Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

Chapter 213: Chapter 213 – Emergency Treatment ( Bonus)

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So... was this her way of telling him to buy his own freedom?

Henry wondered to himself.

It wasn’t as if offering himself up could solve the problem — if only things were ever that simple.

Or maybe she wanted to use this ”debt” to control him?

Cute idea. Not gonna happen.

His eyes wandered, and he caught sight of a nearby medic making a mess of a gunshot victim — blood was gushing out in sheets. The real surgeon was busy on another case and hadn’t made it over yet; at this rate, the poor guy was going to die right there on the table.

Henry pointed toward the scene.

> ”I can handle that.”

Before anyone could respond, he strode over and pushed the panicking medic aside.

Several of the wounded man’s Russian comrades instinctively moved to stop him, but Henry was faster.

With one smooth motion, he slipped a hemostat into the wound, followed by forceps — and a second later, the deformed bullet clinked into a metal tray.

The bleeding, which had looked dramatic only because of how much blood had already spilled, stopped almost immediately. One glance at the wound’s color and flow told anyone who knew medicine that the hemorrhaging had ceased.

The Russians who had tried to intervene froze mid-step, exchanging uncertain looks.

Henry secured the hemostat, set down the forceps, and said to the medic he’d pushed aside,

> ”Bleeding’s stopped. Drain the excess blood, then cauterize or tie off and stitch — you do know how to do that, right?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked back to where he’d been standing before.

A tall, lean Russian man, almost 1.9 meters in height, broke from the crowd and came toward him. His features were handsome but weary, carrying that unmistakable Slavic melancholy — the kind of man who drew eyes effortlessly.

> ”If you can save them,” he said quickly, ”why stop there?”

Henry, unfazed by the man’s intensity, rubbed his fingers together with a merchant’s grin.

> ”I’m under no obligation to save anyone. But,” he added lightly, ”I don’t mind helping — for a price. I think you understand what I mean.”

The tall man didn’t look like a leader, but his generosity spoke volumes. He reached into his coat and produced a handful of gold coins, placing them on a nearby table.

> ”One coin per life.”

Henry picked one up between his fingers, turning it over curiously and weighing it in his palm.

> ”This doesn’t look like a U.S. Mint Gold Eagle,” he said. ”Nor does it look like an antique. Does it even contain a full ounce of gold?”

He knew the type — American Gold Eagles, first struck in 1986, official legal-tender coins in four denominations: $5, $10, $25, and $50. Each about 91% gold, the rest silver and copper.

But this wasn’t one of those.

The coin in his hand bore an image of a blindfolded goddess — sword and shield in her right hand, a mint leaf in her left — ringed by a laurel wreath. Along the rim were the Latin words:

”Ex Unitate Vires” — ”From unity, strength.”

The reverse showed a lion in front of the same sword and shield motif, with another Latin phrase:

”Ens Causa Sui” — ”A thing caused by itself.”

And below that, in Roman numerals: MCM LXXXIII — 1983.

The Slavic man said,

> ”No — this is a High Table coin. One coin, one promise. In my world, it’s worth more than U.S. dollars.”

Henry tilted his head, intrigued.

> ”Oh? So if I use this coin, I can ask you to do something for me?”

> ”I still have the right to refuse,” the man replied evenly.

> ”Fair enough.”

Henry pocketed the coin with a flick of his wrist, pulled on a fresh pair of rubber gloves, and went back to the wounded man he’d worked on earlier — neatly finishing the suturing and closure.

Then he moved on.

Minor wounds got quick stitches or bandages; anything worse got a shot of morphine.

One patient down — Henry pocketed another coin — and then he went straight for the next.

He didn’t bother with the lightly injured, the ones the hotel medics could already handle. No — he went straight for the hopeless cases, the ones everyone else had already written off.

He didn’t bother changing gloves or tools between patients — why would he? He couldn’t get infected, and as for cross-contamination between gangsters? That was their problem. They all lived fast and dirty anyway.

Compared side-by-side with the other medics, Henry’s speed looked downright unnatural.

His hands moved like a seasoned surgeon’s, each cut, clamp, and stitch perfectly confident — but still within the limits of human ability.

The reason he was so fast, however, had nothing to do with skill.

While the others fumbled around inside wounds trying to find bullets or arteries, Henry’s X-ray vision made every incision precise. He never hesitated, never missed, never wasted a movement.

Locate bullet. Remove. Stitch. Morphine. Out cold. Next.

One after another, the injured were stabilized — silent, breathing, alive.

By the time Henry finished treating his third patient, the Continental’s resident surgeon was still working on the man Henry had saved first.

Not that the old doctor was slow — his patient had taken multiple bullets in different areas, and was the only one currently getting a blood transfusion. That alone said everything about how close to death he was.

In this world, loyalty ran deep among killers. When a brother could be saved, you did not give up on him — because someday, you might be the one on the table.

Otherwise, by emergency triage standards, that man would’ve been moved to the bottom of the list long ago.

Most of the wounded weren’t in such bad shape, and the Continental’s medical staff were competent — they’d seen everything short of open warfare.

Henry only took the hopeless cases — the ones bleeding out in weird, difficult places — which was why no one complained about him butting in. Had he tried to steal easy cases, they’d have thrown him out already.

At last, only one patient remained untreated — an old man who’d driven away multiple medics with curses and threats.

Henry followed the tall Slavic man with the gold coins toward that last bed.

The old man lay there, gunshot wounds untreated, eyes defiant.

What came next, Henry could only guess — but somehow, it felt like the real story was just about to begin.

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