Starting to Gain Experience from Push-Ups Chapter 1216 - 591

Deep into the night, the Jinshui Fish Market had faded from its previous bustle, now wrapped in total silence everywhere.

The basement ward in the clinic plunged even deeper into infinite darkness.

A greasy exhaust fan in the corner whirred with a heavy, stifled hum.

Shanks slumped against the hospital bed, eyes dull, face blank.

His thoughts swirled with notions about the "Illuminati".

When the chairman first uttered that name atop the Silver Wing Building, Shanks dismissed it entirely.

He figured it was just some insignificant faction exploiting the chaos, foolishly challenging the Bloodthorn Mercenary Corps backed by an S-Class powerhouse.

Yet that figure crushed the massive Big Bear with merely two strikes and gravely injured their leader, the Masked Guest.

That ferocious, unstoppable force and sheer power dominated the entire area, utterly terrifying him.

At that instant, Shanks quickly backed away, huddling in the corner's shadows, feigning death to survive.

With the blood feud of hundreds of kin on his shoulders, why would he throw his life away for a profit-driven outfit like Bloodthorn?

Still, the relentless barrage lasting minutes let him behold the true bounds of human power up close.

The chairman had employed his bare mortal frame to clash head-on and demolish the military's high-tech armed helicopter.

Simultaneously, machine gun fire struck him, ravaging his torso and gut, convincing Shanks his end in Hell was near, closing his grim existence.

Driven by reluctance and bitterness, he dragged himself with his final gasps to the man's side, pleading for aid.

In that instant, the chairman's gaze lowered, akin to a deity surveying the mortal realm.

His fate hung entirely in the other's grasp, without even the privilege to plead.

Luckily, this God of Slaughter at last consented, extending a saving rope to him on the verge of sinking.

Afterward, the operation succeeded, safeguarding the life he'd desperately held for more than ten years.

Even so, Shanks awoke gripped by worry and unrest.

He feared that after surrendering his bank password, he'd be eliminated right away, or squeezed of his final worth and tossed aside like refuse.

He hadn't dreamed his destiny would shift this night.

It all struck so abruptly, leaving him off-guard, his thoughts in turmoil.

Like reaching the edge of a hopeless path, only for a heavenly bridge to materialize over the precipice ahead.

Ecstatic, yet his chest filled with surging, complex sentiments.

Shanks inevitably contrasted the chairman with the gray-robed figure resembling a Demon God.

One blazed like the sky's sun, rampaging boldly and domineeringly, yet able to spread warmth and brilliance to those lost in shadow.

The other seemed kind-hearted, yet truly harbored icy ruthlessness, delivering naught but demise and calamity.

Suddenly, Shanks recalled a phrase his grandfather frequently uttered before passing:

"Fate resembles a fickle gambler; you can't predict if your next bet lands with the devil or the redeemer."

After roaming the underworld for years, he had finally discovered a real sanctuary, trailing such a mighty, dependable chief.

To him, this marked an immense boon from a daring wager.

"Thank the Lord for not forsaking me, this wayward sinner..."

Shanks instinctively lifted his right hand, thumb aimed at his brow, ready to form the cross sign.

Yet midway, his limb halted suspended.

He appeared to stiffen, then issued a wry, mocking laugh.

No nebulous, universal savior exists in this reality.

He gradually dropped his arm, raised his head, and stared at the faded incandescent bulb above.

"My wretched existence was bestowed generously by the chairman."

"Henceforth, I pledge loyalty to one sole Lord, and that is you, Chairman."

As these sincere vows escaped his lips, a resonance echoed from his innermost depths.

Shanks vaguely sensed his soul forging a deep tie with a distant presence.

This connection felt profound and unyielding, potent enough to defy the massive darkness coiled in his mind's abyss, while also invigorating his spirit.

Shanks gently shut his eyes, focusing in quiet contemplation.

He envisioned a radiant, scorching sun.

Infinite beams of light streamed outward without end, forming an expansive golden web.

He positioned himself within this brilliant lattice, evolving into a glowing star orbiting the supreme sun.

At the same time, a gentle current traced the unseen golden threads, gradually flowing his way.

"What is this?"

Shanks abruptly flung open his eyes, sharp and vivid.

This gentle current moved faintly, at a leisurely tempo.

Were it not for his long years dancing with death, honing razor-sharp perception, he'd have missed it completely.

Its strength lay in its persistence, akin to a steady rivulet, mending him from within.

Similar to the IV drip suspended above, it permeated his entire form, nurturing his battered, scarred body.

It further banished the lurking despair in his soul, calming his fatigued essence.

Shanks distinctly sensed the injuries on his chest and belly growing warmer, their recovery speeding up markedly.

Furthermore, this coziness eased the haunting remnants of his soul's rupture.

Remember, this curse stemmed from overtaxing his bloodline ability, causing chronic migraines!

"Could this be a divine gift from the chairman?"