Outside the courthouse, the air felt brighter than it should have.
The eighteen plaintiffs had left with trembling hands, sudden smiles, and settlement agreements clutched to their chests. The livestream crowd had moved on to fresh outrage. The city was already forgetting him.
Song Bing stood at the foot of the courthouse steps with the injunction folded in his pocket.
Never treat a human again.
"Only a Veterinarian, huh?" , he thought to himself.
The law had carved his future down to a single word.
Sia stopped beside him. For a moment, the frost of her corporate persona eased, and the small smile she gave him carried a faint, almost expectant warmth.
Up close, though, all he could notice was how thin her composure had become. There was weariness in her expression, as if she had not slept well in the past few days. Something was clearly weighing on her. Though for someone born into the Sea family, carrying an entire family's expectations on her shoulders, that was hardly surprising.
"I'm sorry," she said. "This was the best I could do."
"It was enough."
She shook her head. "No. Enough would have been clearing your name."
Song Bing looked at her for a moment, then tore the settlement memorandum in his hand into three narrow strips. Sia stared, surprised, as he folded them and placed them on her palm.
"In the future," he said, "if you need my help, bring one of these to me. Three times. No more."
Sia blinked. "You're giving me… scraps of paper?"
Song Bing smiled faintly. "Keep them."
She did.
Just then a young man in designer clothes stepped from the waiting Rolls-Royce behind her. His face held the polite contempt of someone born so rich he mistook privilege for common sense.
"My sister helped you out of gratitude," he said coolly. "Don't mistake that kindness for an invitation to cling to the Sea family."
Sia frowned. "Brother—"
He ignored her. "This world is not as simple as you think, Song Bing. If you have no power, lie low. If you reach for somebody else's share, you may not even know how you died."
The car door shut. The Rolls-Royce pulled away.
Song Bing watched it disappear, fading into the distance.
Money and power, he thought. So that was the real prescription.
The life lesson had barely settled when another voice spoke behind him, accented but fluent.
"Master Song. Might I have a word?"
Startled, Song Bing turned sharply.
A white-bearded foreigner stood there with two bodyguards, dressed inconspicuously enough that only someone blind would fail to see how much wealth walked with him.
Herbert.
Months earlier the man had arrived to An, short for the Republic of Antarya, with terminal cancer, three years of failed treatments, and with the last of his hope. Song Bing had cured him with a touch. Since then Herbert had tried again and again to bring Song Bing to the Republic of Liguo with offers most people would sell their entire bloodline for.
However, at the time Song Bing had refused.
At the time he had still believed healing people was enough.
"Did you enjoy the show?" Song Bing asked.
Herbert's gaze flicked briefly toward the courthouse. "I would have preferred not to see a healer treated like a criminal."
"You saw the result." Song Bing coldly remarked.
"I also see opportunity." Herbert stepped closer. "Come to Liguo. Name your terms."
This time Song Bing did not pretend to think modestly.
"Ten billion Liguo gold upfront," he said. "Half a year from now, I'll come to Liguo under the identity of an international medical student and stay one year. Until then, I have matters to settle."
Herbert's eyes shone.
For a businessman, a miracle cure was not a human wonder. It was a market that could devour empires.
"Done," he said.
Just like that.
No bargaining. No outrage. Just cold calculation.
The two men went straight to the World Bank.
When Song Bing walked out, a new purple-gold card rested between his fingers. The number attached to it was so large it felt abstract. Ten billion in Liguo gold converted into a fortune so enormous Song Bing stared at his phone screen for a full minute before the figure stopped looking fake.
He bought a black Panamera the same day.
Not because he loved the model.
Because it was the most expensive car available for immediate delivery.
When he sat behind the wheel and touched the leather, he let out a low laugh.
He had cured a hundred people and earned hatred.
He had named a price once, and the world had opened.
Somewhere between those two truths, the last of his old naivete broke apart.
He was done being grateful for scraps.
He was done being everyone else's convenient fool.
The engine started with a low growl.
There was one place he needed to go before morning.