Dáááááá…
Blaine swung his arms around and drove his massive fist straight into Cross's face.
With just two blows, Cross's mask shattered and went flying. His cheeks puffed up almost instantly, making him look a bit like a sulking bear.
"You're not qualified to make my life worse than death."
"I want to see what you can do today."
Because Blaine had him by the throat, Cross flailed in the air like a mad dog. Blaine didn't use any mind-control abilities to numb his thoughts; he wanted Cross to feel the pain clearly. A mindless puppet could only suffer passively—he couldn't feel true fear. And that wasn't what Blaine wanted.
Now Blaine had made up his mind: he wasn't going to let Cross die. Death would be too easy. Blaine had far crueler methods in mind.
And the global press conference happening at that exact moment? That had been prepared for Cross.
Reporters had already noticed Cross suspended in the air, screaming, and Blaine gripping him by the neck.
Every camera shifted from Tony to the sky in an instant, locking onto the two. Tony stopped speaking, and thousands of eyes followed.
"Let's start the show."
Blaine's tone made it unclear whether he was speaking to himself, to Cross, to the reporters, or to audiences all over the world. But it sounded more like a declaration—for everyone who didn't know Blaine, who didn't understand Bounty Hunters, or who held dangerous misconceptions about them.
…
A sharp crash came from the podium, and the entire crowd jolted, turning forward.
Blaine had torn off the wings of the Wasp battle suit and dropped Cross. It wasn't a high fall, but enough to break several ribs. Cross's body was already weak, so the impact knocked him out cold.
Boom…
Blaine landed moments later, drawing every camera back to him with a dominating, almost theatrical impact.
He stepped out of the crater beneath his feet. Under the hood, his cold gaze swept across the crowd—media, dignitaries, heroes, everyone. Camera shutters clattered nonstop. After today, no one would forget what a Bounty Hunter looked like.
Blaine signaled subtly to Tony: from here, everything was the Bounty Hunters' show.
He said nothing, yet the entire audience fell silent. Whether from fear or shock, no one dared to move. They simply stared, waiting to see what Blaine would do.
He walked straight to Cross, picked him up again like a scrawny chicken, and slapped him awake.
Cross blinked at the mass of reporters. He didn't know if he was dazed from the fall, stunned by the slap, or terrified by the situation. Something was stuck in his throat—no words came out. But once he recovered, his arrogance returned, and he spat curses through bloodied teeth.
The moment reporters recognized him as the president of Cross Technology, cameras zoomed in instantly, capturing every second. When had Cross ever been seen like this? This was front-page material.
The mighty, polished CEO—reduced to this. Headlines formed in every reporter's mind. They barely needed embellishment; the footage would speak for itself.
Blaine still didn't speak. Instead, he grabbed the arm hanging loosely at Cross's side—shattered from a comminuted fracture.
Crack…
"AHHHHHHHHHHH—!"
Cross never imagined Blaine would rip his arm off in front of the entire world.
Blood burst out like a jet—more than three meters—like a dark elf under daylight fire. Cameramen in the front rows screamed and lurched back. Blood pooled beneath Blaine's boots.
But Blaine didn't intend to let him bleed out. His knowledge of human anatomy—honed through swordsmanship and Spring and Autumn Saber training—let him press a few acupoints, and unbelievably, the bleeding stopped. He'd done it subtly, only to keep the "show" going.
"Don't worry. This is just the beginning."
"I told you—I'm going to make you miserable."
He whispered the words directly into Cross's ear.
Then Blaine grabbed Cross's ankle.
Crunch—
"AHHHHHHHHHH—!"
The pain jolted Cross awake again, sharp enough to tear through his nerves. The ankle was one of the most fragile points in the human body. Crushing it felt like shoving Cross into a meat grinder. Blaine had chosen it deliberately. He had hundreds of ways to torture him—without letting him die.
"The devil… the devil… the devil—AHHH—"
Now Cross looked at Blaine with nothing but pure, instinctive terror. No arrogance. No defiance. Only dread.
"Hmph. Now you understand? A little late."
Boom—
Crack.
"—pff!"
Another punch slammed into Cross's stomach.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Held in Blaine's grip, Cross was nothing more than a human punching bag. Each strike hit flesh and bone—straight to the soul. Cross was certain now: this Bounty Hunter wasn't human. He was a demon. A demon from hell. That belief carved itself permanently into Cross's very being.
Blood gushed from Cross's mouth. In seconds, he was soaked in it, so much that even his features began to blur.
"Remember this," Blaine growled. "You messed with someone you should never have touched."
"You blew up my home like it meant nothing."
"You're not the first—but you'll damn well be the last."
Each word detonated in Cross's ears. Blaine raised his fist again—but then paused.
A foul smell drifted upward.
Cross had wet himself in fear.
Disgust twisted Blaine's expression. He flung Cross away, the man hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
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