The Prisoner God of War

Chapter 3: Divine Diagnosis

Marcus turned back to his mother, who sat trembling in her wheelchair, her blind eyes wide with concern. The scattered money from Brutus's bag lay across the floor like fallen leaves.

"Marcus, you shouldn't have gotten involved," Isabella whispered, her voice shaking. "Those men will come back with more people. They always do."

"Mother, please collect the money," Marcus said gently, kneeling to help gather the crumpled bills. "From now on, you won't have to worry about thugs or debt collectors."

"How can you be so confident? We have nothing left, son."

Marcus placed his hands over Isabella's clouded eyes, feeling the divine energy Elder Chen had taught him to channel. "I promise you, Mother, I will restore your sight. The celestial medicine techniques I learned in prison can heal what mortal doctors cannot."

Isabella's breath caught. "Marcus, that's impossible. The doctors said—"

"The doctors are fools who understand nothing of divine healing," Marcus interrupted. "Trust me, Mother. I've become something far beyond what I was three years ago."

Tears streamed down Isabella's cheeks. "Oh, my son. I've only stayed alive these past three years because I worried about you constantly. Every night, I prayed you were safe, that you were eating enough, that the other prisoners weren't hurting you."

The jade ring blazed with heat as Marcus's godly rage flared. His fist slammed down on the old wooden table beside them, and the ancient furniture exploded into splinters with a sound like thunder.

"The Blackwood family will pay for every tear you've shed," Marcus snarled, his voice carrying supernatural authority. "And the Chen family... Sophia and her father will learn what happens when mortals betray a god."

"Marcus, please!" Isabella grabbed his arm with surprising strength. "Don't cause more trouble. Find a proper job, rebuild our lives the right way. I can't lose you again."

She doesn't understand, Marcus thought, his divine consciousness already calculating his next moves. The God of War doesn't seek employment—he seeks justice.

"Don't worry about me, Mother. I know exactly what needs to be done."

Marcus kissed his mother's forehead and stepped outside into the afternoon sun. The street was eerily quiet after the earlier confrontation, neighbors peeking through curtains but keeping their distance.

First, I'll confront Sophia about her betrayal, he planned, his tactical mind mapping out the perfect approach. Then the Blackwoods will—

SCREECH! CRASH!

A red Porsche came flying around the corner at dangerous speed, tires smoking against the asphalt. Marcus heard the collision before he saw it—the car's bumper connecting with his body with enough force to launch a normal man thirty feet through the air.

But Marcus Kane was no normal man.

His divine constitution absorbed the impact like a mountain weathering a gentle breeze. He flipped gracefully through the air, landing on his feet with the fluid grace of an ancient deity, not even breathing hard.

The Porsche's driver's door flew open, and out stepped a woman who looked like she'd walked off a magazine cover. Long black hair cascaded over her shoulders, designer clothes hugged her perfect figure, and her face was a masterpiece of aristocratic beauty marred by an expression of absolute fury.

"Are you completely brain-dead?" she shrieked, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "What kind of moron stands in the middle of the road like a brain-damaged statue?"

Marcus dusted off his simple clothes with divine composure. "What kind of reckless driver speeds through residential neighborhoods like a drunken teenager?"

"Reckless?" The woman's eyes blazed with indignation. "You pathetic peasant, do you have any idea who I am? I could buy and sell your entire bloodline without checking my bank balance!"

"Money doesn't excuse attempted vehicular homicide, princess."

"Princess?" She laughed mockingly. "You dress like a homeless vagrant and smell like a prison cell, yet you dare lecture me about etiquette?"

The woman raised her designer heel and tried to stomp on Marcus's foot with vicious intent. Marcus sidestepped with supernatural speed, causing her to stumble and nearly fall.

"Valentina! Stop this nonsense immediately!"

The voice came from the passenger seat—weak, wheezing, desperate. An elderly man emerged from the car, his face pale as death, one hand pressed against his chest as he struggled to breathe.

Interesting, Marcus thought, his divine sight immediately perceiving the man's condition. His life force is flickering like a candle in a hurricane.

"Papa, get back in the car," Valentina snapped. "We need to get you to the hospital right now."

The old man leaned heavily against the Porsche, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. "We don't have time to argue with... with this person."

Valentina pulled out a thick wad of cash and threw it at Marcus's feet. "There! Buy yourself some decent clothes and pretend this never happened. We have important business to attend to."

"It's too late for that," Marcus said calmly, his godly perception reading the man's failing body like an open book. "Your father won't make it to the hospital."

"What did you just say?" Valentina whirled around, her face twisted with rage.

"I said he's dying. Right here, right now. The hospital is twenty minutes away, and he has maybe five."

"You sick freak!" Valentina blocked Marcus's path, her perfectly manicured nails extended like claws. "How dare you make jokes about my father's condition?"

"Who said I was joking?" Marcus's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "Your father has a punctured left lung. Internal bleeding. Probably from a recent accident or attack. The damaged tissue is collapsing, and his oxygen levels are dropping by the second."

The old man's eyes widened in shock. "How... how could you possibly know that?"

"Papa, don't listen to this con artist," Valentina snarled. "He's probably trying to scam us for money."

"The X-rays from three days ago showed a hairline fracture in his seventh rib," Marcus continued with divine precision. "The doctors missed the internal damage because they were looking for external trauma. Your father's been hiding the pain, hasn't he?"

Alessandro Romano—Marcus could see the name clearly on the business card protruding from the man's jacket pocket—staggered backward in amazement.

"Impossible," Alessandro whispered. "The doctors said... they said I just needed rest. How could you know about the X-rays?"

Because I can see death approaching like a shadow, Marcus thought. And unlike these mortal physicians, I actually know how to stop it.

"Please," Alessandro fell to his knees, gasping for air. "If you really know what's wrong with me, please help. I'll pay you anything—ten million, fifty million, whatever you want."

"Papa, no!" Valentina tried to pull her father away. "This is some kind of sick scam!"

"Move aside," Marcus commanded, his voice carrying supernatural authority that made Valentina step back involuntarily.

Before anyone could react, Marcus's hands moved with celestial speed, his fingers finding precise acupuncture points along Alessandro's neck and chest. The jade ring pulsed with divine energy as ancient healing techniques flowed through his fingertips.