Chapter Forty-Two: Mr. Zhongshen Is Truly a Good Man

When Coulson saw Agent May in such a dire state, his years of experience prevented him from panicking. Without a moment's hesitation, he did exactly as Zhong Shenshu had anticipated—he ordered a team of agents to carry Agent May to 19 Ingram Street, seeking out the healer whose abilities bordered on miraculous.

On the way, Coulson’s gaze swept over the dazed faces of passersby—some had already regained their senses and gone home, where angry shouts about thieves could be heard. In the distant west, flames still soared into the sky, reminding Coulson of a mission he’d once undertaken in the Middle East, involving an underground natural gas leak that had ignited. The relentless jets of fire then were even more spectacular than this. This must be the explosion detected an hour ago...

In the span of merely ten hours, so much had changed on this small street called Ingram.

As he hurried to seek medical help, Coulson’s mind raced with troubled thoughts. He glanced at Agent May, who lay unconscious, her fate uncertain. Her last words echoed in his mind: “The ritual... next is Moscow?”

Ritual... Moscow... next?

As these thoughts churned, an ominous premonition welled up within him—so intense it made even this battle-hardened agent’s scalp tingle.

—

Zhong Shenshu took a quick detour to avoid the roadside cameras, then hurried home. He reverted to his true appearance, changed into fresh clothes, tidied himself up, and took care of every small detail.

As he finished, Coulson and his team arrived.

“Mr. Zhong, we have a colleague here who’s been gravely injured. We sincerely hope you can help her,” Coulson said, ever courteous, though the beads of sweat at his brow betrayed his tension.

Though Zhong Shenshu had long anticipated the agents’ arrival, he played his part. Feigning slight surprise, he fixed his gaze on Agent May, who lay on the stretcher surrounded by crimson blood. After a moment’s “realization,” he hurriedly beckoned, “Quick, bring her in and lay her down.”

The well-trained agents immediately complied.

Only now did Zhong Shenshu have a moment to clearly assess Agent May’s wounds. Her abdomen had been pierced by a Thunder Lance, leaving a charred hole ringed with seared flesh from high-voltage burns. Her right wrist had been slashed open, fresh blood still flowing.

I may have gone a bit too far, he mused inwardly. But seeing Coulson dismissing the other agents, Zhong Shenshu knew that, regardless, his objective had been achieved.

Besides, he was curious to see what this so-called Agent’s Heart (Pseudo) could do. There was only a one percent chance of acquiring it; if he didn’t make the wounds severe, he might heal her too quickly and miss the opportunity.

Without further ado, he summoned his Healing Spell, bathing May’s severed hand in green light.

Such wounds could easily lead to death by blood loss, while the charred abdominal injury, though risking hyperosmotic shock, at least didn’t bleed as profusely.

Why not simply reattach the hand the agents had retrieved? Don’t ask—if he healed her that quickly, it would defeat the purpose!

Coulson, unaware of Zhong Shenshu’s inner calculations, was relieved to see the healer neither demanding payment nor asking probing questions, simply applying his miraculous power to Agent May without hesitation.

Coulson’s furrowed brow finally eased, and his smile became heartfelt.

Mr. Zhong is truly a good man, Coulson thought sincerely.

Suddenly remembering something, he hastily pulled out S.H.I.E.L.D.’s encrypted phone, composing a message to his boss:

“Shenshu Zhong is safe. Investigating specifics on Ingram Street. The anomaly has been neutralized.”

Until the facts were clear, Coulson would not report his nebulous suspicions. Only when all leads had been exhausted would he include conjecture in his final mission report.

But the anomaly on Ingram Street raised many questions. He decided to wait until Agent May regained consciousness before drawing conclusions or taking further action.

That was the mark of a competent agent.

While Coulson’s thoughts wandered, Zhong Shenshu’s treatment came to an end.

Twenty seconds passed... and nothing happened.

Although he still had energy left, Zhong Shenshu had no intention of using it all at once. Firstly, depleting his mental energy would leave him groggy, much like severe motion sickness—an unpleasant feeling. Secondly, ever since becoming a first-tier Chaotic Body, his mental energy restored at an accelerated rate—two points per hour.

Thus, these twenty points would be replenished with a good night’s sleep. Zhong Shenshu had maintained this practice: using only as much energy as he could recover, ensuring he’d be at full strength for any unexpected situations the next day.

For instance, during the recent chaos magic event, his reserves had remained full, though they’d ultimately gone unused.

Moreover, since Agent May’s wounds were not yet fully healed—he had only repaired the life-threatening injuries, such as the charred abdominal flesh and her hand, now just skin and bone—further treatment would require more time and attention.

At the very least, he estimated it would take another several dozen seconds. Surely, his luck couldn’t be so poor!

Glancing at the injuries, Zhong Shenshu muttered inwardly. Then he looked up at Coulson and said, “She’s out of immediate danger. The remaining wounds will require a few more days of treatment.”

Coulson nodded with a smile, understanding. Though not a superhuman himself, after years of dealing with extraordinary phenomena, Coulson had learned one thing: Superhumans, at their core, were still human.

Anyone who used their powers for too long would tire. The stronger the ability, the greater the cost. Considering Zhong Shenshu’s miracle-working gift, which could seemingly snatch lives from death itself, a higher toll was only natural.

Thus, Coulson felt no need to urge him to finish healing May today—he would never insist on something so unreasonable.

Little did he know that Zhong Shenshu was deliberately slowing the treatment. If he truly went all out, Agent May would be as good as new, any injury she’d ever suffered—even as a child—completely healed.

But Zhong Shenshu had no intention of doing that. After all, there was still wool to be gathered.

After a while, Zhong Shenshu eyed the large patches of charred flesh on May’s body and, as naturally as if making small talk, asked, “What exactly happened to you all?”

Zhong Shenshu the Smooth Talker—his questioning had begun.