Chapter Forty-Five: One Hundred Thousand Blades (Third Night's Lament)

Money? Hearing those words, Coulson's eternal smile froze for a moment. Agent May, who had been quietly murmuring to herself, fell silent as well; her dark eyes seemed to shimmer, fixed intently on Shenxiu Zhong, pondering something unknown.

Isn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. supposed to freeload forever? Coulson mused inwardly.

Like hell, Shenxiu Zhong shot a glance at the shameless agent with freeloading intentions and then spoke slowly, “I said back in prison, as payment for letting me out, I’d treat S.H.I.E.L.D. agents for free three times. After that, I’ll have to charge. Small business, after all.”

Prison... Hearing that word, so often associated with criminals, Agent May looked again at Shenxiu Zhong’s handsome features, finding it somewhat unexpected.

Coulson, a bit at a loss, said, “But this is only the first time…”

“No, didn’t we have two treatments the first time we met?” Shenxiu Zhong reminded him.

Once for Coulson’s self-inflicted hand wound, once for Egghead’s eye injury. That makes two—Shenxiu Zhong recalled clearly.

That counts? Coulson realized which two, and suddenly felt a pang of regret, thinking his previous assessment of Shenxiu Zhong had been too one-sided.

“How much are you going to charge, then?”

“Well, since we’re so familiar, I’ll give you a discount.” Shenxiu Zhong rested his chin in his hand, considering.

At least he has some conscience, Coulson thought.

“For the subsequent treatments, one hundred thousand dollars,” Shenxiu Zhong said with a smile, naming his desired price.

What? Coulson’s eyebrow twitched!

He’d observed that when Shenxiu Zhong treated gangsters in the area, the fee per person, depending on the injury, ranged from a few hundred to a thousand dollars. At first, Coulson thought Shenxiu Zhong would just take a token amount, a symbolic gesture. Who could have guessed!

One hundred thousand dollars? Why not just rob us? So “cheap,” indeed… Even Coulson, the perennial nice guy, couldn’t help but grumble inwardly.

“Small business, no credit!” Shenxiu Zhong reminded him.

Tony Stark would escape from Mickey’s Middle Eastern Funhouse in about a month, and then Stark Industries’ stock would plummet, reaching its lowest point months later. So Shenxiu Zhong didn’t actually have much time to raise funds.

Financial pressure hovered over him constantly. The reason he didn’t charge the gangsters much was mainly because they were poor—if he charged too high, they wouldn’t come. S.H.I.E.L.D., however, was different.

This was an organization with ample funds; the amount Fury embezzled yearly, and the money spent digging holes and building bases worldwide, was many multiples of a hundred thousand dollars. He wasn’t afraid they’d refuse—after all, a hundred thousand dollars likely meant little to them.

Since Shenxiu Zhong had decided to fleece S.H.I.E.L.D., he’d do it thoroughly.

“Alright, one hundred thousand it is.” Coulson, after a moment’s thought, smiled and agreed.

A top agent is worth far more than one hundred thousand dollars; this deal wasn’t a loss, Coulson knew well. Besides, he could help May apply for the agent injury compensation.

To attract more agents, Nick Fury had made the process quite humane—easy to apply for and generous. Coulson had heard of an agent who suffered a serious abdominal injury on a mission, much like May, and managed to secure nearly a million dollars in compensation. With that, he got a car and a house, took half a year off, and was rumored to be idly enjoying the gentle care of a group of nurses.

For someone of Agent May’s rank, getting this compensation would be easy. So, since Coulson didn’t have to pay out of pocket, he had no reason to hesitate.

After all…

Is government money even real money?

“Good, it’s settled then.” Shenxiu Zhong nodded, not asking Coulson for immediate payment or a written agreement. He’d considered it, but then thought, with an organization as big as S.H.I.E.L.D., surely they wouldn’t default. So he dropped the idea.

“I’ll handle the follow-up. You just stay here and recover under Mr. Zhong’s care,” Coulson instructed before preparing to leave.

“Wait, are you planning to have her stay here?” Shenxiu Zhong stopped him.

It seemed Coulson wanted Agent May to recuperate at his place. That wouldn’t do—having an agent living nearby, even Shenxiu Zhong would feel uneasy.

“Why not? I see you have other rooms,” Coulson asked.

“No, absolutely not. There’s an old saying in China: ‘Men and women should not be too familiar.’ I’m still young—if word gets out, it’d ruin my reputation!” Shenxiu Zhong replied seriously.

Coulson: ???

Agent May: ???

The two looked at Shenxiu Zhong’s tall, well-built figure in unison, utterly bewildered. But considering his Chinese-American heritage, perhaps he really had unique customs, so they said nothing more.

“I’ll just find a place nearby to stay. In fact, we should go out together—I have something to discuss with you,” May said to Coulson.

“Alright.” Coulson nodded and helped May along.

But before they managed to limp a few steps, May turned back to ask Shenxiu Zhong, “Can these injuries heal faster?”

“You have persistent, delicate wounds now—not only hard to treat, but very taxing…” Shenxiu Zhong replied.

“So, it’s not possible…” May’s eyes dimmed.

Shenxiu Zhong shook his head slowly and answered, “You’ll have to pay extra!”

What?

———

“You were right, he is handsome—indescribably so,” May said, her face pale but still lively as Coulson helped her back into the car.

“Yes,” Coulson smiled and nodded, then couldn’t hold back any longer, “What exactly happened when you entered that mysterious red light?”

May didn’t rush to answer; she glanced around first. Once she felt safe, she began to recount from the beginning.

“I went to see Professor X. He didn’t say much, just gave me a strange token.”

She took a palm-sized token from her hidden pouch. It was pitch-black, without inscription, and its surface was covered in swirling gray patterns like mist, chaotically tangled, almost like primordial chaos.

“He said with this token, I could easily enter the mysterious red light without being controlled by it.”

“And when I entered, it was just as he said. My will remained clear—clearer than usual, even.”

“I followed the map to 19 Ingram Street. Along the way, I barely saw anyone; those I did meet behaved like toddlers, babbling nonsense.”

“Until…I encountered a fat man, enveloped in red light, who could fly!”

Coulson’s pupils constricted, but he stayed silent, listening intently.

“The fat man said I trespassed into forbidden territory and called himself the ‘Crimson Baron.’”