CHAPTER 393: CHAPTER 268: SEEKER OF OMENS_2

Amanda was thrown into the sanatorium, and Tamara was there too, albeit in another cell. Her clothes had been pulled aside at the shoulder to reveal her wound, which was currently being treated.

The one administering the treatment wasn’t Paracelsus, but the nun, who had recovered.

Lance stood by with Paracelsus, watching the wound heal under the Divine Arts.

Paracelsus’s expression was indescribably odd, yet she remained silent; no one knew what she was thinking.

Lance, however, focused most of his attention on the healing wound. It was closing, but it didn’t show the uncontrollable proliferation typical of an Ascension Cultist, and there were no apparent negative side effects, at least not visibly.

Still, Lance could feel that the nun’s "Divine Grace" was fundamentally different from his own "Flesh Reconstruction."

The nun’s Divine Arts didn’t involve controlling Flesh directly. Instead, they stimulated the wound to accelerate healing, essentially shortening the recovery time by drawing upon the patient’s lifespan, and would leave scars.

When Lance realized this, he understood that, currently, aside from his panel Abilities, none of the many Supernatural Powers he had encountered were completely without side effects...

This realization, combined with the recent battle and the many Transcendents he had previously encountered, led Lance to a tentative conclusion: the hierarchy of Supernatural Powers in this world wasn’t particularly high.

Various extraordinary abilities existed, but none possessed the world-altering might—like moving mountains, filling seas, or devastating lands—often depicted in Xuanhuan or Western high fantasy.

Or perhaps such powers did exist, just not in humans; at least, he hadn’t witnessed any.

In their place were various bizarre and twisted powers, most of which came with detrimental side effects.

Perhaps it was disappointment. The so-called Divine Arts weren’t as miraculous as he’d imagined. But this also made him realize the Church wasn’t as formidable as it seemed.

"You’ve seen it; Supernatural Powers are quite common in this world," Lance remarked to Paracelsus beside him, only to see her turn and walk away.

True. According to her methods, such an injury, even after suturing, would take a month or two to heal completely. But after the nun used her Divine Arts a few times, the wound healed instantly, rendering Lance’s concerns about infection and medication moot. This must have shaken her confidence in modern medical reforms. Lance wasn’t particularly concerned, though. Seeing the nun’s exhausted state, he knew the cost. Such an ability might be useful in emergencies, but it had no potential for widespread application. Its limits were precisely what the Church was currently demonstrating: costs so prohibitive that ordinary people couldn’t possibly afford them. He had no intention of explaining this. He knew Paracelsus possessed a strong competitive spirit; this setback wasn’t enough to crush her. On the contrary, a little pressure might even spur her to greater efforts.

"You, come out." Lance had no desire to waste time and called her out directly.

"Sir..." The nun approached, her gaze carefully avoiding Lance’s.

"I already told you Hamlet prohibits violence. Why did you still violate the rule?"

"I..." What could the nun say? She had hoped to earn some money to compensate the school, but not only was she completely outmatched, she had nearly gotten herself locked up as well. Saved once again, she was now unable to afford the fine for breaking the rules.

Watching her cower before Lance, it was striking how, in just two short days, the once spirited and resolute nun had been reduced to this state.

The poor nun, one could only say, was being thoroughly played by Lance.

"Go back to your cell and reflect properly."

Lance didn’t deal with her immediately, choosing instead to let her stew, allowing her guilt to ferment. She was quite obedient, returning to her cell as Lance instructed. That approach worked for someone with a conscience. But for someone as shameless and hard-hearted as Tamara, it was necessary to strike while the iron was hot.

He pushed open the door to Tamara’s cell and entered. Tamara had just sat up from the bed and was pulling her clothes back over her shoulder.

"Let’s hear it. What exactly is going on here?" Lance asked, unconcerned with propriety as he sat directly on the edge of her bed.

She didn’t react strongly, merely shifting her gaze to Lance, her eyes harboring a degree of resentment.

"Why did you save *her*?" Tamara demanded.

"I was saving *you*, of course," Lance drawled.

"I saw your eyes; they never left her. You men just like that cheap type of woman, don’t you?" Tamara retorted, her voice laced with bitterness.

"I can’t deny she’s more attractive than you," Lance replied earnestly. Honestly, the dark-skinned, busty assassin was quite alluring.

His gaze inadvertently swept over Tamara’s chest, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

"What do you mean by that?" Tamara snapped.

"Alright, alright, let’s get back to business," Lance said, waving his hand dismissively, trying to steer the conversation back on topic. This, however, made Tamara feel as if she were being disdainfully rejected.

The provocation worked. Tamara yanked down her clothes further, revealing the upper curve of her breast. "Look closely! I have them too!"

Lance noticed. He had to admit that despite her loose clothing, she was actually quite well-endowed—though not on par with Grendel, let alone Amanda.

"It’s too late to hide things now," Lance said, his tone firm once more. "Tell me who she is and what’s going on between you two. Or I’ll go ask her myself."

Lance sighed in exasperation. He felt the situation was getting rather strange.

Thankfully, his firm stance managed to pull the conversation back on track.