Friday night, nine thirty.
Zheng Qing transformed into a black cat, with a sullen face, sitting in the meeting room of the Seven Sins. The devils around it were chattering noisily, while it remained silent throughout.
Indeed, he was not lying in the school infirmary now, but appeared healthy and well at the devils' gathering.
The accident during the practice class in the afternoon truly broke several of his ribs, ruptured some of his internal organs, and even made him cough blood in front of everyone—but that was all. When Hilda hurriedly sent him to the school infirmary, the therapists who rushed over gave up on treating him within three seconds.
It wasn't that the therapists weren't diligent, nor that Zheng Qing was untreatably injured.
Rather, it was because there was no need to treat him.
