Both start in hell: but their talents are multiplied a hundredfold.

Shen Jue gently placed her palm on Tim's head.

May illness depart!

His voice suddenly rose, like a judgment falling from the clouds, causing the lights in the entire studio to flicker for a moment.

A layer of not-so-bright golden light shone from the top of the child's head, pouring down like warm water and covering his entire body.

Tim's body trembled violently.

Then, everyone saw it.

The child's sunken cheeks looked as if they had been gently puffed up by an invisible hand, and a healthy blush appeared under his pale skin.

Her thin, bony arms and legs plumped up in a few breaths, becoming round and plump, with the soft curves unique to a child.

The hospital gown, which was originally empty, was now stretched a little tight.

Tim raised his hand, turning it over and over to look at it, his eyes wide with surprise.

"Dad, I'm all better now."

He turned his head, his voice clear and crisp, as if he had never been sick.

The entire studio was silent.

No one applauded, no one screamed, and not even a sound of crying could be heard.

Only countless wide-open eyes and the sound of heavy breathing rising and falling.

The camera faithfully recorded everything, and even the director forgot to switch the camera.

Just then, the sound of a wheelchair turning could be heard from the front row of the audience.

A disabled person who has lost both legs and arms is being slowly pushed onto the live broadcast stage by a white-robed member of the church.

His sleeves and trousers hung loosely, secured to his wheelchair only by a belt.

Shen Jue walked towards him, without asking any questions, and simply raised her right hand again.

Golden light shone forth, covering the mangled body.

In just a few seconds, the empty sleeves suddenly found support, and the trouser legs were stretched inch by inch by the newborn limbs.

He first moved his newly grown fingers, then curled his toes, and then, as if waking from a dream, grabbed the armrest of the wheelchair and stood up on his own.

The studio seemed to be on fire.

Cheers, screams, and cries mingled together, almost lifting the ceiling off the entire floor.

Someone started singing a powerful gospel song at the top of their lungs, going way off-key, but singing with all their might.

More people fell to their knees, their foreheads pounding the ground, arms outstretched, screaming, "God has returned! God has returned to earth!"

Several terminally ill patients who were originally sitting in the back row helped each other push forward, their oxygen tubes thrown to the ground, and no one paid them any more attention.

Shen Jue stood in the center of the live broadcast platform, his priest robes billowing slightly from the shockwaves.

He smiled, his gaze sweeping over the surging crowd, and suddenly raised his voice.

"Disease!"

The two words struck like a thunderclap.

"Get out of here at once!"

He struck out with his palm, and golden light fell on an old man with a hunched back.

The old man coughed violently a few times, and his back, which had been bent for many years, straightened up inch by inch, and his cloudy eyes regained their clarity.

Without pausing, Shen Jue pressed his hand against the forehead of a woman whose face was half-occupied by a tumor.

The tumor shrank, shrank, and disappeared at a visible rate, revealing the intact skin underneath.

He strode forward, striking with one palm after another.

The soldier in the wheelchair suddenly stood up, groping blankly at his newly grown legs.

A burn patient with bandages tore them off, revealing intact, smooth new skin underneath.

The youngest child, who was being held by his mother, suddenly began to wriggle, his pale face flushed, and he let out a loud cry.

The white-robed followers remained standing on either side, like a silent embankment.

Kingpin stood there with his head down, only his lips twitching slightly.

Frank stood between them, watching the almost insane scene unfold before him, his fists slowly opening and closing again.

"This is insane..." Frank muttered to himself, for the first time he had the most genuine hope that Shen Jue could revive his wife and children!

"I......"

Frank clenched his teeth, refusing to let his emotions resonate with those of the patients.

The world outside the studio has also undergone a dramatic transformation.

On the streets of New York, countless pedestrians stopped and looked up at the giant screen in Times Square.

Someone dropped their coffee cup on the ground, the brown liquid splashing onto their shoes, but they were completely unaware.

The taxi driver stopped his car in the middle of the road, and the horns behind him blared incessantly. He just stared blankly at the live stream on his phone.

In a Manhattan office building, employees in suits gathered around each screen, and the conference room was completely silent.

"This is impossible..."

A man who looked like a doctor stood in the emergency room waiting area, rubbing his eyes repeatedly.

Screams and cries erupted in countless living rooms across the United States.

Social media crashed almost instantly.

The topic of "God's Second Coming" surged to the top of all lists at an alarming speed.

The live stream was cut into countless segments and played on a loop on every mobile phone.

In a secluded room.

Nick Fury, the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., finally had a rare hour of rest.

He had just found Captain America Steve Rogers from under the ice, and now his body, which had been dormant for decades, was lying quietly in the next recovery pod.

All vital signs are stable.

It's only a matter of time before he wakes up.

Fury, unusually relaxed, sank into his chair and turned on the television on the wall with the remote control.

He just wanted to look at something casually to clear his mind after tense hours of work.

Then he saw Shen Jue.

On the screen, Shen Jue slapped down with his palm, and golden light flashed. In just a few seconds, a disabled person who had lost both legs and arms grew back to have complete limbs.

Fury jerked the cigarette out of his mouth.

Ashes fell in a soft rustling sound, landing on his black trench coat.

He didn't wipe it.

The hand holding the cigarette was trembling slightly.

It's not because of fear.

It's because he understands better than anyone what this power means.

Fury slowly sat up straight, his only intact eye fixed on the screen.

He pressed the communicator next to him.

"Investigate for me."

His voice was low and hoarse, as if it were being squeezed out from between his teeth.

"I need all the information about this Shen Jue now."

"Even if this Shen Jue is just a mutant!"

"Fuck!"

"We're in big trouble too!"

Fury stared at the screen, the blood vessels in his single eye looking like they were about to burst.

"What era are we living in? How can this still exist..."

He couldn't finish his sentence because the crowds kneeling, crying, and singing the gospel on the screen had already said it all.

The United States is a country founded on religion.

When the president is sworn in, he holds a book of scriptures.

Before Congress convenes, people should pray.

Military chaplains are more popular than psychologists.

Now, a person who can truly perform miracles has appeared.

It's still a live stream.

Fury could almost imagine that within 24 hours, half of the members of Congress in Washington would publicly state their positions, while the other half would privately contact the White House to discuss countermeasures.

The Pentagon will argue in the name of national security whether he is a threat.

Ordinary people will simply kneel in front of their television sets, treating him as the new messiah.

"A mutant? It'd better just be a mutant..."

Fury stubbed out his cigarette, his voice so low it was almost inaudible.

"If they really are mutants, we can still use the old methods: isolate them, register them, and control public opinion."

"Fuck!"

He suddenly slammed his fist on the armrest of the chair.

Fury pressed the communicator again, switching to the encrypted channel.

"Natasha."