Chapter 63: Matt's Intuition

“So, it’s you two?” Skye certainly remembered—she was the one who’d made the call, after all.

She hadn’t expected, though, that one of them would be blind…

Skye herself bore no prejudice against the blind, but in the legal profession—could a blind person really manage? There was a blind massage parlor just around the corner; that seemed much more suitable for you.

Not that the parlor actually had any real blind therapists; skill didn’t matter much there. What mattered was a handsome face, and you’d likely be quite popular. If it weren’t for Old Wang, I’d have asked you for a massage myself…

Old Wang’s massage skills were unmatched—he was the first real blind therapist at that parlor, and all the current staff, both men and women, were his students.

Sensing Old Wang’s disapproving gaze, Skye quickly coughed and straightened up. “So, have you made a decision? If so, could you help draw up the contract… I didn’t prepare one.”

Fergie stared in disbelief.

Did I hear that right?

She hadn’t even prepared a contract, and now wanted us—the applicants—to draft one? Aren’t you worried we’ll take advantage of you?

You really do need legal counsel!

Rubbing his hands together with a broad smile, Fergie said, “We’ve thought it over and we’re willing to serve as legal advisors to Azeroth Specialty Store. But the salary needs to be renegotiated. I think twenty thousand dollars is too little. Keep in mind, we’re top students from Columbia Law—future star attorneys with seven-figure incomes ahead… Matt, am I right? …Matt?”

He turned, only to find Matt standing utterly still, his sightless eyes fixed on the slightly plump Chinese youth lounging in the chair. His chest rose and fell with heavier breaths than usual—subtleties only a close friend would notice…

What’s gotten into you, Matt?

If you were staring at the pretty mixed-race woman, I’d understand, but you’re staring at a man? What am I supposed to make of that?

Is this chubby Chinese guy really better looking than me? Are you abandoning me?

“Yes, we’ll sign the contract as you suggested,” Matt replied, paying Fergie’s words no mind at all.

From the moment he’d set eyes—so to speak—on the man in the lounge chair, his ears had been utterly transfixed.

Yes, his ears.

As a child, radioactive material from a truck had splashed into his eyes, robbing him of sight but sharpening all his remaining senses.

Taste, smell, hearing, touch—and intuition.

His fingers could feel the ridges of ink on paper, letting him read by touch and excel academically, becoming the top student in Columbia’s law school, out-reading 99.9% of his peers.

His nose could distinguish every person’s scent and the complicated aromas of any environment—who had recently engaged in passionate exercise, how many were involved, their professions, the order of events, or if things happened simultaneously.

His taste was so keen he could count the salt grains on a pretzel or detect skimped ingredients in a dish.

His intuition surpassed even a woman’s—he’d foreseen his father’s death and his ex-girlfriend’s departure.

But to him, hearing was most vital.

After more than a decade of rigorous training, he could pick out every word from thousands of people within hundreds of feet, extracting exactly the voice he wanted from a sea of sounds.

He could even hear a person’s heartbeat from twenty feet away, distinguishing excitement from fear, terror from nerves, just by the rhythm and strength.

He could hear anyone’s blood circulation, breathing, the subtle sounds of the body in motion—enough to judge actions and state of health.

All six senses combined to grant him greater judgment and insight than Sherlock Holmes himself.

Though he lacked sight, he saw more clearly than anyone.

Within twenty feet, no movement escaped his notice.

He knew many secrets at Columbia: Professor Connor’s dalliances, Miranda’s favorite eighteen postures in the woods, Fergie’s weekly habits and the precise number of tissues used, even the pungent odors…

But now,

All these superhuman senses

were fixed on a single person.

Matt poured every ounce of perception into the slight swaying of the man on the lounge chair.

A man he’d never met before—strange beyond measure.

There was a faint scent of alcohol—he was a drinker, had a glass not long ago, but not too much; he had self-control.

The liquor was cheap baijiu—the lowest shelf. Though the store stocked more expensive bamboo-leaf liquor and vodka, he’d chosen the cheapest. That marked him as stingy—or perhaps frugal.

From the flow of blood, the squeak of the chair, and the friction of clothing, Matt estimated he stood about six feet tall, slightly overweight, lacking strong muscle, with more fat and a high body-fat percentage. Such people should be out of shape—yet this man was an exception.

His heartbeat was very slow—slower than most athletes—yet powerful, with a rhythm so regular it was uncanny.

Such a heartbeat was nearly impossible.

Anyone, even just thinking or dreaming, would show subtle changes in heartbeat, from which Matt could read emotion.

But this man’s heart ticked with the constancy of a clock—leaving Matt unable to discern his feelings.

Was he in some thoughtless trance, or could he control his own heartbeat?

His breathing was slow, each breath deep and long—lung capacity almost impossible to estimate, perhaps greater than two marathoners combined.

But that wasn’t the most remarkable thing.

Most of all, Matt’s instincts screamed at him.

This was a formidable man—far more powerful than his own teacher, the “Stick Elder,” by a factor of ten, a hundred.

He thought of the Iron Fist of Kunlun and Madam Gao.

Masters of martial arts who had mastered “Qi” could control their heartbeat, even stop it for periods; their breath could be so long they might not inhale for three days and nights.

Madam Gao was an old woman.

And, according to Fergie’s description, the height of the “Iron Fist of Kunlun” matched the man on the lounge chair, though the latter was stockier, giving an impression of less energy and strength.

But for a true martial arts master, weight was controllable—some even practiced the art of bone-shrinking, altering their height, build, even their appearance.

Matt’s intuition told him: the man in the lounge chair was the Iron Fist of Kunlun.

In that instant, he realized this was no coincidence.

The other party had sought him out as a legal advisor on purpose. Otherwise, what would a tiny grocery store need with legal counsel?

“I should have realized sooner!” Matt reflected sternly.

He was still too young, too inexperienced. He should have known there was no such thing as a free lunch—nothing good ever came cheap.

If Fergie hadn’t taken the call and agreed on the spot, he probably wouldn’t have come.

But he didn’t refuse.

Since the man had come to him, there was no point in hiding.

Besides, his instincts said:

This would not be a bad thing for him, but a good one.

This man was good.

“Matt!”

Fergie tugged Matt’s sleeve in a whisper. “We can bargain them up—to thirty thousand, at least twenty-five!”

“The pay is fair,” Matt replied with a smile, turning his attention to Old Wang. “Sir, how should we address you? When do we start? Sorry, we haven’t graduated yet, so we can only work part time.”

“If you want to come to work, we don’t even have an office for you… You can see how small the store is,” Old Wang replied, watching Matt with a half-smile, as if regarding a rare panda. “We’ll call you if we need anything. Here’s to a good partnership?”

He extended his left hand.

Matt hesitated, then offered his own left hand. “A pleasure to work together.”

Their hands clasped.

A thread of true energy flowed into Matt’s body.

He shuddered.