“Mo’er…” Linda Hughes stroked Mark Brooks’s messy hair, her heart full of bitterness, tears rolling down as her pale lips failed to utter a single word. This child’s clothes barely covered his body, he was filthy all over—he must have suffered a lot.

“I’m fine, don’t worry, everyone.” Mark Brooks smiled, his dark face and white teeth giving off a sense of spring breeze despite his disheveled appearance. He seemed completely different from before, as if a sharp sword had been sheathed.

Mark Brooks merged a drop of small green liquid into the luminous profound energy, then took Grace Hamilton’s hand.

She immediately felt a warm and nourishing surge of profound energy enter her body, clear and gentle. Her limbs and bones, like withered wood meeting spring, were nourished and revitalized, endlessly recovering at a rapid pace.

Her jade lips parted slightly, her eyes full of astonishment. Such a miraculous healing—how did Second Brother do it?

In no time, her injuries and the minor damage to her meridians and energy sea were all healed. Even the profound energy within her energy sea had recovered more than half.

Standing to the side, David Foster frowned, sensing something was off. That crazy girl’s face had been deathly pale just moments ago—if not on the verge of collapse, she was at least utterly drained.

But in just a dozen breaths, how had her complexion become so rosy? Her cheeks were flushed and tender, with no sign of injury at all.

Could it be that Mark Brooks had some kind of fortuitous encounter in the small cave heaven? Was it some miraculous healing technique?

At this thought, David Foster’s breathing grew rapid, his eyes filled with greed. His mind raced, plotting how to beat this kid and force him to hand over the benefits.

If he could obtain that miraculous profound technique, his own future would be limitless.

As for any scruples—heh, a congenital defective body, even if he gained some benefits in the small cave heaven and improved his strength a little, so what? Even the unexpectedly powerful Grace Hamilton was beaten down. With a bunch of old, weak, sick, and disabled on their side, and his own numbers, wouldn’t it be easy to wipe them out as usual?

Sensing that the spiritual liquid was almost depleted, Mark Brooks dared not overtax the tender seedling and gently said, “Wu’er, help Big Brother home. I’ll take care of everything here.”

“Take care of it? What makes you think you can?” David Foster mocked with a sneer. “With trash like you, no matter how many come, you’re all dead. Overestimating yourself.”

Mark Brooks’s aura turned cold as he said indifferently, “I remember you. Your name is David Foster? You, a mere disciple of another surname, dare to defy your superiors and lead a group to attack the Chen family’s bloodline—what crime is that?” He wiped his face with his sleeve, revealing a handsome face, his deep eyes as cold and unfathomable as an ancient well.

“What crime is that?” David Foster said with a mocking face, “It’s a capital crime, I’m so scared. Young Master Brooks, don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.”

“Come on, kill me.” A group of lackeys started jeering along, spouting words like trash, garbage, and so on.

As for David Foster himself, he remained motionless, arms crossed, his sinister gaze fixed on Mark Brooks. He intended to let his men test the waters first—better safe than sorry, see how things played out.

“Today, all of you must die!”

With a furious roar, Mark Brooks charged barefoot into the crowd like a cannonball. He unleashed a Vajra Fist, striking like a fierce battering ram, his arms surging with blood and energy, bulging as if about to burst—clearly containing immense explosive power.

It was as if he was pouring all his rage into this punch.

Even the air seemed to rumble with faint thunder.

“Go to hell.”

His fist smashed directly into the foremost lackey, like a battering ram straight to the face. The moment fist met flesh, a tremendous, unstoppable force erupted.

A miserable scream.

The man’s head burst like a dropped egg, blood and brain matter splattering everywhere. His body flew out, dead before it even hit the ground.

A wave of nausea churned in Mark Brooks’s heart, but when he thought that if he’d returned even a moment later, his whole family would have suffered, his anger blazed up again like a raging fire.

Burning with fury, Mark Brooks’s hands were like cannons, his shoulders like heavy hammers. He was like a wrathful Vajra descending, every move exuding domineering, unyielding power and awe.

“Boom!” Another lackey, unable to dodge in time, was struck by his Vajra Fist, his shoulder collapsing as if hit by a giant beast. The man flew through the air, crashing into the wall and bringing it down with a thunderous noise.

For a moment, everyone was frozen in terror, chills running through their bodies.

Even David Foster shuddered involuntarily, his brow twitching. A flash of darkness passed through his eyes. Was this guy, so violent and powerful, really the same congenital defective, useless Mark Brooks as before?

These few Vajra Fist moves were executed with such ferocity and dominance, fully displaying the grandeur and depth of the technique—he had clearly grasped its essence. Yet the power was even greater than expected.

When had the usually weak wood-type profound energy ever produced such a pure, masculine, and awe-inspiring force? Or was he just seeing things?

“Get him!” David Foster shouted angrily when he saw his men hesitating. “There’s so many of us and only one of him—what are you afraid of?”