Starting from scratch, Batman crushed my dream of getting rich

Chapter 273 Pain
It takes an average of four minutes to finish a cigarette.

A bottle of whiskey can last for a maximum of two hours.

But if you have nothing, how long can a person endure the pain?
In the pitch-black room, a figure sat quietly on the floor, neither moving nor speaking, appearing as if dead.

If it weren't for the fact that his body would occasionally twitch and spasm due to intense pain, everyone would have thought he was really dead.

A small light appeared in the darkness, and as a wisp of smoke drifted out, a second figure swayed in the shadows: "Want some whiskey?"

"Need not!"

Ma Zhaodi's voice was hoarse and strained. At this moment, most of his rationality was used to fight the pain of his flesh being gnawed at and the feeling of weakness, so his speech was naturally not very fluent.

“Don’t push yourself.” Constantine took a swig of his drink, then put the whiskey bottle in the corner. “You’re much stronger than Lester. It would take him at least a day to kill you—it’s a war of attrition.”

“Drinking makes it easy to lose control.” Ma Zhaodi desperately suppressed his urge to go crazy and struggle due to the pain. He was secretly glad that without the system, he would never have been able to endure such excruciating pain and would probably have gone insane by now.

[Your heart rate and blood pressure are slowly increasing. Pain levels are currently suppressed to 70% of normal. Would you like to increase the suppression to 50%?]

"no thanks."

[Note: Adjusting the pain suppression level will not affect the fee charged this time; it will remain at 10,000 asset points.]

"It's not that I'm coughing, it's that I'm worried about the money."

Actually, it wasn't that he wasn't completely indifferent to money, but Ma Zhaodi rejected Tongzi's thoughtful suggestion for another reason.

He had gotten used to dying and getting injured in the system's combat simulations. At the time, he thought that getting used to this level of pain in advance would be enough for him to ignore the interference of pain in actual combat.

"I was wrong, cough cough." Ma Zhaodi clenched his fists and gritted his teeth: "That little bit, the pain is nothing!"

In this kind of universe, pain is probably as unavoidable as fighting. Since that's the case, it's better to adapt as soon as possible, so as not to be caught off guard in the next life-or-death situation.

Having said that——

"It really hurts!"

Ma Zhaodi sat in the darkness, trying his best to suppress the urge to wail out loud so that others would not hear him.

The three of them, of course, did not actually go to Sudan—at this moment, he was in a secret safe house in Constantine, which was temporarily being used as a prison. Ma Zhaodi had entered a small cell in the basement to avoid going mad from the pain and tearing down the whole house.

However, it now seems that this decision was not very meaningful. With the help of the system, Ma Zhaodi's rationality was barely able to withstand the pain.

crunch--

A beam of light suddenly illuminated the basement, and a man timidly stepped down.

"John, the whiskey, morphine, and cigarettes are back, along with food."

Lester stole a glance at the tormented Ma Zhaodi through the light, then felt ashamed and dared not look again. At this moment, he already knew that Ma Zhaodi had sealed Namos as a vessel in his place, and that the words "owes me a life" sounded casual, but in reality, they carried immense weight.

“Got it.” Constantine took a drag of his cigarette and patted his old friend on the shoulder. “Leave the morphine for me. You go upstairs. Remember, don’t secretly give yourself that stuff.”

Lester nodded silently and went back upstairs. He was no longer experiencing physical cravings, and if he could overcome the urge to relapse, he could become a normal person again—though neither Ma Zhaodi nor Constantine held out much hope. This was understandable; they knew Lester's willpower perfectly well.

“Wishful thinking and self-sacrifice are worthless, old man.” As the firelight flickered, Constantine exhaled a puff of smoke: “To make someone better, you not only need to give them the will to be better, but you also need the means and power to discipline them.”

“Well said, you must rarely be fooled by bad women.” By this moment, Ma Zhaodi had gradually become accustomed to this level of pain, and the sentences he uttered became more fluent: “But your cigarette is really strong, can you not smoke it?”

"Damn it," Constantine cursed irritably, throwing his cigarette butt under his foot and stomping it out. "I'll go upstairs and smoke."

“Smoke less; smoking is bad for your health.” “You sound just like those politicians. Want to take the civil service exam and get into Whitehall?” Constantine scoffed. “With your body covered in tattoos, the BBC would be happy to report, ‘A free-spirited Asian tattoo artist enters British politics,’ ‘We should look at everyone with equality.’”

“A smoking ban is a collective matter, Kangzi—you’re probably never going to fit in,” Ma Zhaodi said. “What I’m saying is, at the rate you’re smoking, you might not live to see the day the policy is implemented.”

"FXXK You (I'll die of a heart attack), I'll live to be a hundred."

Constantine gave him the middle finger, actually put the cigarette case back in his pocket, and picked up the whiskey again.

"Drink less alcohol."

"Damn it." Constantine put down the bottle and picked up the morphine: "I'll give you a shot, then go straight up."

"I don't need morphine right now. Look, I'm still fairly sober."

"."

There aren't many people who can leave Constantine speechless, so Ma Zhaodi couldn't help but chuckle, realizing he had probably unlocked a rare achievement.

the next day.

Ma Zhaodi's breathing became steady, and he seemed to have adapted to the pain.

The pain has now been reduced to 80% of normal levels.

"It can still be raised." He muttered to himself, "Let's add one percent."

As soon as he finished speaking, the pain of being devoured by the insects intensified once again.

"Humph--"

Ma Zhaodi managed to hold onto the ground to support his body.

"If you can't take it, give me an injection."

Constantine's voice rang out again; he was still in the basement today.

"No need."

Constantine shrugged. He instinctively reached for a cigarette, but found the pack was full of Pocky sticks.

"Damn. This is what you called 'good cigarette'?"

"Smoked Pocky, a treat you can't buy anywhere else."

Constantine took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. Sure enough, a faint smell of smoke filled his tongue and nasal cavity.

“Logically speaking, Namo’s eating time is about the same,” he said. “A normal person should have been eaten up by noon today. I didn’t expect you to last this long.”

“It’s probably because my flesh is tough,” Ma Zhaodi replied. “It can’t chew it.”

"There's no difference; it's just a matter of time, sooner or later."

After saying this, Constantine fell silent.

He saw four ghosts standing silently beside Ma Zhaodi, praying for him and hoping to alleviate his suffering.

"It's useless," Constantine thought—but let them be.

(End of this chapter)