“I figured you’d strut before the Boss dressed like a peacock in borrowed feathers. Didn’t think you had that much sense.”

The black‑haired woman walked ahead of the Doctor, her steps turning light and silk‑smooth as the Boss of Rouge Rabbit’s office drew near, fox‑charm leaking like musk through lace.

He frowned; annoyance pricked like thorns. In his eyes, looks were nothing; context was everything, like choosing steel over jade for a storm.

A pretty shell earns goodwill, sure. But with certain people, bare truth beats powder and paint. He still needed Rouge Rabbit’s power, like a boat needing the dark river’s current.

“Say less. My fists itch like thunder under skin.”

She heard him and went cold as a shadowed pond. She remembered when Lin first brought the Doctor to Rouge Rabbit—just a powerless Eye Orb drifting like a lonely star.

Yet the Boss favored him, again and again, like a lantern turned toward one face. She was supposed to be first, the banner in the wind.

So she tried to take the stage back. But by then he’d rewritten his body’s script, injected Azureblood Octopus cells, and his will flicked tentacles like whip‑cord rain.

They clashed. The room filled with salt and iron, glassy light and writhing shadows. In the end, a draw, two tempests parting without warmth.

That day she knew she couldn’t press him down. To topple him, first make the Boss disappointed; without that gaze, he was dust in moonlight.

Then she’d show her edge again, stand like a blade on the altar, make the Boss’s eyes return to her as to a beckoning fire.

In the Doctor’s view, she was a street clown jumping on a damp drum. He and Rouge Rabbit’s Boss had a transaction, clear as ink on stone.

His final aim was to revive Aklatia—mountains in his chest, a map in his palm. Leaving Rouge Rabbit was nailed down like stakes in frozen ground.

By then, she’d still be the Boss’s valued subordinate, a banner tied to another pole. He wouldn’t fight her for favor; his blade stayed sheathed.

He was a man of lines and rules. Yet if she blocked Aklatia’s revival, he’d strike back without a blink—thunder answers thunder.

She pressed the doorbell set beside an Obsidian Stone gate, glossy as captured night. Rouge Rabbit was richer than Aklatia, money flowing like a deep spring.

They bought Obsidian in quantity, folded it into pillars and walls. The city’s skin held powdered night, an undertaking heavy as mountains.

“Boss—”

Books lined the room like layered hills. A black‑haired, gray‑threaded middle‑aged man rubbed his temples, pages whispering like leaves before rain.

He heard the bell, set the book down, and waved them in. The air smelled of ink, old paper, and a quiet storm.

The woman swayed in, waist like a willow in wind, then perched on the Boss’s knee. Her soft hands looped his neck, silk seeking heat.

He didn’t move. His gaze was cold water. “Qing, don’t be presumptuous.”

He sent her aside with a palm like a curt wind. Her face showed brief sorrow and a flicker of hate for the Doctor, then she drifted off to tidy books.

“You’re back. How did the trade go?”

The Doctor pulled out a tablet, glass catching lamplight. It held the deal with the Divine Cult Modification Center, neat as seals pressed in wax.

He’d provided six vials of gene serum and received part of their cell‑healing tech. On the road, he tested theory; the curve beat Aklatia’s and Rouge Rabbit’s.

But this healing method burns cells like a candle at both ends. Without a strong power source, staff turn to a mess of flesh in days.

An Earth Dragon’s heart could serve as the source, roaring like magma. Yet once converted, that violent energy might still lag behind hungry fire.

Combine it with Aklatia’s cell craft and gene craft, and—on paper—you keep the healing while the body holds together like stitched steel and skin.

Maybe you even draw out a portion of the Earth Dragon’s power, scaled and contained like lightning in a jar.

Night Frost is different—snow over ember. She never took cell or gene edits, yet she bears Black Dragon force and channels it through a Magic Stone.

Her success is a rare star, hard to map, hard to repeat. A miracle’s thread is thin as spider silk.

“You brought back that girl. I’ve heard her story—an implanted Monster heart under a lucky sky. You were first to sew a Monster heart into a human.”

“That’s why I chose you,” the Boss said, voice like rain on slate. “I need your help.”

The Doctor nodded. He felt the Boss’s urgency like heat behind a door. Miracles are fickle—once, he’d only nearly finished the work.

“We’ll start with Night Frost,” he said. “She’s our successful case, a lighthouse on a black coast, and she’ll help us refine the path.”

When he met her, he was thrilled, pulse drumming like hooves. He copied her bracelet by the old route, but results fell flat, smoke without flame.

Her arrival might let the work at Rouge Rabbit step forward, a bridge stone laid across a rushing river.

She’s a Magic Maiden born of miracles. If we study her body clear as moonlight on water, maybe we’ll see how the miracle knits itself.

Maybe we can call the miracle again, like coaxing a phoenix to perch.

“All authority is yours. Deliver within three months,” the Boss said. “Time’s a tight drum.”

The Doctor nodded, ignoring the black‑haired woman clawing the air behind the Boss like a cat in a mirror. He weighed a thought and spoke.

“I have a request.”

The woman seized the moment and whispered like a mosquito: you see him, who asks the Boss for terms while working for him; Boss, he’s too presumptuous.

The Boss raised a hand; silence fell like dust. She closed her mouth and slid behind him, meek as a shadow at dusk.

“After the current experiment, I want to run another,” the Doctor said. “It’s large. I’ll need Rouge Rabbit’s labs to complete it.”

The Boss lifted a brow, a ripple in calm water. The Doctor used to ask small things only—necessary tools, minor levers. This was different.

“Agreed. Finish your task, and you can use our equipment as you wish,” he said. “Leave the data behind. And the content—can you share it? I’m curious.”

The Doctor didn’t hide the blade or the sheath. “Maybe miracles shouldn’t exist in this world,” he said. “Sometimes they make people carry too much weight.”

After more talk, words settling like ash, the Doctor opened the Obsidian door and rode the elevator down, light sliding over metal like cold rain.

Yin Chen Yue waited at the gate in a baggy T‑shirt, eyes bright as morning dew. She peered at the descending cab like a child watching stars.

It wasn’t the person she waited for, yet she still smiled—soft, warm, lantern‑light in a tunnel. “Brother Feng! Welcome back!”

He walked to her and ruffled her hair, gentle as wind through wheat. He asked a few things about Night Frost, then pressed a candy into her palm.

“Be good. Rest well. Don’t go home too late.”

Sweet things win young hearts like spring sun. Yin Chen Yue clenched the candy, watched him leave, and stayed to wait, patient as a stone by the road.

Street lamps on both sides lit the dim avenue, twin moons over a sunless sea. Down here, time was a rumor unless a watch spoke.

Lin eased a door open and came out of the Doctor’s room, casual as a cat stepping over a sill. He waved like a tossed leaf.

“I told you not to enter my room at random. Tell me first.”

“Sorry, sorry. But we got a new friend. The Boss asked me to greet her. It’s work, you know.”

Hearing it was the Boss’s idea, the Doctor let it pass like rain past an eave. The Boss had access anyway; Lin used it often, like a curious child.

Each time, he poked around the room, eyes everywhere like sparrows. The Doctor scolded him and set three rules, nails in a plank.

The first time he met Lin, the man felt cold and strict, frost on steel. Later, he found a cunning jokester—a fox wearing a child’s grin.

Whatever he was, he was a passerby, a face in smoke. When the experiment ended, he’d leave like a ship sliding off the pier.

“Your new friend’s fun,” Lin said. “I joked with her. Guess what? She froze like a deer in a lantern.”

He patted the Doctor’s shoulder, casual as dust. “What did you say?” the Doctor asked, a knot tightening like rope in rain.

“This and that. She’s valuable. You’re discussing experiments on her with the Boss.”

Headache bloomed like dark wine. He’d probably eavesdropped from the corner, a shadow in lintel light. Night Frost was sharp; she’d stitch the clues quick.

She was likely waiting to cross‑examine him, questions like arrows. More talking, more thread to pull.

“You’re really… a pain.”

Unlike the black‑haired woman, a clown who couldn’t touch him, Lin forced his way into your day like wind through a cracked window.

He said things that bent meaning like warped wood, jokes without a line. It was truly maddening.

And he was strong—fight experience in his bones like iron filings. Among modified men, he was top tier; Monster blood ran in him heavy as night.

If Rouge Rabbit ranked internal strength, he’d sit in the top three, no doubt. Azureblood Octopus was fine, but against Lin, the Doctor would be diced in a blink.

His strength was the single peak within Chapter Two, solitary as a hawk over cliffs. If his blood were purer, he’d become a grand Monster of Chapter Three.

“Ah, I’m off. The late‑night stalls are closing.”

Lin left with a wave. The Doctor pushed the half‑ajar door, wood breathing like quiet lungs.

Night Frost sat inside, turning a clear stemmed glass, light pooling like water in crystal. Her amber‑gold eyes held a small, steady flame.

“You’re back, Doctor Feng,” she said, voice cool as moonlight.