Nobody Knew I Was the War God

Chapter 002

The following morning arrived with the crisp efficiency of a workday. Outside Summit Hospital in River City, the usual stream of patients and visitors flowed through the main entrance with practiced routine.

Cliff finally made his appearance, pulling up on a battered electric scooter that had clearly seen better days. The vehicle sputtered and wheezed as he brought it to a stop, its motor giving one final protesting whine before falling silent. As he dismounted and secured the kickstand, he spotted Wendy standing near the entrance, her posture suggesting she'd been waiting for quite some time.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face.

"Sorry," he said, approaching her. "Got held up on the way here."

"Cliff, you've really outdone yourself—a full thirty minutes late!" Wendy's eyebrows drew together behind her veil, her voice sharp with displeasure. Even with her face hidden, her body language radiated irritation—arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip in clear annoyance.

"If this were my company," she continued acidly, "you'd be the first person I'd fire for this kind of unprofessional behavior. Punctuality is the bare minimum requirement for any employee, let alone someone who's supposed to be helping my family!"

Cliff remained remarkably calm in the face of her frustration, his expression neutral.

"I needed to make some preparations for treating your grandfather," he explained matter-of-factly. "That's what took the extra time."

"You know how to treat illnesses?"

The irritation in Wendy's voice immediately transformed into something else—surprise, hope, a sudden brightening of tone that was almost desperate. Behind the veil, he could imagine her eyes widening.

"Do you have a medical license?" she asked quickly, the words tumbling out with obvious excitement.

"No," Cliff replied simply. "But that doesn't prevent me from healing people."

A medical license? He was the Successor of the Needle King, inheritor of techniques passed down through generations of master practitioners. What possible use would he have for some bureaucratic certification? His training had taken place in mountain temples and battlefield hospitals, under teachers whose knowledge exceeded anything taught in modern medical schools. Paper credentials meant nothing compared to genuine skill.

"Oh... right. Okay."

Wendy's brief flash of joy died instantly, her shoulders sagging with disappointment. The hope that had flickered to life was extinguished just as quickly, replaced by the familiar weight of resignation.

"Listen, when we get upstairs, don't say anything out of line," she warned him, her voice flat and defeated. "If my uncle's family hears you making claims like that, I'll never hear the end of it. They'll just have another excuse to criticize me."

The VIP ward at Summit Hospital was spacious and well-appointed, decorated with the kind of understated luxury meant to soothe wealthy patients and their families. Soft lighting, comfortable chairs, expensive artwork on the walls—all designed to make people forget they were in a place of suffering.

When Cliff followed Wendy through the door, he immediately noted the room was already crowded with people. Family members clustered in small groups, their conversations hushed but tense with worry and barely concealed conflict.

Wendy's uncle, David Sutton, stood near the window with his wife and daughter, their expensive clothing marking them as the more affluent branch of the family. Wendy's parents, Quinn Sutton and May Bailey, occupied chairs on the opposite side of the room, the physical distance between the two family groups speaking volumes about internal tensions.

At the center of it all, surrounded by beeping monitors and IV stands, lay an elderly man on the hospital bed.

The old man was painfully thin, his skin stretched taut over prominent bones, his complexion ashen and lifeless. Tubes and wires connected him to various machines—ventilator, cardiac monitor, IV drips delivering medication and nutrition. He looked like a candle flame guttering in the wind, barely clinging to existence.

This was Zenith Sutton, the patriarch of the Sutton Family, the bedrock upon which the entire family's fortune and reputation had been built.

Two years ago, Zenith had received the devastating diagnosis: cancer. From that point, his condition had deteriorated with frightening speed. Within less than a year, he'd slipped into a coma, his body kept alive only through the intervention of modern medical technology. The vibrant, commanding figure who'd once dominated boardrooms and family gatherings had been reduced to this shell, hovering somewhere between life and death.

Over those two years, the Sutton Family had spared no expense, consulting every renowned specialist and medical expert in River City. They'd sought second opinions, third opinions, experimental treatments, alternative therapies. Nothing had worked. No one had been able to reverse the old man's decline or even slow it meaningfully.

As Wendy entered with Cliff following behind her, a doctor approached with the heavy tread of someone bearing bad news. His expression was professionally sympathetic but clearly pessimistic.

"Miss Sutton," he began, addressing Wendy with the careful gentleness doctors reserve for delivering terrible news. "I'm afraid your grandfather's condition has deteriorated significantly since yesterday. His vitals are continuing to decline."

He paused, then delivered the final blow.

"Based on his current trajectory, I'd estimate he has perhaps three days remaining. Maybe less. You should... prepare yourselves. Make whatever arrangements need to be made."

With that grim pronouncement hanging in the air, the doctor released a long, weary sigh and left the ward, his professional duty discharged.

The atmosphere in the room immediately became suffocating, as though all the oxygen had been sucked out. The weight of impending death pressed down on everyone present.

Wendy's face went chalk-white behind her veil, all color draining away. Her entire body began to tremble, subtle shakes that spoke of someone struggling to maintain composure in the face of overwhelming emotion. This was her grandfather—the man who'd raised her, who'd believed in her abilities enough to make her CEO of Sutton Group, who'd stood by her even after the kidnapping and disfigurement when so many others had turned away.

She whirled suddenly to face her uncle David, her voice cracking with fury and desperation.

"You told me to get married to bring him good fortune! You insisted that was what he needed! So I did it—I found someone and married him! Is Grandfather any better? Is he?!"

David Sutton actually seemed taken aback by her vehemence. He stood there momentarily frozen, caught off-guard by two things simultaneously: first, the shocking speed with which the old man's condition had worsened, and second, Wendy's uncharacteristic assertiveness. Usually, she was so easy to push around, so accommodating to family pressure. This defiant outburst was unexpected.

However, David recovered quickly, his expression shifting into one of mocking disdain.

"Well, well," he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I genuinely didn't think someone with your... appearance... would actually manage to find a husband. Color me surprised."

His gaze shifted to Cliff, taking in the man's simple camouflage fatigues, the complete absence of designer labels or expensive accessories. Everything about Cliff screamed "poor" to David's judgmental eyes.

"So, young man," David asked with obvious condescension. "What exactly do you do for a living?"

Cliff answered with complete honesty, his voice flat and unembellished.

"I just got released from prison. I don't currently have employment."

The effect of these words was instantaneous and explosive.

"WHAT?!"

"A convict?!"

The room erupted into chaos, voices rising in shock and outrage. Family members who'd been quietly observing suddenly became vocal, their faces registering various degrees of horror and disgust.

David Sutton stared at Wendy with an expression of gleeful mockery, as though she'd just confirmed every low opinion he'd ever held about her judgment and character.

The truth was, this entire business of finding a husband for "good fortune" had been David's scheme from the start. He'd never actually believed it would help the old man—that was just superstitious nonsense. What he'd really wanted was to humiliate Wendy, to undermine her position within the Sutton Family, to create circumstances that would make her look foolish and incompetent.

But even in his wildest imaginings, he hadn't expected her to debase herself to quite this extent.

"I told you to find a husband to bring good fortune," David crowed, his voice rising with theatrical indignation. "And what do you do? You bring home a convict! You're not trying to save the old man—you're trying to send him to his grave faster!"

He pointed an accusing finger at Wendy as though she were a criminal standing trial, his entire posture radiating righteous condemnation.

Quinn Sutton, Wendy's father, looked as though he might have a stroke on the spot. His face flushed deep red, his blood pressure visibly spiking from stress and anger.

As Wendy's father, he would never have agreed to this ridiculous marriage-for-luck scheme if it weren't for David's overwhelming influence in the family. David controlled most of the Sutton Family business operations, wielded more power, commanded more respect. Quinn had been bullied into going along with it, sacrificing his daughter's future happiness because he lacked the spine to stand up to his more successful brother.

But this—this was beyond the pale! A convict!

If word of this got out, the Sutton Family would become the laughingstock of River City's entire business community!

"This is absolutely ridiculous!" Quinn shouted, his voice shaking with rage. "Wendy, you go to City Hall right now and file for divorce! Immediately!"

He turned his fury on Cliff, jabbing a finger in his direction.

"And you, boy—I don't care what sweet words you used to trick my daughter, but you need to get out of this hospital right now. Get out and stay away from my family. If you don't leave voluntarily, I'll make you regret it!"

Wendy had managed to maintain some semblance of composure in the face of her uncle's mockery. David had been belittling her for years; his cruelty was nothing new. She'd developed a thick skin against his particular brand of venom.

But when her own father—her own father!—joined the attack, refused to stand by her side, treated her like she was the problem rather than the victim of impossible circumstances... something inside her finally broke.

"Look at me!" she screamed, her voice raw with anguish. "Look at my face! What kind of man did you expect me to find?!"

Tears began streaming down her scarred cheeks beneath the veil, hot and bitter. She'd been holding them back for so long, but they finally broke through like water bursting through a dam.

Ever since the kidnapping, since the disfigurement, her entire life had become a nightmare of social isolation. The whole city treated her like a cautionary tale, a tragic figure to be pitied at best and mocked at worst. People crossed the street to avoid her. Former friends stopped returning her calls. Business associates found excuses to deal with other executives rather than face her across a conference table.

Even her own family looked at her with discomfort and shame.

Only Cliff—only this man who'd called her after seeing that desperate advertisement—had looked at her ruined face and not recoiled. He'd seen the scars and still chosen to stay, still spoken to her with kindness and respect.

"Cliff isn't a bad person," Wendy insisted, her voice shaking but determined. "At the very least, he's different from all those men who judge people purely by their appearance. He's not shallow like the rest of you!"

Hearing Wendy defend him so passionately, Cliff felt a warmth bloom in his chest. A small smile touched his usually stern features.

Then he spoke, his voice cutting through the family's arguments with calm authority.

"Grandfather's illness hasn't reached the terminal stage yet. It can be cured."

The room fell silent, everyone turning to stare at him.

Before anyone could respond, Cliff's arm moved in a blur. When his hand opened, several silver needles glinted between his fingers, seemingly appearing from nowhere.

He stepped forward to the bedside. His left hand rose, index and middle fingers extended with precision that spoke of years of practice. He pressed those two fingers against specific points on Zenith's lower abdomen—targeting the CV4, CV6, and CV8 acupressure points with unerring accuracy.

Then both hands began to move, his fingers forming complex configurations as he manipulated the silver needles. With fluid, economical movements, he inserted the needles along a path from the old man's abdomen up to his chest, each insertion placed with mathematical precision.

The entire sequence was performed with such grace and confidence that it looked almost like a martial arts form—flowing, practiced, beautiful in its efficiency.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

David Sutton finally processed what was happening, and his face contorted with horror and rage. He lunged forward, trying to grab Cliff's arm and stop whatever this madness was.

"You're not even a doctor! How dare you perform medical procedures on the old man?!"

His voice rose to a shrill pitch.

"This is someone's life we're talking about! You can't just play around with it like this!"

Cliff sidestepped David's grasping hands with casual ease, his movements economical and precise—the kind of defensive maneuvering that comes from extensive combat training. He turned to face David, his expression calm and utterly unruffled.

"In all of River City," he stated with quiet certainty, "I am the only person who can cure Grandfather's illness."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"If I don't intervene, he'll be dead within twenty-four hours. That's a guarantee."

"Oh, please!" May Bailey, David's wife, let out a derisive laugh. "Listen to this performance! If I didn't know you were a convict, I might actually believe this act!"

She looked at Wendy with contemptuous pity.

"Wendy, look at what your husband is doing! This isn't treatment—this is murder! He's going to kill your grandfather right in front of us!"

Wendy felt her heart sink into her stomach, a cold dread spreading through her entire body. Had she been wrong about Cliff? Was he actually insane? Why would he take such reckless actions with her grandfather's life, just to show off or prove some point?

"Cliff!" she cried out, her voice breaking. "How could you act so recklessly?!"

"If something goes wrong, if Grandfather dies because of this, can you take responsibility?! Can you?!"

The other Sutton Family members added their own voices to the chorus of disapproval, their faces showing various mixtures of anger, fear, and disgust.

To them, Cliff was nothing more than a live-in son-in-law brought in for some superstitious ritual—essentially worthless, certainly not someone with any medical knowledge or skills. The very idea that this convict could cure what the city's best doctors had declared incurable was laughable.

But then David Sutton, who'd been standing closest to the bed, suddenly gasped.

"The old man's... the old man's finger just moved!"

"What?!"

Wendy jerked her attention to the bed, her heart hammering in her chest.

And there, right before her eyes, Zenith Sutton's index finger twitched again—a small movement, barely perceptible, but undeniable.

"That's impossible!" someone whispered.

Every person in the room stood frozen in shock, their eyes riveted on the old man's hand.

Zenith hadn't moved—hadn't so much as twitched—in years. He'd been completely unresponsive, a living body kept functioning only by machines. The doctors had performed countless neurological tests, all showing minimal brain activity.

Yet Cliff had inserted just a few needles, and suddenly there was visible response!

David stared at Cliff, his expression now containing uncertainty and dawning wonder rather than pure contempt.

"You... you actually know acupuncture? Real acupuncture?"

Cliff maintained his composed demeanor, his voice level.

"I do know how to heal people, yes."

Then he added with complete honesty:

"But it's true that I don't possess a medical license."