Cross grinned: "You really are experienced. But don't worry, I've seen your fighting skills—your close combat is brutal enough, so we can skip this step. Of course, if you have any special preferences, I can also tie you to the lathe and give you a good beating."

"Forget it, my special preference is tying others up!"

"OK! Time waits for no one. Every second wasted puts you in more danger, so let's get straight to the point." Cross put away his friendly demeanor, and a presence emanated from him that made Russell's heart race—much stronger than the previous slicked-back guy, to the point that his heart started pounding faster.

Cross exclaimed, "You really are outstanding, but your heart isn't beating fast enough!"

"What do you mean?"

"Your heart rate should be even higher. At this level, it's not enough. I know a way to get you into the right state quickly, just like you were on the rooftop..."

As he spoke, Cross suddenly drew a handgun—a Magnum Baby Eagle II—from the holster under his arm and fired two shots at Russell.

The moment Cross drew his gun, Russell sensed danger and leapt into the air, twisting his body into a difficult pose—only to... get shot perfectly!

"Ahhhhh—"

Cross: "..."

WTF!?

Chapter 9: Pedal to the Metal, Leave the Rest to Fate

Cross looked exasperated as he soaked Russell in a slightly murky pool, saying stiffly, "That's it for tonight. We'll continue tomorrow. Get some rest!"

Without looking back, Cross left. Every time he recalled how decisively Russell took the bullet, he got a headache. He'd thought a little training would be enough for Russell to become a master, but now it seemed he'd been too optimistic.

If he had to grade Russell's performance just now, Cross would give a D—Double D, no more!

The good news was, he hadn't aimed for the head when he fired. Otherwise, finding another capable assistant would be much harder!

Russell was equally exasperated. The way people on TV get shot and still act lively is a lie. He'd only been shot in the thigh, and he'd basically lost all combat ability. Those who get shot in the arm and keep firing back, or take a dozen bullets and still don't go down—he really wondered what kind of physiology that was.

Russell had expected Cross to suddenly open fire, but he hadn't expected two shots in a row. It was clear that, with his current strength and without equipping any cards, dealing with a top assassin was extremely difficult.

Soaking in the pool, Russell felt the wound on his thigh itch, along with a few other injuries from earlier in the day—they all felt like ants crawling over them, very uncomfortable.

This was a normal reaction during healing; the speed was just so fast it felt odd. The murky liquid in the pool was no ordinary stuff. In the world of the Assassin Brotherhood, aside from bullet time and the loom, the most fantastical thing was the medicinal bath he was soaking in.

The medicine in the water could be absorbed through the skin, stimulating white blood cells and speeding up recovery. Bruises, cuts, fractures—all could heal in a few hours, far better than Russell's unreliable system.

At Brotherhood headquarters, the No. 17 textile factory, there was a place called the Recovery Room, which also had this kind of rapid-healing medicinal pool.

The Brotherhood's leader, Morgan Freeman—no, the leader Sloane—was the biggest bandage in the factory, sitting on a goldmine without realizing it. There were so many ways to make money; why choose killing? He could just patent the formula, open a factory, and mass-produce a diluted version of the healing elixir.

With such a miracle drug, dominating the medical world would be a piece of cake. Becoming fabulously wealthy would be no dream at all!

"If Sloane went to Qidian, he'd definitely be a flop..." Russell closed his eyes and sank into the water.

...

The next day, Russell's biological clock woke him up automatically. He broke through the now-solidified surface of the medicinal water, climbed out of the pool, got dressed, and waited, but still didn't see any sign of Cross.

Russell practiced shooting at the factory's range. Thanks to his increased intelligence and the lingering gun skills from the subway cop, he hit every shot on the human-shaped targets. After emptying five magazines in a row, he gave up on the unchallenging practice.

Why? He was getting cocky!

Russell waited a while longer, but with Cross still absent and his stomach growling, he decided to go out for food. The medicinal bath had worked wonders—his injuries were completely healed, with no sign he'd been shot the night before. On the flip side, he was now very hungry.

Once again, it was Colonel Sanders. Not because he was broke and had no choice, but because junk food is high in calories and could replenish his energy.

After filling his stomach, Russell returned to the factory, but there was still no sign of Cross. He guessed the guy was probably spying on his cuckolded son's girlfriend, making it impossible to type with both hands, or maybe he was out hunting a target.

Russell picked up his handgun and went through another hour of tedious practice, then gave up. Rote, low-level training did nothing but kill time; it couldn't help him improve.

There weren't many handguns on Cross's gun rack—this wasn't his main base, and Russell could tell Cross wasn't being fully open with him. But that was fine; Russell had read the original work and knew his biggest weakness—his son, Wesley!