The air inside the clinic seemed to congeal into a thick gel. The last wisp of blue smoke from Sherlock Holmes’s trademark pipe rose slowly, tracing a meaningful question mark in the murky atmosphere.

  "John, the game is paused."

  The great detective didn't look at the man standing at the door—Moriarty, who stood like a precision-carved statue. Instead, Holmes turned his head, his grey eyes boring deep into John’s own.

  "The Professor is a man of 'aesthetics.' Since his old rival has left the table, he naturally won't linger on this filthy stage any longer. The rest..." Holmes’s body began to flicker like a hologram with a bad signal, "...is your homework assignment."

  "Remember, deduction is not magic; it is a scalpel. Observe, hypothesize, eliminate, diagnose. Do not let fear blind your logic."

  The light dissipated. Sherlock Holmes had exited the stage.

  In the cramped clinic, only John, Bone, the grumpy old man crushing herbs—Hua Tuo—and the ever-smiling Moriarty remained.

  As Holmes predicted, Moriarty displayed zero emotional fluctuation. He simply sighed softly, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, and let a trace of perfectly measured regret show in his eyes, as if he had just missed the second act of a brilliant opera.

  "A pity. I truly thought I could catch up with Sherlock."

  Moriarty’s voice was gentle and magnetic. He adjusted the cuff of his expensive dark blue suit, his gaze sweeping over John as if looking at a random passerby.

  "Mr. Doe, since Sherlock has departed, there is no need to continue this unofficial meeting. I look forward to you bringing me more... data surprises next time."

  He turned slightly, nodding to the silent, hound-like black-clad investigator standing in the shadows. His tone shifted to one of bureaucratic business, exuding a suffocating indifference.

  "Smith, since Mr. Doe still has some 'formalities' pending here, I am afraid I must follow protocol. Process this according to Guild standards."

  With that, he stepped elegantly over the threshold, walking straight toward the light-absorbing black sedan at the alley entrance. From start to finish, he didn't make a single threat, nor did he look back.

  But he left the hound behind.

  The investigator named Smith stepped out of the shadows.

  He was the polar opposite of Moriarty. If Moriarty was a god in the clouds, Smith was the butcher executing divine punishment on the ground.

  He wore the black tactical trench coat of the Guild’s Enforcement Division, with obvious scarring from cybernetic implants on his neck. He looked at John with the undisguised arrogance that the establishment elite reserved for bottom-feeding ants.

  "Alright, kiddo. The fancy folks are gone, now it's time for roughnecks like us to get to work."

  Smith pulled a document from his briefcase, flicking it with gloved fingers to make an annoying, crisp snap.

  "According to the New Babylon Medical Operation Regulations, you are suspected of illegal medical practice and sanitation violations. I am hereby executing a mandatory eviction on behalf of the Guild. You have ten minutes. Pack your shit and get out."

  As he spoke, he kicked a pile of herbal dregs on the floor with disdain.

  "You call this garbage dump a clinic? You don't even have a sterile room. are you playing house?"

  John clenched his fists. Fear churned in his stomach, but he forced himself to look at Smith.

  Observe. Hypothesize. Eliminate. Conclusion.

  John took a deep breath, attempting to apply the mindset Holmes had left him.

  Step One: Observe.

  John’s focus locked onto Smith’s hand holding the document. It was powerful, with thick knuckles, but in the moment it hung suspended, there was a micro-tremor—about three times per second.

  Next, the eyes. In the dim room, his pupils were constricted to pinpoints, the whites veined with red.

  Finally, the skin. Even on this cold, rainy day, fine beads of sweat clung to Smith’s temples, and his face held an unnatural flush.

  Step Two: Hypothesize.

  Hand tremors? Could be Parkinson's, or fear.

  Pinpoint pupils, flushed face? Could be a fever, or the result of intense physical exertion.

  Step Three: Eliminate.

  No, his gaze is vicious and arrogant; it’s definitely not fear. His muscles are taut and his reactions fast—doesn't fit neurodegenerative disease.

  Fever? No, his breathing is rapid but powerful, lacking weakness. Physical exertion? He was just standing behind Moriarty, doing nothing.

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  Step Four: Conclusion.

  Ruling out disease and environmental factors, only one explanation remained—external stimulus.

  Only long-term abuse of the Guild-issued "Berserker Serum"—a high-intensity stimulant—would cause these high-metabolic traits in a resting state: tremors, pupil constriction, abnormal body temperature.

  John’s brain raced, and suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck.

  Wait... Why did Moriarty leave him behind?

  A man like Moriarty would never use a "terminally ill" defective product as a bodyguard. Unless... this was Moriarty’s goal.

  This Smith was on the verge of collapse from drug side effects.

  If John won, Moriarty would have used a borrowed knife to dispose of a consumable nearing its expiration date.

  If John lost, it would prove John had zero value.

  "So that's it..." John muttered, his eyes suddenly becoming clear and sharp.

  "What are you laughing at? Scared stupid?" Smith frowned, taking a step forward, his oppressive aura washing over John.

  "I'm laughing at you, Mr. Smith."

  John raised his head. His voice no longer trembled; instead, it carried a trace of pity.

  "You think you're Moriarty's right-hand man? No, you're just a battery he’s throwing away."

  "What did you say?" Smith’s expression shifted.

  "Your hands are shaking. That's a sign of peripheral nerve necrosis." John pointed at Smith's hand, his tone certain. "You've taken an overdose of 'Berserker Serum.' That drug lets you work for 72 hours without fatigue, but the price is burning out your internal organs."

  "Your liver is likely hardened, your kidneys failing. Moriarty left you here not to enforce the law, but to send you... to your death."

  "If I'm not mistaken, you've racked up quite a debt buying that drug to keep your performance metrics up, haven't you? You desperately need this bonus to extend your life, which is why you're so agitated."

  "SHUT UP!!!"

  Smith, thoroughly exposed, snapped instantly. The elite composure vanished, replaced by the hysteria of a man whose wounds had been ripped open.

  "What do you know! This is evolution! This is the power bestowed by the Guild! I do this for order!"

  He roared, his right hand flashing to his waist to draw a telescoping stun baton crackling with blue high-voltage arcs.

  "Since you want to die, I'll help you along!"

  He took a massive step forward, his towering frame bringing a howling wind as he swung viciously at John.

  John instinctively stepped back.

  But the expected pain never arrived.

  DOONG!!!

  A dull, heavy sound, like a temple bell being struck, exploded within the narrow clinic.

  The white-bearded old man sitting in the corner, whom Smith had treated as air—Hua Tuo—had slammed a massive iron pestle, weighing dozens of pounds, onto the table.

  The iron table dented.

  Hua Tuo stood up abruptly, his beard and hair bristling. In eyes that had seen a lifetime of life and death, a rage burned hotter than hellfire.

  This anger wasn't to protect John, but the physician's ultimate hatred for "harming people with medicine."

  "QUACKS! ALL QUACKS!!!"

  Hua Tuo pointed at the charging Smith, his voice booming like thunder:

  "Look at yourself! Young in years, yet your five viscera and six bowels are as decayed as a senile old man! Is this any way for a human to live?!"

  "You bastards of Western medicine! For the sake of so-called 'efficiency,' to make the cattle work harder, you prescribe these tiger-wolf drugs that overdraft life! This isn't healing, this is murder! This is burning the living like dry firewood!"

  "In all my life of practicing medicine, what I hate most is this heresy that tramples on life!"

  Smith was momentarily stunned by this sudden imposing aura, his movement slowing by half a beat. "Old geezer, you..."

  "Already sick to the bone, yet you dare commit violence here! LIE DOWN!"

  Hua Tuo gave him no chance. He grabbed a stone mortar filled with green powder from the table.

  "Bone! Wind!"

  "Yes, Sir!" Bone, the skeleton who had been eager to jump in, grabbed a door panel from somewhere and fanned it violently.

  Whoosh—!

  With a flick of Hua Tuo’s wrist, the powder in the mortar turned into a cloud of green dust. Riding the wind, it instantly enveloped Smith.

  "This is my improved formula—[Potent Mafeisan: Fire-Clearing Heart-Calming Version]!"

  "Specifically for curing maniacs like you whose hearts are covered in lard and whose brains are rotted by poison!"

  Smith’s tactical shield flared for a second, trying to block the attack. But this was physical particulate matter, not magic; the shield couldn't stop it.

  The powder drilled into his nasal cavity and stuck to his skin.

  "Cough... what the... urgh..."

  Smith tried to swing the stun baton, only to find the weapon in his hand suddenly felt as heavy as Mount Tai.

  Immediately after, a terrifying numbness rushed from his nerve endings through his entire body. Hua Tuo’s medicine was designed specifically for people with rapid blood circulation—the drug took effect faster than lightning!

  "My legs... no feeling..."

  Smith’s eyes widened in horror. His cybernetically enhanced body, the strength he took such pride in, completely betrayed him in this moment.

  Thud.

  The once-mighty Guild investigator toppled over like a rotting log, hitting the floor stiff as a board.

  But he didn't pass out. The Mafeisan only blocked his motor nerves; his consciousness remained clear—perhaps even clearer due to the fear.

  Hua Tuo dusted off his hands, snorted coldly, and walked over to Smith, looking down at him.

  There was no joy of victory in his eyes, only the pity and anger of a healer.

  "Don't struggle. Your body is like a pressure cooker about to explode. My medicine is forcing a release."

  "Sleep. Sleep for three days and three nights. Flush out all that hostility and poison. When you wake up, your combat power will be gone, but at least... you'll live a few more years."

  John looked at Smith lying on the floor and let out a long breath, his back soaked in cold sweat.

  He glanced outside.

  Moriarty’s car was long gone.

  "He calculated all of this," John whispered to himself. "He knew Smith's body was failing, and he knew I had a way to deal with it. He used my hand to dispose of this 'waste'."

  "Boss, how do we handle this guy?" Bone walked over and nudged Smith with his toe. "Bury him?"

  "Bury him? No!" Hua Tuo glared at Bone. "He may be a lackey, but it's still a life."

  Hua Tuo turned to John. "Strip him."

  "Huh?" John froze.

  "Strip him naked and throw him out." Hua Tuo pointed at Smith’s tactical suit with disgust. "That clothes reeks of violence and poison, it's annoying just looking at it. Leave him his underwear, throw him onto the street to get some sun, get rid of the bad luck."

  "This is also a form of treatment," Hua Tuo added, a mischievous smirk curling the corner of his mouth. "To treat his 'Arrogance Disease'."

  Ten minutes later.

  Under a streetlamp in District 13.

  The once-arrogant Investigator Smith, stripped down to his underwear, was wrapped like a mummy in bandages and hung from the lamp post.

  Stuck to his chest was a prescription slip, written in Hua Tuo’s wild, cursive calligraphy:

  [Diagnosis: Excessive liver fire, crooked heart, drug poisoning.]

  [Advice: More sun, less evil.]

  [Attending Physician: Granting All Requests Clinic]

  John stood at the clinic door, watching this scene, and clenched his fist.

  He had finished the "homework" Holmes left him.

  Although he had only taken down a pawn, this wasn't just a victory—it was his first practical application of Holmes’s teachings.

  In this city that ate people, if you didn't learn to see through the essence, you would end up just like Smith—trash to be discarded after use.

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