Chapter 2659: Chapter 1871: The Madman's Journey (47)_1

The knot on his hood loosened around his neck, Stark was aware of the delicate touch of the other person's hands, something these burly terrorists certainly wouldn't have. The person was likely from a civilized society like him.

At this thought, Stark relaxed a little. A light seeped into his hood, which was then removed. With the dim light, Stark saw a man with black hair and grey eyes.

Those were unique grey eyes. Only 0.02% of the world's population had natural grey irises. Stark had never met anyone with grey eyes before, which is why he remembered them almost instantly.

"You are... Stark?"

Stark saw a hint of uncertainty flash in those eyes. He took a breath while lying on the ground. After a bit, he propped himself up with both arms, trying to get up.

The man across from him immediately helped him up and had him sit on the ground. Stark nodded and said, "Yes, I am Stark. Recognizing me means you must have seen the newspapers in New York."

"Hello, Mr. Stark, you can call me Doctor Schiller."

Sitting on the ground, Stark hugged his knees. He glanced at Schiller and asked, "Are you sent here to supervise me?"

"I'm a doctor." Schiller's gaze fell on the torn area on the back of Stark's suit.

Only then did Stark feel the intense pain from his back. He couldn't help but let out a low moan, followed by a sticky liquid dripping from his forehead. He wiped it off and the dark red on his hand made him swear.

"You appear to have been grazed by shrapnel, Mr. Stark. The wound needs suturing and some antibiotics, or you'll die here from excess blood loss or infection."

"How come there is a doctor in this damned place?" Stark looked at Schiller suspiciously. "Were you kidnapped by them too?"

"Not exactly, I'm in a partnership with them now," Schiller stated bluntly.

He patted Stark's back urging him to continue lying down, but Stark cautiously shrank back, as he stared into Schiller's eyes, "What do you mean by a partnership? Are you an accomplice to the terrorists?"

"Not really."

"Why do you, just like those shareholders, never want to answer my questions directly?" Stark clenched his fist in frustration, "'Not exactly', 'not really', what do they mean? Is it or is it not?"

Schiller paused his work, knelt in front of Stark, looked him in the eye and said, "They brought me here to treat your wounds because they don't want you to die."

"I don't want you to die either, because if you die, I might too. They won't kidnap another valuable target anytime soon, and if I have no work left, they might kill me."

"Bullshit, were you not kidnapped? Have you not thought about escaping?!"

But Schiller shook his head, "I chose to stay here because I ran away to here."

Stark was dazed by his response, but Schiller then braced his arm and with a little force, Stark felt a powerful force from his side, he was picked up by the doctor.

Upon turning around, Stark realized they were in a cave. Schiller assisted him to an improvised field hospital bed situated at the deepest part of the cave.

Lying face down on the bed, Schiller grabbed scissors, forceps, and suturing tools from a medical box. As he cut Stark's suit he said, "The medical conditions here are limited, we don't have iodine, only iodine liquor, so it might hurt a little later, and it will leave a scar."

"Don't worry, I graduated from the Columbia University Medical School, I'm a licensed surgeon, so there's no technical issue regarding suturing this kind of wound. However, how well you will recover depends on your metabolism."

"You have a surgical license?!" Stark couldn't help but exclaim. In the US, this kind of license is hard to get, if you have a surgical license, you're well on your way to the elite class.

"How in the world did you end up here?" Stark questioned, puzzled. He simply couldn't understand how a surgeon could be kidnapped to Afghanistan.

"In fact, I haven't practiced surgery for quite some time," As Schiller cut the fabric of the suit and inspected the wound, he elaborated, "I also have a psychology license, I mainly work in psychiatry and psychological research these days."

At the mention of "psychologist," Stark instantly grew alert, he grunted, "Stop beating around the bush, you still didn't answer how you ended up here."

"That's a long story."

"Then hurry up and tell me," Stark insisted stubbornly.

"This might violate some confidentiality principles of the FBI, but since I've run away, I guess it doesn't matter," Schiller was cleaning the skin surrounding the wound with a cotton ball and water.

When Stark heard "FBI," he regretted asking. He was about to stop Schiller from explaining, but Schiller had already begun.

"I made some mistakes when I was young, so after obtaining my first PhD, I was placed in a special security prison operated by the FBI."

"The military then initiated a special project aimed at studying how to influence the human mind using brain waves. They needed an expert in the field, but they couldn't openly hire someone from society."

"They collaborated with the FBI, and I was transferred from the special custody prison to participate in this project. I later participated in many other military projects. Recently, I fled soon after arriving at a secret military laboratory in Afghanistan."

"I then sought help from local militants, hoping that they could provide me shelter. In return, I would use my medical knowledge to treat their casualties and occasionally translate for them."

"You can speak the local language?"

"I learn quickly."

Stark gasped sharply as he suddenly felt a sharp stab of pain from his wound. In the following intense ten minutes, Stark continually cried out in agony, growing pale and breaking out in a cold sweat.

Finally, the voice of Doctor Schiller came from behind him.

"The bleeding is staunched and the disinfection is done. Next, we will start with the stitches. The stitching won't hurt much, but you need to stay still or the scar leftover will be ugly."

"Will there be a scar?"

"I'm afraid so, but I am not sure if Stark Group has some magical potion. You might want to give it a try."

"You can read newspapers while under military control?"

"My relationship with the military is a cooperative one," Schiller openly admitted. "I possess a degree of personal freedom."

"Then why did you not run away before?"

"I have no social identity," Schiller explained as he began to stitch up Stark. "After the Federal Bureau of Investigation took me into custody, they erased my entire existence in this world to cover up something."

"Including my educational background, licensing information, even my birth certificate and medical history. Simply put, I am off the grid. Without a license, I cannot perform surgeries freely. I cannot live in society."

"What did you do back then?" Stark suddenly realized what he was implying and hurried to add, "I'm not saying what the FBI did was right, it's a blatant violation of human rights, but there must be a reason for it?"

"The reason is quite legitimate. I am a serial killer."

Stark's fist clenched instantly.

"You..." Stark struggled to turn his neck, glancing at Schiller again out of the corner of his eye. The refined man standing before him didn't strike him as a serial killer at all.

Primarily because Schiller was thin, quite a distance away from the robust physique typically associated with murderers. He looked like the scholar types often found in research institutions, not any sort of military personnel.

"You're trying to scare me," said Stark, turning his head back, "Look at you. You couldn't even beat my fitness trainer."

Suddenly, a pair of hands grasped the vertical support pole of the emergency bed in front of Stark's nose. With a harrowing metallic screech, the metallic support rod, equivalent in thickness to Stark's wrist, was bent at a 90-degree angle.

Stark swallowed, only managing to say after a long pause: "That's not scientific! How could you exert such tremendous strength given your muscle mass?"

"This relates to the truly secret aspects." Schiller switched to a new thread as he began to sow the smaller wound adjacent to the first. "I was born in a secret military lab and I underwent physical enhancements from a young age. There were some accidents during the process, and I managed to escape."

"After coming back to America, I killed around thirty individuals who were investors and controllers of the project at the time. However, I couldn't escape the pursuit of the FBI."

"That was the only reason they didn't kill me at the spot. They recognized the characteristics from the experiment, believing I had the potential to be reused, and the rest is history as you already know."

Stark pressed his lips together, gently shaking his head and saying: "It's simply lawless!"

Suddenly, as if remembering something, he turned his head back to Schiller and asked: "Do you know where these terrorists got their weapons?"

"I don't know, I have never handled their weapons."

"Right, they wouldn't entirely trust you, and certainly wouldn't let you access lethal weapons."

"I mean, I don't need weapons to kill people."

After a long silence, Stark said: "I saw the logo of Stark Group on the missile that attacked me. Someone has been arming the terrorists, someone within the Stark Group. I need to know who."

"What you need the most right now is recovery," replied Schiller. "Your conditions are far from hopeful; there is insufficient nutrition, there is a shortage of antibiotics, and if they don't bring back some meds after the next battle, you'll be on your own."

"Am I supposed to hope that they win the day?"

Schiller paused in his stitching, seeming thoughtful as he replied: "As an American, you should pray they lose."

"That's not what I mean," Stark protested, flexing the fingers of his free hand. "I'm saying all this is pointless:: the government forces, the anti-government forces, and this war. They should all stop immediately."

"They can't stop."

Stark fell silent, hanging his head as he recalled the gleaming Stark Group logo on the missile. At that moment he understood why they couldn't stop.

Stark's fist slowly clenched, and he closed his eyes, his eyelashes trembling. A few minutes later, he managed to croak out the words, "You have to heal me."

Just as Schiller was about to reply, Stark interjected in a forceful tone: "You must heal me; you have to let me get out of here alive."

"And then...I will shut down all arms divisions of the Stark Group, I will never sell any armaments again."

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