THE LOSER GOD OF WAR IS MIRACLE DOCTOR

CHAPTER 3

Keith stepped out of the hospital into the cool evening air, his phone still pressed to his ear. The voice on the other end belonged to someone he trusted more than anyone else in the world.

"Linda," he said, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. "Tell me everything."

"Master Keith!" Linda's voice practically bubbled through the phone. "After months of research, I've finally cracked it! The formula to restore your powers—it works! I've run every test imaginable, and the results are perfect!"

Keith closed his eyes, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders that he'd carried for far too long. Finally, he thought. Finally, I can reclaim what was taken from me.

"This is incredible news," he said aloud. "I've booked a private room at the Neon Restaurant. Third floor, the Sapphire Suite. I'll be waiting for you there."

"The Neon Restaurant?" Linda's voice held a note of awe. "Master, are you sure? That place is—"

"Perfect for celebrating your breakthrough," Keith interrupted with a smile. "See you there."

Emilia's face had turned an alarming shade of red as she watched Keith walk away. Her fists clenched so tightly that her manicured nails dug painfully into her palms.

"How dare he!" she seethed, her voice trembling with rage. "After everything we've done for him, he has the audacity to walk away like he's the one being wronged?"

Emilia placed a comforting hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Let him go, dear. He's always been as worthless as a three-legged chair—only good for tipping over."

Just then, Denver's phone rang, its shrill tone cutting through the tension. He quickly pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice smooth with practiced confidence. "It's my subordinates—they must have found the miracle doctor."

Emilia's anger instantly gave way to hope. "Really? Already?"

Denver nodded, stepping away to take the call. "This is Denver."

The voice on the other end sounded hesitant. "Sir, we've been searching all day, but this 'miracle doctor' is proving extremely difficult to track down."

Denver's smile faded. He moved further down the hallway, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. "What do you mean you can't find them?"

"The doctor is incredibly mysterious, sir. All we know is that they only work with the most powerful and wealthy clients. No one seems to know their real identity or how to contact them directly."

Denver's expression darkened like a storm cloud. "Listen carefully," he hissed into the phone. "Find any competent doctor—anyone—and bring them here. Tell them to play along if they want a substantial payment."

"But sir, what about the patient? Won't they need actual treatment?"

Denver glanced back at Emilia, who was watching him expectantly from down the hall. "That's not my primary concern. I just need Emilia to marry me. Her brother's condition is merely... convenient leverage."

After ending the call, Denver composed himself, smoothing his features into a mask of confidence before walking back to the Richardsons.

"Good news," he announced, placing his hand on Emilia's shoulder. "I've secured the miracle doctor for Laurent's treatment."

Emilia's eyes widened with joy. "Oh, Denver! That's wonderful!" She threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance. "When will they arrive?"

"Within the next couple of days," Denver replied smoothly. "In the meantime, I've reserved a table at Neon Restaurant for tonight—to celebrate this development. First floor, best view in the house."

"Neon Restaurant?" Emilia gasped. "But that's the most exclusive dining establishment in the city!"

Denver smiled, savoring her impressed reaction. "Nothing but the best for you, Emilia."

This is too easy, he thought, watching her beam with excitement. Once we're married, the Richardson family's assets will be mine to control.

Later that evening, Keith approached the gleaming façade of Neon Restaurant. The building rose like a diamond among pebbles, its glass exterior reflecting the city lights in a dazzling display. He wore simple clothing—clean but certainly not designer labels—and walked with confident strides despite his earlier blood loss.

At the entrance, a slim woman with a tight bun and an even tighter smile intercepted him before he could pass the velvet rope.

"May I help you?" she asked, her gaze sliding dismissively over his attire.

"I have a reservation," Keith replied simply.

The receptionist's lips quirked into an amused smirk. "I'm afraid you're confused, sir. The staff entrance is around back. We're not currently hiring waiters."

A couple waiting nearby snickered at the comment. Keith remained unruffled.

"I'm not applying for a job," he said calmly. "I've reserved the private room on the third floor."

The receptionist's eyebrows shot up before she burst into laughter, drawing more attention from nearby guests.

"Sir," she said, struggling to compose herself, "perhaps you don't understand what kind of establishment this is. Neon Restaurant requires guests to possess at least one million dollars in assets just to dine on the first floor." She gestured around at the elegantly dressed patrons. "As for the third floor? It doesn't accept reservations at all. It's exclusively reserved for the city's elite—the wealthiest and most powerful individuals."

She looked him up and down again, her smile turning cruel. "And you claim to have reserved a third-floor suite? That's like a rat claiming it reserved the presidential suite."

Keith's expression cooled several degrees. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black card—no logo, no name, just a subtle shimmer when it caught the light. He slapped it onto the reception desk.

"Take me to my room," he said quietly. "And while you're at it, do everyone a favor and shut your mouth."

The receptionist didn't even glance at the card, her face flushing with indignation. "How dare you speak to me like that! I'll have security escort you—"

"Is there a problem here, Ms.Clark?" A middle-aged man in an impeccable suit approached, his smile professional yet concerned.

"Mr. Zhasper," the receptionist straightened immediately. "This... individual claims to have reserved a third-floor suite. I was just explaining our policy to him."

Mr. Zhasper nodded, reaching for the card on the counter. "Let me just check the—"

His words died in his throat as his eyes fell on the black card. The color drained from his face, and before anyone could react, he had dropped to his knees in front of Keith.

"Sir!" Mr. Zhasper's voice trembled. "Please forgive this terrible misunderstanding. I had no idea you were honoring us with your presence tonight."

The receptionist's jaw dropped. "Mr. Zhasper, what are you—"