Chapter 133: The Diligent Charles

While Owen was busy setting up various traps and devices in the valley, Charles sat quietly by his mother’s bedside. Although Owen had used a resurrection card, he still dared not restore Charles’s mother to full health. Reviving someone from the brink of death was one thing; turning a deceased person fully normal was quite another.

So for days, Charles remained faithfully by his mother’s side, sitting silently without uttering a word.

At that moment, the hospital room door opened, and a black man peeked inside hesitantly. Upon seeing him, Charles glanced at his mother once more before rising and stepping out.

“How’s the inquiry going?” Charles asked.

“We’ve found the owner of the car that hit Elizabeth, but...” the man hesitated.

“But what?” Charles grew a little anxious at the man’s faltering tone.

“We heard that on the very day he hit Elizabeth, both of his hands were bitten off by sharks. Since then, he has disappeared without a trace. No one knows where he went.”

“Sharks?” Charles fell into deep thought upon hearing this. Then, patting the man’s shoulder, he said, “Thank you.”

“No need to mention it. Aunt Elizabeth has always treated us well. We owe it to her to help.”

After expressing his gratitude, Charles returned to his mother’s bedside, clutching something in his hand—something that would surely surprise Owen, for it was a peripheral certification from the Holy Blood Council, something Owen himself had no desire to possess.

Having spent some days alongside Owen, Charles understood Owen’s status within the Holy Blood Council. After his mother’s condition deteriorated, he went to the auction house Owen had taken him to on the first day and spoke with the security guard stationed there, explaining his situation.

By leveraging Owen’s name, he obtained this peripheral certification.

Charles knew well that staying close to Owen brought him many benefits, yet he also realized how much he owed Owen for the help he’d received. He resolved not to ask for Owen’s assistance again. Instead, he wanted to prove he could handle things on his own.

At the same time, he vowed to use his own strength to destroy those who had harmed his mother.

With the peripheral certification in hand, Charles naturally uncovered some information about the Holy Blood Council. Though vital antiques and research materials were kept secret, the method of extracting the holy blood was not.

Unable to get his hands on antiques, Charles had to devise his own plan. He remembered the day Owen first arrived and the incident where some people sought to vandalize Crazy Caesar’s graffiti, which sparked an idea in his mind. He would draw his own superhero and extract holy blood from the hero he created.

This method was somewhat popular on the Holy Blood Council’s forums, but most members were wealthy individuals who purchased antiques as casually as buying vegetables at the market—there was no need for them to invest effort into drawing, especially with the low success rate.

Therefore, the only ones willing to take this route were people like Charles—poor but with some connections that allowed them entry into the Council.

While keeping vigil at the hospital, Charles diligently re-examined various comics he had read before, carefully jotting down notes on the types of superpowers and how the characters obtained them.

Finally, he took out a long-unused paintbrush and began painting beside his mother’s bed.

His painting depicted a black superhero. Taking Owen’s advice, Charles avoided powers requiring long training or gambling on luck to prove his European bloodline was merely skin deep, and he steered clear of mechanical sciences altogether.

In the artwork, Charles imagined discovering an alien relic and activating its advanced technology, using extraterrestrial tech to arm himself and become a superhero.

To ensure his creation gained public recognition, Charles cleverly presented his concept as a comic strip introducing the superhero Charles. At the end, he announced he had painted an oil portrait of the superhero and planned to display it in Xinxiang for public appraisal.

This was actually a very sensible idea: using oil painting to garner public acceptance and comics for promotion. Though only a single page, the comic was striking and eye-catching.

Moreover, the entire oil painting scene in the Amiliki Lighthouse Nation was dominated by abstract and retro styles—no one had ever thought to paint a superhero in oil. Thus, Charles’s approach had a strong chance of success.

Of course, Charles was confident. While accompanying his mother, he spent most of his time refining the oil painting. He felt this was what he truly desired. His previous graffiti work had been mere survival, dull and uninspiring; only oil painting touched his core.

He carefully adjusted every detail. Each time the painting neared completion, new ideas sparked in his mind. Gradually, a subterranean alien spaceship took shape on the canvas. Amidst the alien technology, a black superhero crouched at the ship’s bridge, poised in the foremost position. Bathed in darkness, a beam of light highlighted the hero, exuding confidence.

Beneath the superhero’s gaze lay a sinister laboratory filled with broken petri dishes and green liquid—clearly a site for human experimentation. The chaotic arrangement and scattered wires symbolized the diametrically opposed faction to the hero: disorder.

Holding his brush, Charles stared at the painting, hesitating. He felt something was still missing but was reluctant to disrupt the composition’s integrity and beauty. He sought a final spark of inspiration—perhaps the most crucial moment of his life.

Meanwhile, the comic Charles had casually drawn about the superhero was printed into flyers by his black brothers and distributed throughout the streets of Xinxiang.

Most people, upon receiving these poorly printed comics, glanced briefly before discarding them into nearby trash bins. Yet some attentive individuals noticed the content.

In a shadowy corner, a clown murmured a name under his breath while clutching the flyer.

Elsewhere, in a dim apartment, Cheng Ming—who had lost both hands—struggled to open a video call on his phone, loudly exclaiming, “Director Jin, I found him! This is the Charles!”