Cultivator God, Thanks to Beautiful CEO

Chapter 4

Victor Vance had chosen the hour with considerable care.

They had assembled for a public execution.

When the heavy oak doors at the rear of the hall swung inward, every head turned in unison.

Melvin walked down the carpeted aisle with measured, rhythmic steps. His attire remained modest, yet the man carrying it had become unrecognizable.. Gone was the slouched, exhausted intern weighed down by double shifts and quiet endurance. He held himself upright, his chin level, his dark eyes clear and absolute.

Beneath his shirt, the Sovereign Astral Meridian hummed with circulating celestial qi, refining his senses and sharpening his awareness to a razor's edge. Through his newly awakened Astral Sight, the entire auditorium unfolded before him in transparent layers—he could discern the irregular pulse signatures of the board members, the arterial calcification of the senior staff, and the stagnant, dark qi decaying within Victor Vance’s liver.

"Look at him, still trying to project confidence," Vanessa muttered to the colleague beside her, her lip curling in quiet disdain. "He doesn't even comprehend that his career ends today."

Melvin stopped at the foot of the stage, coming to a halt before the disciplinary dais.

"Melvin," Dr. Victor Vance began, his voice magnified by the podium microphone, echoing through the silent hall with practiced, institutional authority. "You have been summoned before the executive medical board regarding a critical breach of professional ethics and patient safety."

Victor tapped a thick leather folder resting beside the microphone, his tone laced with calibrated disappointment.

"Over the past six months, a standing internal audit of the emergency ward has documented serious discrepancies in your handling of high-risk pharmaceuticals. Signed affidavits confirm you falsified patient records to conceal critical diagnostic errors — errors that directly jeopardized human life."

Six months. 

Melvin turned the number over.

The audit had opened the same week his name vanished from every promotion list in the building. Whatever was in that folder had been growing there since winter, waiting for a morning exactly like this one.

A wave of hushed shock rippled through the gallery. Malpractice allegations of this magnitude meant far more than termination; they guaranteed the permanent destruction of his credentials and immediate criminal prosecution.

Dr. Samuel Reed rose from the second row, smoothing his tie, and stepped up to the stand. He kept his eyes on the paper in front of him rather than on Melvin.

"As chief of gynecology, delivering this assessment brings me no pleasure," Reed read. "Melvin was once a dedicated student. Extreme personal financial strain and outside nocturnal employment have severely compromised his cognitive judgment. He is unfit to hold a scalpel, let alone make decisions regarding human lives."

Melvin watched the man's hands shake against the podium and read the rest without needing to. Elevated cortisol. Sleep debt running weeks deep. Two healed fractures in the left ring finger, set badly, the kind of injury a collections crew leaves behind as a message.

Vanessa leaned back into her bench, a subtle, satisfied smile settling across her face. She waited to witness the breaking point—the frantic panic, the pale trembling, the pathetic pleas for leniency that had filled their apartment hours prior.

Instead, Melvin stood perfectly still.

His silence stretched across the auditorium, heavy and absolute. The unbothered stillness in his eyes caught Gavin off guard, sending a sudden, unexpected chill down the young master's spine.

"Is that the extent of your filing?" Melvin asked quietly, his voice cutting through the hall with effortless resonance.

Victor Vance slammed his palm onto the podium, his face flushing dark. "The extent? You stand formally accused of gross negligence and falsification, intern! Do you have a single defense before this board strips your credentials and remands your file to the state medical commission?"

Melvin took a single step toward the stage. Through his Astral Sight, the Vice Director's body remained fully exposed—revealing not only the forged signatures tucked within the folder, but the thin, volatile arterial wall expanding precariously along Victor Vance's left carotid artery.

"I have plenty to say, Dr. Vance," Melvin said, a faint, cold tilt touching the edge of his lips. "Starting with the fact that every affidavit in that folder bears a forged signature... and ending with the reality that your left carotid artery won't survive the afternoon if you continue to raise your blood pressure."

A suffocating silence gripped the auditorium, so dense that the low hum of the overhead projector sounded like grinding iron.

Elevated upon the stage, Dr. Victor Vance froze, his knuckles turning pale as his fingers dug into the edge of the wooden podium.

For two agonizing seconds, the Vice Director’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Across the front row, the smirk on Gavin’s face faltered, replaced by an uneasy twitch beneath his eye, while Vanessa leaned forward, her brow furrowing in sharp confusion.

Before Victor could regain his composure or bark an order for security to seize the unbothered intern, the heavy double doors at the back of the auditorium burst open with a deafening metallic crash.

A dozen men in tailored black suits flooded down the central aisle, their sharp, synchronized footsteps reverberating off the mahogany walls. The attending physicians and senior department heads scrambled backward, clearing the benches in a wave of sudden panic. Walking at the center of the armed escort was a woman whose very presence seemed to drop the room’s temperature by ten degrees.

Lady Beatrix Sterling.

Draped in a charcoal-grey silk suit, her silvering hair swept back in a disciplined, elegant chignon, the matriarch of the Sterling Syndicate moved with the icy, unquestioned authority of an empress entering a conquered territory. Her dark eyes, cold and sharp as polished obsidian, swept over the stage, ignoring the administrative dais entirely.

Behind her, four paramedics pushed a high-speed emergency gurney, the telemetry monitors beeping in a frantic, irregular rhythm.

"Clear the room," Beatrix commanded. Her voice was not loud, yet it carried an absolute weight that silenced the entire hall. "Now."

Dr. Victor Vance swallowed hard, forcing his blood pressure down as he stepped away from the microphone, adjusting his lab coat with trembling hands. "Lady Beatrix... we were in the middle of an executive disciplinary hearing, but if the Sterling family requires emergency facilities—"

"My daughter is dying," Beatrix interrupted, her gaze locking onto Victor like a drawn blade. "Every senior specialist in this hospital will report to the VIP isolation suite immediately. Anyone who fails to move within ten seconds will be removed permanently."

Panic erupted across the stage. Department heads scrambled for their coats, while Dr. Samuel Reed, the chief specialist of gynecology, rushed toward the gurney with a portable diagnostic tablet.

Melvin remained where he stood at the foot of the stage, his hands resting casually inside his jacket pockets. As the gurney rolled past him, his Astral Sight activated effortlessly. The physical surroundings dissolved into transparent, shimmering layers of energy and tissue.

Lying upon the white sheets was Chloe Sterling. The nineteen-year-old heiress was trapped in a deep, unresponsive coma. Her features were delicate, her skin a waxy, translucent pale—yet beneath her waist, her abdomen was distended to an impossible degree, swollen as if she were carrying a full-term pregnancy.

"Vitals are collapsing!" Dr. Samuel Reed called out, his forehead dripping with nervous sweat as he glanced at the monitor. "Systolic pressure is dropping below sixty! Ultrasound scans from the transport vehicle show absolute spatial emptiness within the uterine cavity—no mass, no fluid, no internal bleeding!"