Everyone's gaze instantly whipped back to Specimen Seven.
Their hearts hammered in their chests as they waited to see what kind of miracle—or disaster—Serena's two vials would trigger.
One minute passed.
Two minutes passed.
...
At exactly the ten-minute mark.
The massive monitors tracking Specimen Seven's vitals finally began to shift.
The violent spikes of his neural response curve steadily began to level out.
The rejection index plummeted. Organ stress levels drastically decreased.
The dark-purple veins that had been pulsing beneath his skin finally went dormant.
Specimen Seven's rigid, thrashing muscles slowly relaxed.
While his brain waves remained highly active, they had settled into a sustainable, rhythmic pattern.
Inside the chamber, the medical staff stared at the readouts in absolute awe.
It wasn't until every metric stabilized completely that a collective sigh of relief echoed through the room.
Silas's tightly wound features finally softened. "Miss Panacea, what is Specimen Seven's current condition?"
Serena meticulously retrieved her needles. "As long as you don't let these useless idiots pump him full of random drugs, he won't die before we reach Whitecliffe Harbor."
The underground doctors and pharmacists who had previously assisted Arthur York—the aforementioned "useless idiots"—flushed with deep humiliation.
Yet, not a single one of them possessed the courage to argue the point.
Silas patted his chest, a genuine laugh finally escaping his throat.
As long as the asset survived to Whitecliffe Harbor and passed the buyer's inspection.
Then absolutely nothing else mattered.
He nodded enthusiastically. "From now on, every drop of medication given to Specimen Seven will require your express authorization."
"Thank you for your incredible work, Miss Panacea!"
The gratitude in his voice was profoundly sincere.
"Work is work," Serena replied, meeting his eyes with a greedy, brooding smirk. "If you're truly grateful, why not throw in a bonus?"
Silas was utterly speechless.


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