2117, April.
Late at night.
Zhao Ling sat up topless from the operating table.
Her long hair fell over her chest from the left side of her neck, and she was wrapped in a medical skirt with hollowed-out sides.
On her muscular back was a frightening seam, the suture line sliding from the middle upper back down to the tailbone.
The surgery had just ended, and a black waste fluid mixed with crimson blood seeped from the wound, slowly trickling down the flesh seam.
Several medical staff approached to clean the stains on Zhao Ling's back, draped a hospital gown over her, and injected a painkiller.
Her forehead was covered with a thin layer of sweat, and her eye color had changed; no longer aqua green but a murky tea color.
"Emperor," the professor stood opposite the lab's isolated window speaking through a loudspeaker.
"Has the Black Medicine mixed in my spine?" Zhao Ling asked solemnly.
