Chương 71: CHAPTER 69: THE ALLEYWAY NEUTRALIZATION

The heavy tropical rain continued to hammer violently against the stone retaining wall of the ancient harbor canal, washing away the dark crimson streaks running through the deep, churning mud. The narrow dead-end alley was completely quiet now, save for the deafening, continuous rushing of water overflowing from the broken gutters into the flooded drainage troughs.

In less than four seconds, three elite executioners from the Yamato Kingdom's Royal Vanguard lay scattered in the deep mud like discarded iron puppets, their heavy plate armor useless against the absolute, mathematical precision of Rudra's neurological strikes. Not a single high-tier magic spell had been cast, no massive aura had been flared into the sky, and Rudra's slate-gray Haori coat remained impeccably clean, entirely unsoiled by the confrontation.

Rudra stood over the unconscious lead knight for a brief, quiet moment. He reached down with his gloved right hand, picked up his wide-brimmed straw hat from the wet earth, and shook off a few clinging droplets of rainwater before setting it back firmly onto his head.

"Biological threat neutralized," Rudra murmured flatly to himself, adjusting the comfortable leather strap of his field bag.

"Workspace perimeter restored." He turned his full attention back toward the rain-slicked stone retaining wall. Master Dora was slumping heavily against the wet masonry. His double-headed battleaxe lay half-buried in the mud beside his iron boot, its wooden handle slick with blood. His right hand was pressed desperately against his upper chest, trying to stop the bright crimson arterial blood spurting through the shattered plates of his iron breastplate.

His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps, his weathered skin turning a sickly, pale shade of ash gray as severe blood loss pushed his central nervous system toward immediate hypovolemic shock. His single open eye stared up at Rudra through the falling sheets of rain in absolute, breathless awe. The man who ruled the lower delta's underground networks could barely reconcile what he had just witnessed.

"You... you dropped three capital executioners..." Dora gasped out, his voice a hoarse, rattling rasp that barely carried over the roar of the downpour.

"With your bare hands... without even drawing a blade..."

"Your vocalization is elevating your cardiac output," Rudra said cleanly, stepping through the mud toward the syndicate boss without a single trace of emotion.

"This increases vascular pressure in the subclavian artery, accelerating your death timeline by twelve seconds" Before Dora could formulate a reply, Rudra leaned down. His gloved right hand darted out with lightning speed, tapping three specific neurological pressure points around Dora's right collarbone in rapid succession. Dora's eyes widened in sudden panic as his neck and shoulder muscles instantly went rigid under the mechanical compression.

The violent, spurting flow of bright arterial blood from his chest slowed to a faint trickle as the local vascular pressure was artificially clamped. A wave of heavy dizziness swept over the syndicate leader, his vision swimming with dark spots as his brain was temporarily deprived of high-pressure oxygenated blood.

"Hey... wait..." Dora choked out weakly, his head tilting backward against the cold stone wall as his eyelids grew impossibly heavy.

"System shut down initiated," Rudra stated flatly. He reached out, caught the massive, heavily armored man by the back collar of his thick leather tunic before he could collapse face-first into the mud pool, and hoisted him off the ground with a single, effortless pull. Despite Dora weighing well over two hundred pounds even without his full armor, Rudra's dark-iron prosthetic hand held the warrior with absolute mechanical ease.

Without drawing a single breath of physical exertion, Rudra turned around and began dragging the unconscious syndicate leader back down the muddy alleyway, trailing the warrior's heavy iron boots through the rushing water. Rudra walked through the pouring rain, pulling the massive warrior behind him like a sack of harvested grain. He moved past the half-burned timber warehouse, past the long row of abandoned fish-drying sheds, and stepped onto the quiet wooden porch of his small brick apothecary.

He kicked the heavy oak door open with his leather boot, dragged Dora inside, and slammed the heavy door shut against the howling storm outside, throwing the heavy iron bolt into place with a loud, metallic CLACK. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The apothecary was dark, calm, and quiet. The air inside remained remarkably cool, smelling faintly of dried lavender, distilled alcohol, and the lingering, sharp tang of the earlier micro-vascular procedures.

Rudra dragged Dora across the clean floorboards, lifting the heavy man onto his main granite operating table with a single, smooth hoist. The iron breastplate clattered loudly against the polished stone slab, sending a few loose water droplets splashing across the stone surface. Rudra took off his wet straw hat and hung it neatly on the wooden peg beside the doorframe. He unbuttoned his slate-gray coat, laid it across a wooden chair, and set his gear down before turning to prepare a quick meal.

"Primary trauma containment established," Rudra reported softly to the quiet room.

"Patient stabilized for surgical preparation." He looked toward the far corner where the Night-Vane scout lay pinned to the floorboards by the silver paralysis needles. The scout was staring at Dora's massive, armor-clad body resting on the granite table with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"That's... that's Master Dora..." the scout whispered, paralyzed on the floorboards as his breath whistled faintly through the glass chest tube in his ribs.

"You... you actually brought the syndicate boss into the clinic..."

"He is currently an active patient on my table," Rudra replied, pulling a clean white linen apron over his clothes and tying the cloth straps behind his back.

"His political status is irrelevant to my workspace. Stay still and do not dislodge your chest drain." Rudra walked over to his side cupboard. The grueling morning—from dealing with Baron Oric's extortion attempt to stepping out into the pouring rain to handle three imperial executioners—had depleted his personal energy reserves. His body required immediate caloric replenishment before he could begin a deep, multi-layer surgical procedure on Dora's shattered arterial system.

He opened the wooden cupboard door and retrieved a small, glazed ceramic plate along with a heavy earthenware jar. On the plate sat a thick, cold slice of sesame-crusted flatbread, baked freshly the previous evening with coarse wheat flour and brushed with sea salt. Inside the earthenware jar was a fiery, dark-red oil infused with crushed chili flakes, toasted garlic cloves, and aromatic Sichuan peppercorns.

Rudra carried the plate and jar over to his granite workbench, setting them down right beside his sanitized scalpels, silver pressure needles, and glass testing tubes. He pulled a small piece of the cold flatbread away from the main slice. The crust was dense, crisp, and covered in a thick layer of golden sesame seeds that gave off a rich, nutty scent. He dipped the crisp bread deep into the fiery garlic-chili oil, coating the textured surface in the dark red spice. He placed the piece into his mouth and bit down.

CRUNCH. The loud, crisp snap of the baked crust echoed clearly in the quiet room. The bold, fiery heat of the chili oil exploded across his tongue, instantly awakening his senses, while the sharp, aromatic garlic cut through the lingering smell of rain, mud, and wet iron in the air. The savory, nutty flavor of the toasted sesame seeds balanced out the intense spice, providing a satisfying, dense crunch that filled his mouth with rich, long-lasting energy.

He chewed slowly, enjoying the simple, unhurried pleasure of the meal. CRUNCH. In his previous life at AIIMS Delhi, after completing a high-stress trauma intervention in the emergency ward, the senior surgeons would often grab a quick, heavy snack from the hospital canteen before scrubbing in for the next major operation. A simple, spicy bite was the fastest way to sharpen mental focus, flush out physical fatigue, and reset one's hand-eye coordination for delicate micro-surgery.

Rudra took a second piece of flatbread, dipping it even deeper into the red garlic oil until the chili seeds stuck to the bread. CRUNCH. He swallowed the crisp bread, feeling a warm, pleasant heat spread through his stomach. He wiped his lips and fingers thoroughly, drank a small cup of warm spring water, and returned to the basin to rigorously sanitize his hands with high-purity distilled alcohol before picking up his surgical tools. His energy was fully restored.

His pulse was completely steady, his focus razor-sharp. He turned back toward the main granite slab where Master Dora lay unconscious.

"Commencing preliminary debridement and armor extraction," Rudra stated cleanly, picking up a heavy pair of iron shears and a cold-moon scalpel from his sanitized tray. He stepped up to the table and began cutting away the thick leather straps holding Dora's shattered breastplate together. His dark-iron fingers worked with mechanical precision, snapping the rusted iron rivets and lifting the heavy, blood-soaked metal plates away from the warrior's chest.

Beneath the armor, Dora's thick linen undershirt was soaked through with dark red blood. Rudra sliced the fabric open with a single, smooth pull of his scalpel, laying the mangled flesh of the warrior's upper chest and collarbone completely bare under the pale blue light of the wall runes. The right subclavian artery beneath his collarbone was severely lacerated, the surrounding muscle tissue torn and bruised from the heavy kinetic impact of the executioners' blades.

However, the temporary nerve pressure taps Rudra had applied in the alley were holding firm, keeping the main vessel compressed and preventing the man from bleeding to death on the stone slab.

"Vascular compression holding," Rudra noted, setting his scalpel down to reach for his curved silver needles and botanical Silver-Vine thread.

"Proceeding to internal tissue alignment." Before Rudra could position his forceps over the open chest wound, a sudden, violent shudder passed through Dora's massive body. The unconscious syndicate leader thrashed against the stone table, his jaw clenching tightly as a dark, painful groan escaped his throat. The muscles in his legs twitched erratically, and his face turned from ash gray to a terrifying, translucent white. Rudra's deadpan eyes narrowed instantly.

His diagnostic perception flared, scanning deeper into Dora's lower body, past his thick leather belt and down into his legs. [ANATOMICAL SCAN: CRITICAL ALERT] [Subject Status: Rapid Vascular Collapse] [Unmonitored Trauma: Deep Laceration / Right Femoral Artery] [Internal Hemorrhage: High-Volume Extravasation into Thigh Cavity] [Cardiac Status: Severe Tachycardia / Blood Pressure Plummeting] Abe saale! Chest wound to bas distraction tha... iski main femoral artery andar se phat chuki hai!

Rudra thought to himself, his internal voice rising with sharp, irritated precision as he saw the new threat data. (Damn it! The chest wound was just a distraction... his main femoral artery has burst open from the inside!) Deep inside Dora's right thigh, hidden beneath his thick leather trousers and heavy iron leg guards, a massive internal bleed had just ruptured.

The damaged arterial wall had completely given way, and thick, dark, unoxygenated blood was flooding into the deep muscle cavity of his leg at a terrifying rate, causing his upper thigh to swell rapidly beneath his clothes as his internal blood pressure crashed toward zero.