Chapter 30: If He Wants to Kill You, Strike First!
[Life-Saving System Upgrade Successful.]
[Host can consume lifespan to gain physical function enhancements, with the enhancement limit being peak human capacity.]
[Enhanceable attributes are divided into: brain, upper limbs, lower limbs, and torso. Enhancing all attributes simultaneously requires seven days of lifespan. Please choose enhancement attributes carefully, Host.]
[Host, please experience the enhancement effects yourself.]
[Current Host remaining lifespan: 8 days, 12 hours.]
By the time David finished processing the system notifications and refocused, Wesker had already reached the end of his speech.
"...then transplant your kidneys to me."
Facing Wesker's extremely hostile stare, David smiled calmly:
"Successful kidney transplantation first requires HLA compatibility between donor and recipient.
If you transplant kidneys directly without tissue typing first, the post-operative immune rejection will only cause you to die in agony.
So if you genuinely need both kidneys, I suggest you get an HLA compatibility test first.
My kidneys may not be compatible with your system."
In David's lengthy explanation, Wesker only registered the part about kidney transplantation potentially leading to his agonizing death.
He hadn't taken such an enormous risk removing the tumor just to push himself to death's door again.
Wesker scoffed, his predatory eyes boring into David:
"Kid, consider yourself lucky. Take your coins and get the fuck out."
David shrugged, collected the twelve gold coins from the bodyguard at the door, and was about to leave when Wesker's voice stopped him:
"Wait. Will losing one kidney affect... performance? You know what I mean?"
David, immediately understanding as one man to another, smiled and replied:
"Don't worry. What might affect your performance definitely won't be your kidneys.
That'll only be related to you staying up all night, heavy drinking, or recreational drug use.
You're no different from any other person now."
Simultaneously, David silently added that the premise of all this was that Wesker's tumor didn't recur.
Hearing David's answer, Wesker nodded with satisfaction.
He'd survived, but if he lost substantial pleasure due to kidney dysfunction, the quality of living would be severely diminished.
Then he looked at the other three physicians again. He gestured the gun muzzle toward the corpse with the gaping head wound on the pristine floor and asked:
"Why are you still standing there? Want me to comp you a bullet too?"
Hearing this, the three surgeons immediately collected their payment from the bodyguards with panicked expressions and rapidly exited.
After everyone departed, Wesker groaned, hunched over, and a thick layer of cold sweat immediately appeared on his forehead.
Everything he'd just performed was purely forced bravado.
How could anyone be so energetic and vigorous immediately post-op? It was completely impossible.
He wanted to spread word of his excellent post-operative recovery through these physicians' accounts.
Only then could he deter certain opportunists and prevent them from making moves!
And his actual condition—as the primary surgeon in the later stages, David naturally understood perfectly.
However, the performance still had to be maintained.
After all, no matter how much acting was involved, that gun was real, and Wesker's willingness to kill was equally real.
Not to mention the heavily armed security personnel stationed outside the OR.
These things were merely obstacles for David, but for certain people, they were just minor challenges.
Now David had a reckless plan formulating.
The assassin being hunted by the Bratva was still in the hotel, and now Wesker—the Bratva's representative at the High Table—was in a severely weakened state.
So he could attempt the strategy of using one tiger to devour another.
If it succeeded, he'd immediately gain substantial lifespan.
If it failed, it had nothing to do with him. He didn't believe that when facing an assassin who struck at vital points with every move, Wesker would risk capturing him alive.
With a plan crystallizing, David returned to the concierge desk.
Charon showed a trace of imperceptible surprise when he saw David return unharmed.
Because the surgery had concluded earlier than he'd anticipated.
Charon asked, feigning nonchalance:
"Perfectly resolved?"
"If killing one person counts as perfect, then perhaps."
Charon raised an eyebrow, pulled David into the back office behind him, then asked in a hushed voice:
"Someone died? Who died?"
"Caesar, he was—"
David's words were swiftly interrupted by Charon. Charon gently shook his head:
"Shh. Silence. Don't speak that name.
I'll arrange for dinner reservations to be made.
Keep this matter to yourself, or there will be substantial complications.
No business is conducted on Continental grounds. Understood?"
David chuckled:
"Understood, perfectly clear. But I need to inquire about something.
Can you tell me what room number the person I stabilized this afternoon is staying in?
He left in such a rush he hasn't settled his bill yet."
Charon, who'd been dialing the rotary phone at the desk, paused his finger slightly and looked up:
"You're referring to Harry? He should understand the protocols.
Never mind—go find him. Room 603."
David nodded and turned to leave. Charon's voice drifted faintly from behind him.
"This is Charon. Yes, I need to arrange a single dinner reservation. The address is the alley behind the Continental..."
The remaining words were blocked by the closing door.
However, David wasn't concerned with these matters presently. He didn't require that particular service right now.
Soon, he knocked on the door of Room 603.
The occupant opened the peephole, glanced out, then cracked the door open slightly.
"You? What do you want?"
Through the gap, David could observe the man had every muscle tensed, one hand positioned behind his back—likely gripping a firearm with the safety already off.
As for the rule about no business on Continental grounds? Those who believed that rule implicitly were already six feet under.
"Regarding the ambulance crew who attempted to extract you this afternoon—on the backs of their hands..."
Saying this, David deliberately paused.
Presumably, Harry could deduce his meaning.
Indeed.
A look of intense interest appeared on Harry's face.
The situation had been critical then—he hadn't held back, nor had he remained at the scene to examine the bodies for identifying marks.
He'd harbored vague suspicions about these operatives who'd tried to eliminate him.
But he couldn't confirm them.
Now hearing the emergency physician had observed crucial intelligence, he immediately removed the door chain.
Then, after quickly checking the corridor in both directions, he grabbed David's jacket and yanked him inside.
The door slammed shut behind them.
After securing the door, Harry still kept one hand behind his back. He studied David warily:
"What exactly did you see?"
David settled onto a nearby sofa and poured himself a cup of coffee:
"Relax. I have no hostile intentions toward you. Otherwise there'd have been no reason to save you initially, correct?"
Harry continued scanning David's movements suspiciously:
"Get to the point. I don't have time for games."
"I saw Bratva tattoos on the backs of their hands."
"What?!"
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