ignoring the threatening undertone in Sinclair's words.

What he really wanted to say was, "Don't bark like a stray dog, all bark and no bite," but considering that Meredith's family background could offer him some help, he held back.

"That's all... What do you mean by 'that's all'?"

"Do you know what it means to be crippled in a wolf pack? It means incompetence, lowliness, and no future possibilities! It means all my efforts up to this point have been in vain, it means I'm fucking destined to be abandoned!"

Sinclair slammed his remaining right arm down on the wooden table, nearly collapsing, and his violent emotions finally erupted uncontrollably.

"Oh? I thought that among the Qi family members who pursued Lin Feng's 'Blade,' scars would be a kind of honor."

The man raised an eyebrow, then poured himself a glass of Dorlin wine.

"It is honor that makes scars glorious, not scars that bring honor... Scars born of punishment are nothing more than evidence of the victim's crimes."

Sinclair gritted his teeth and let out a low groan.

"Indeed."

The man nodded, somewhat surprised that Sinclair could utter such philosophical words. He had expected to be facing a hopelessly drunkard or a hopeless loser who had given up on himself.

“I had other options prepared, but seeing you like this, I’ve changed my mind. There’s obviously a better deal for your current situation… Sinclair, you should know what people like us are best at.”

"You mean, my hand..."

Sinclair looked up and realized the meaning behind the man's words, but along with that, a strong sense of vigilance arose.

“Hey, I’m not going to be your casually discarded guinea pig. I’ve seen the final products of your secret techniques. They’re either like rotten flesh on a sore or like ridiculous graffiti drawn by a second-rate artist who’s been addicted to Salem tincture or brain toxin.”

The man wasn't angry; he simply pretended to be innocent and offered an explanation.

“Sinclair, please don’t doubt my business acumen. I admit that the previous products were somewhat unsightly, but at the time our highest requirement for the goods was ‘transportability,’ so some distortion in form was inevitable.”

"What does 'absurd graffiti by a second-rate artist' mean? I think the finished product, after being transformed, conforms to the characteristics of surrealist paintings and possesses a unique aesthetic."

"Ahem, back to the point... It's just about reshaping an arm for you, which isn't difficult for me. And I can guarantee that it will be better, safer, and more reliable than your original limb. I brought a contract scroll with all the above terms written in it."

Once again, Sinclair was faced with a choice.

The young Meredith's desire to regain her physical intimacy was overwhelming; in fact, she was already inclined to agree when the man made the offer. Her words, which sounded like a refusal, were merely a ploy to gain more leverage in the negotiations.

After a long silence, Sinclair filled a glass with whiskey and then drank it all in one gulp.

"Then let's put it in writing."

"I know you will make a wise choice."

The man approvingly patted his palm, then unfurled the scroll of paper made of unknown leather and began to write with his own blood.

[Guarantee Clause: Surrealist painter Vito Amarant swears an oath on all the images created with his brush, and in the name of his mentor, Karmien von Munro. Sinclair Meredith, on the other hand, swears an oath on the blood of a wolf.]

[Conditions: Sinclair will provide Vito with the venue for the 'Skin Painting' ritual, a sacrificial offering, and materials imbued with spirit. The materials are from the third to fourth tier, totaling three items.]

[Contract Details: Vito must heal Sinclair's missing left arm. The reconstructed limb should not exhibit contamination, deformity, deterioration, or any adverse reactions caused by defects in the ritual itself. Furthermore, its appearance and functionality must remain consistent with its complete form.]

Neither party to the contract shall have any subjective intent to cause harm, nor shall they engage in any objective acts of harm, when performing the contract.

Out of a certain professionalism, Witteau was exceptionally meticulous in writing the contract, so much so that Sinclair couldn't find any obvious flaws at first.

Even the price was within his budget.

“Vittor, it seems you knew my bottom line for this deal from the very beginning.”

"of course."

Vito readily admitted it.

“After all, you can’t fight the Hunters to the death, nor can you go against the Merediths who are above you. We were partners, and I hope this contract will make our relationship even closer.”

"Therefore, I choose 'sincerity' as the sole principle of this contract, and the core demand is 'mutual benefit'."

“...If you weren’t a painter, you might have become a renowned businessman in Norlington.”

Without further hesitation, Dead Sinclair used his sharp canines to slit his little finger and then signed his name on the leather scroll.

The pact took effect, and an invisible, intangible spiritual bond formed between the two.

"Alright, give me the list. I'll get what you need. Also, remember to behave yourself in Norrington for a while. If you get caught by the hunters for any dirty work, our agreement is void, and don't expect me to come and get you."

Sinclair gave a word of advice, then turned to leave.

"That's how it should be, but I hope this clause applies to both parties."

Vito had no objection to this, but he didn't seem to intend to end the meeting there.

"Well then, please allow me to help you get back to your original self, Mr. Sinclair."

"Wow... you're actually willing to complete your contract ahead of schedule? Are you really that kind?"

Sinclair frowned, a hint of confusion in his grey-chestnut eyes.

"Don't doubt my good intentions. I'm just confident in my ability to collect compensation. I believe that breach of contract is a terrible situation that neither of us wants to see."

As he spoke, Vito reached into the collar of Ahanta's robe. In the shadows beyond his sight, his entire hand plunged into the grotesque gash in the middle of his neck, from which he retrieved several paintbrushes and a palette with pre-mixed paints.

After dipping his brush into the thick, strangely colored paint, he lifted Sinclair's empty sleeve and began painting over the gap in his severed arm.

Bones and joints, muscles and blood vessels, nerve tissue, and even the skin that is finally wrapped around them... This is a three-dimensional painting that transcends the canvas, with every stroke bringing the subject to life.

However, Sinclair did not feel that the arm belonged to him until the painting was completed.

Finally, Vito took a tulip from the mouth in that throat, tore off a petal, crushed it into powder, and dotted it on the tip of his pen, completing the stroke that marked the end.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through his nerves, and veins bulged on Sinclair's forehead like snakes. He looked as if he might scream at any moment, but after his Adam's apple bobbed a few times, he finally managed to hold it in.

"very good……"