I searched and fought in America.

Chapter 65 Faith

Mihir stepped into the yard.

The courtyard wasn't large, but it was very clean. He pushed open the door and went inside.

Then he stopped.

This is a study.

It was completely different from what he had imagined a gangster boss's residence to be. There were no gold chains, no fancy decorations, only a mahogany desk, a few rows of bookshelves, and a calligraphy hanging on the wall.

Mihir couldn't recognize the characters, but he could tell they were Eastern writing. The bookshelf was full of books, some in English, and some he couldn't understand.

Michel suddenly remembered the books he had read when he was young.

He loved reading from a young age and explored the history, culture, and philosophy of various countries.

He later discovered that one country had more history books than all the other countries in the world combined.

That country is called Tokyo University.

He read many history books from the University of Tokyo, from the Spring and Autumn Period and the Warring States Period to the Tang, Song, Yuan and Ming Dynasties. Those books taught him a lesson: reading history can enlighten one's mind.

It also instilled in him an inexplicable sense of awe for that distant East.

And now, standing in this study, looking at these Eastern artifacts, he suddenly felt—

This place is very fitting.

It's not the kind of deliberate oriental style, nor is it the kind of fake antiques displayed just to decorate a storefront; rather, it's a natural, settled atmosphere.

Like the person in front of me.

"Mr. Michael".

A voice came from the study.

Michel looked up.

He saw a young man walking towards him; it was Rosen.

"Please have a seat." Rosen led Michel to the study, then pointed to a chair next to him. It wasn't the wooden chair Emily sat in, but a comfortable office chair with soft leather that looked very comfortable.

Michel looked at the wooden chair Rosen was sitting in, and then at the office chair that had been specially prepared for him.

He sat down.

At the same time, the black man who brought him in came over with a cup of coffee and gently placed it on the table next to him.

The aroma of coffee wafted into my nostrils.

Mihir glanced down.

It's a rich and aromatic Americano, with a thin layer of grease floating on top, and the temperature is just right.

He looked up at Rosen.

Rosen had already sat back down behind his desk, holding a cup of coffee in his hand, and was looking at him with a gentle smile on his face.

"Try it," Rosen said. "Morris makes excellent coffee."

Michel picked up his glass and took a sip.

It's really good.

He put down the cup, straightened his expression, and prepared to speak.

"Mr. Rosen, I'm here today—"

"Mr. Michael," Rosen interrupted him, his smile gentle, "you've come to see me about the survivors, haven't you?"

Michel put down his cup and nodded.

"Yes," he said. "We'll need their cooperation for tomorrow's press conference."

Rosen looked at him but didn't reply.

Mihir waited two seconds, and seeing no response, continued:

"I know someone came to you before. Although I don't know why you were unwilling to help her, I can assure you that I am absolutely sincere. I hope we can sit down and talk things over to find a solution that benefits both of us."

He looked into Rosen's eyes:

"Those survivors really need to be present at tomorrow's press conference; you can state your terms."

He was prepared to haggle, and even prepared to be rejected.

But Rosen's response stunned him.

"no problem."

Mihir thought he had misheard.

"What?"

"I said, no problem." Rosen smiled. "I promise you, I'll get those survivors to cooperate with you."

Mihir looked at the young man in front of him, and for a moment he didn't know what to say.

He prepared so many arguments, so many concessions, and even anticipated that the other party would make exorbitant demands.

But the other party didn't ask for anything and just agreed?

"you……"

Mihir opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found that he didn't know what to ask.

Rosen looked at his stunned expression and suddenly laughed.

"Mr. Michael," he said, "aren't you wondering why this man agreed so easily?"

Michel did not deny it.

Rosen picked up his cup, took a sip of water, and then said slowly and deliberately:

"The principle is actually very simple. I am never stingy with my help to my partners, but the premise is that the other party has to be a partner."

He emphasized the word "partner".

Mihir's eyes flickered.

"That woman from before," Rosen continued, "from the moment she walked in, she didn't know her place. She came to me for help, but she wasn't even willing to give me the most basic respect. Why should I help someone like that?"

Michel understood.

It's Emily's problem.

That woman really messed things up.

"Then how do you know I'm not like her?" Michel asked.

"Because your actions in the interrogation room have already shown me what kind of person you are," Rosen replied.

"I understand." Mihir's expression was somewhat complicated.

Rosen smiled, picked up the teapot, and refilled Michel's coffee cup.

"Now that we're partners, tell me, what are your specific requirements?"

Mihir snapped out of his reverie, temporarily setting aside his complicated thoughts, and began to get down to business:

"Tomorrow at nine o'clock, at City Hall, there will be a press conference. The survivors are needed to attend and say a few words to the media, mainly to thank the government for the rescue and the mayor for his concern for the citizens."

He paused, then added:

"They don't need to lie, they just need to... say what needs to be said."

After listening, Rosen nodded:

"no problem."

Mihir opened his mouth, but then stopped himself from speaking.

Rosen looked at him and smiled:

"Mr. Michael, please feel free to ask me anything. I'll tell you everything I can."

Michel was silent for a few seconds.

He knew this question was presumptuous and might cross the other party's bottom line, but he simply couldn't help himself.

"Mr. Rosen," he began, his voice strained, "I know this question might be a little... offensive, but—"

He took a deep breath:

"Could you let me see that divine magic one more time?"

Rosen's expression remained unchanged.

He simply looked at Mihir, his eyes calm.

Mihir's voice was somewhat strained:

"I am a Christian. I have believed in God since I was a child. I go to church every week and pray every night before bed. But in my more than 20 years of life, I have never seen any magic."

He looked into Rosen's eyes:

"I want to see you one more time, just once."

Rosen remained silent for a long time.

Then he sighed, a troubled look on his face:

"Mr. Michael, it's not that I don't want you to see it, it's just... that kind of thing can't be released casually."

Mihir's eyes dimmed slightly.

He lowered his head and gave a bitter laugh:

"I'm sorry, I was presumptuous, I shouldn't have..."

"but."

Rosen suddenly spoke.

Michel suddenly raised his head.

Rosen looked at him, his smile gentle:

"Since it was you who brought it up, then that's a different story."

Michel was stunned.

He watched as Rosen extended his right hand, palm up, fingers slightly spread.

That hand was clean and dry, with nothing on it.

Then--

A light appeared.

A soft white light slowly emerged from Rosen's palm, as if it had materialized out of thin air.

The light was not dazzling, but gentle, with an indescribable sense of holiness, which made Mihir involuntarily hold his breath.

It was exactly the same as what they showed in the interrogation room.

Michel's eyes widened.

He stared intently at the ball of light, his lips trembling slightly, wanting to say something, but unable to utter a single word.

Just then, Rosen moved his hand.

He slowly extended his glowing hand toward Mihir.

Michael instinctively wanted to hide.

But as he looked at the light, at Rosen's calm face within the halo, he gritted his teeth and remained seated, motionless.

The light was getting closer.

Then, it was placed on the top of his head.

Mihir felt a warm current surge into his head and instantly spread throughout his body.

The feeling was strange—not hot, not numb, just warm, like soaking in warm water, or being wrapped in something, very comfortable and reassuring.

He closed his eyes.

Then, he felt it.

The old wound on my left arm was from a knife cut I made a few days ago while fighting with the thugs. The wound wasn't deep, but it hadn't fully healed, and now it was tingling and itchy.

A few seconds later.

The light disappeared.

Mihir opened his eyes.

He watched as Rosen withdrew his hand, and watched as the hand returned to its normal state, with nothing there.

Then he lowered his head.

He looked at his left arm.

The gauze is still there.

But he couldn't care less about that.

He ripped off the gauze—

Then, he froze.

The wound is gone.

The knife wound that had been with him for several days had completely disappeared, replaced by a smooth patch of skin, the same color as the newly grown flesh, but it felt very smooth to the touch, without any raised scars.

Michel was stunned.

He just sat there, head down, staring at his left arm, motionless.

Like a puppet.

Like a puppet whose strength has been drained.

Rosen did not disturb him.

He simply picked up his water glass, took a slow sip, then leaned back in his chair and quietly watched the man in front of him, who was completely stunned.

He knows that feeling.

In this religiously superstitious country, witnessing a "miracle" firsthand has a far more profound and lasting impact on a person's soul than the damage caused by a bullet.

If this were at the University of Tokyo, this scene would at most elicit a few exclamations of "Master!" or "Amazing!"

But here—

This is the work of the gods.

A long time passed.

So long that the coffee in the cup got cold.

Michel slowly raised his head.

He looked at Rosen with an extremely complex expression.

There was shock, awe, confusion, and unease in it, as well as something Rosen was very familiar with.

He had seen that kind of thing in Caesar's eyes, in Wang Ling's eyes, in Gabak's eyes, and in the eyes of the thirteen survivors.

That was the light of faith.

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