Chapter 36: Sandman robbing for his daughter? Stop robbing, I'll pay for the treatment."
The top-floor observation deck of the Eiffel Tower.
The night wind blew across the steel frame, making a low whistling sound.
Inside the silver candlestick on the round table, the flame danced violently, but it was firmly protected by an invisible force field and did not extinguish.
Their lips parted.
Aaron raised his head and stepped back half an inch.
Gwen closed her eyes, her long eyelashes still trembling slightly.
A fine layer of blush showed on her fair cheeks, and even her breathing became somewhat rapid.
The neckline of her wine-red fitted sweater trembled gently in the cold wind.
Gwen opened her eyes and looked at him somewhat blankly.
That pair of azure eyes was covered with a layer of moisture, carrying the shyness and helplessness unique to a girl.
She thought Aaron would continue.
But Aaron turned his head away.
He lowered his head and gently touched the back of Gwen's hand resting on the table with his lips.
Her fingertips were icy cold.
"New York's water pipe burst, I'm going to fix it."
Aaron's voice was very gentle, as if he were truly talking about an insignificant household chore.
Gwen was stunned.
She hadn't had time to ask what this inexplicable sentence meant.
Aaron had already let go of her hand.
His thumb pressed against his middle finger.
Snap.
The crisp sound of the snap overrode the whistles on the banks of the Seine.
A blue spatial jump gate tore open crudely in mid-air.
Violent energy particles sizzled at the edges, illuminating Gwen's surprised face.
Aaron stepped into it without hesitation.
With a flash of light, the jump gate instantly closed.
Only Gwen was left on the top floor of the tower, staring blankly in the wind at the steaming Beef Wellington in front of her.
...
New York, Queens.
The intersection of Third Avenue had completely descended into total chaos.
Piercing police sirens resounded through the night sky, and dozens of Ford police cars tightly surrounded the headquarters building of Chase Bank.
Red and blue police lights flashed wildly on the puddle-filled asphalt road.
The bulletproof glass doors on the first floor of the bank had long been blown into thousands of pieces from the inside.
The flying yellow sand gushed out from the door like a miniature desert storm.
Four SWAT officers holding riot shields had just approached the steps.
They were directly blown away by a wave of sand, slamming heavily onto the hood of a police car.
Inside the lobby, it was like a purgatory.
Flint Marko roared, his voice sounding like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing hard against each other.
His lower body had completely turned into a crazily spinning yellow tornado.
The marble counter was swept by his thick, sand-transformed arms, instantly shattering like a smashed biscuit.
The outer layer of plaster on the load-bearing pillars peeled off in large chunks, revealing the bent steel bars inside.
"I need money! Give me money!"
Flint roared, his eyes bloodred.
The vault's high-grade steel door was forcefully drilled through by his high-density sand pillar.
Bundles of hundred-dollar bills flew out from the safe, the greenish paper currency rolled into his sandstorm vortex, fluttering up and down.
A red and blue figure swung on spider silk, flying over from the street lamp pole at the corner.
Peter Parker.
The fermented stench of kitchen waste on his body hadn't completely dissipated yet, mixed with the sour smell of sweat, quite refreshing.
He sneezed twice in mid-air, forcefully twisted his waist, and landed steadily on the stone lion in front of the bank's main door.
"Hey! Mr. Sand! This is a bank, not your oversized litter box!"
Peter shouted with his raspy throat from a bad cold.
He raised both hands, aiming at the center of the sandstorm in the lobby.
He pressed hard on the launcher switch on his wrist.
Swish! Swish!
Two clusters of white spider silk shot out.
New York's temperature tonight was approaching freezing point, and the shoddy synthetic spider silk liquid was frozen somewhat brittle in mid-air.
The spider silk hit Flint's sand pillar.
There was no adhesion, no restraint.
It went straight through like noodles passing through water, hanging limply on the wall behind.
"Newton doesn't manage this kind of physics anymore, right?"
Peter cursed inwardly.
Flint was in no mood to listen to his cross-talk.
A solid sand pillar as thick as a thigh suddenly lashed out from the sandstorm, like a yellow giant python, whipping over with a piercing wind whistle.
Peter exerted force with his legs, wanting to jump up and away.
But his frozen knee joints were half a beat slow.
Bang!
The sand pillar whipped solidly against his thin chest.
The huge impact force of hundreds of pounds felt like a big iron hammer smashing into his ribs.
Like a kite with a broken string, Peter flew backwards a dozen meters away.
His back slammed hard against the windshield of a police car.
The tempered glass shattered into a white spiderweb.
He rolled onto the mud-filled road, getting covered in black mud.
His chest surged with blood, and his throat tasted sweet.
He turned his head and spat out a mouthful of bloody spit. The spit mixed with rain and flowed into the sewer.
"Being a hero really isn't a job for humans..."
Peter held his chest, baring his teeth in pain, almost lacking the strength to get up.
Inside the bank lobby.
The violent sandstorm was still running amok.
The air suddenly made a muffled sonic boom, as if something had forcefully squeezed into this space.
A blue jump gate tore open amidst the flying banknotes and yellow sand.
Aaron was wearing that black jacket.
With his hands in his pockets, he walked out unhurriedly.
The cotton slippers on his feet stepped directly onto several banknotes stained with sand and soil.
With a flash of blue light, the jump gate closed behind him.
The flying yellow sand lost its target and frantically shredded this suddenly appearing intruder.
Accelerated by the gale, the kinetic energy of the sand particles rivaled that of a bullet leaving the chamber.
Striking the security door nearby, they instantly left densely packed dents.
But these high-frequency impacts hit Aaron, producing only muffled thudding sounds.
The skin density of his Steel Body had long surpassed the limits of Earth's materials.
Not to mention sand, even an armor-piercing shell couldn't leave a single white mark.
Aaron stood in place without even blinking his eyes.
He frowned slightly.
A sharp quartz sand particle grazed the collar of his jacket.
The shoddy black nylon fabric was cut open with a slit, revealing a bit of white cotton thread.
He had grown quite accustomed to wearing this piece of clothing, and now it was ruined.
Flint saw this freak who wasn't afraid of sand.
He roared frantically, crazily gathering the yellow sand of the entire lobby onto his right arm.
It instantly condensed into an ultra-high-density solid sand hammer larger than a millstone.
Carrying the wind sound of tearing air, it smashed straight down at Aaron's head.
This single blow was enough to smash a light tank flat.
Aaron didn't dodge.
On his retina, the vision of God-level Prediction instantly opened.
What he saw was not only the physical parabola of the falling sand hammer and the muscle exertion points.
That powerful spiritual perception, following Flint's movements, directly read the strongest emotional waves in his mind.
The images flashed through Aaron's mind like a movie.
The crowded, dilapidated public hospital ward.
The little girl lying on the hospital bed, wearing a bulky respirator.
Surgery notice slips stamped with red payment-urging seals scattered in a cheap rental room full of cigarette butts.
This wasn't a born villain.
This was a father driven to a desperate end by medical expenses, with nowhere left to turn.
The sand hammer landed half a meter above his head.
The gale ruffled Aaron's hair.
He slowly raised his left hand.
His five fingers spread open.
Bang!
The huge sand hammer smashed heavily against his fair palm.
A circle of visible white shockwaves exploded roaringly in the bank lobby.
The marble fragments on the ground were blown flying in all directions, smashing the wall clock on the wall.
Aaron's feet were nailed in place.
The floor tiles under his cotton slippers directly shattered into powder, but his knees didn't bend even a single millimeter.
Flint discovered in horror that his full-strength strike actually felt like slamming into a solid iron mountain.
He wanted to retract his arm.
But he found that the huge sand hammer was firmly sucked by the opponent's seemingly ordinary hand, completely unable to be pulled out.
Aaron took a step forward.
Braving the flying sandstorm, he ignored the yellow sand cutting his clothes.
He extended his right hand and thrust it directly into the exact center of the sandstorm vortex.
His five fingers, like iron pliers, accurately grasped Flint's solid throat.
His strength suddenly tightened.
Flint's breathing was instantly cut off forcefully.
The violent sandstorm lost its Master's mental control and suddenly froze in mid-air.
Aaron flipped his left hand and felt out a black plastic card from his pocket.
That was an anonymous Swiss Bank black card. Inside lay the huge dividend funds he extorted from Stark Industries.
He flicked his wrist.
The black card slapped solidly against Flint's sand-covered face, producing a crisp sound.
"Stop smashing, I'll cover your daughter's medical expenses."
Aaron's voice wasn't loud.
But in the bank lobby where the wind had stopped, it was heard clearly.
This sentence was like a thunderbolt falling from the sky.
It directly shattered all of Flint Marko's psychological defenses.
The flying yellow sand instantly lost its support and collapsed down with a rustle.
Piling up into small sand dunes at Aaron's feet.
Flint returned to human form.
He was wearing a striped green shirt, and the clothes were full of holes caused by friction.
Aaron released his right hand.
Flint's legs went soft, losing his balance, and he fell heavily to his knees in the ruins with a thump.
His knees struck the broken glass, oozing fresh blood, but he seemed completely unaware.
His two rough, calloused hands tightly grasped the black card that had fallen onto his chest.
Tears mixed with the mud and sand on his face, streaming down as two muddy channels.
He knocked his head heavily against the floor, making a muffled sound.
A grown man in his thirties cried heart-rendingly amidst the ruins all over the floor.
"This life... is yours from now on."
Flint pressed his forehead against the front of Aaron's cotton slippers, his voice so hoarse it was unrecognizable.
Without any hesitation, he swore to sell his soul to the person who casually tossed him hope.
Opposite the bank.
In a pitch-black, stinking fire alley.
A short man wearing a grey suit was hiding behind a burned-out hot dog cart.
He was holding a special mobile phone with a night-vision telephoto lens in his hand.
His hands shook like a sieve, barely able to hold the equipment steady.
The lens captured everything happening in the lobby clearly.
That White freak who slapped the Green Goblin to pieces in Times Square.
Tonight, without even lifting a hand, he only used a single sentence and a single card to make that terrifying sand monster kneel and kowtow to the ground.
The man swallowed a mouthful of saliva.
Cold sweat flowed down his forehead into his eyes, stinging and aching.
With his thumb trembling, he pressed the send button.
The video, carrying location data, was transmitted in real-time through an encrypted network to Hells Kitchen.
Transmitted to that massive emperor who ruled the underground criminal underworld of New York.
Chapter 37: Subduing Sandman, Kingpin, the Underground Emperor of the Underworld, Could No Longer Sit Still
The man in the grey suit pressed the send button.
The green progress bar on the screen jumped to the end and flashed once.
The video file containing positioning data turned into a string of silent radio waves.
Crossing the cold night sky of Manhattan, following the encrypted network, it headed straight for Hells Kitchen.
Fisk Tower.
The top-floor office was comparable in size to an indoor basketball court.
A strong scent of Cuba cigars lingered in the air all year round.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, New York's dazzling sea of lights stretched to the horizon.
Wilson Fisk sat in the spacious executive chair.
He wore a custom white suit, his tie knotted meticulously.
His massive body was like a mountain of flesh,
pressing down so heavily that the leather chair underneath emitted a dull friction sound.
Wesley pushed open the heavy oak door and walked in quickly.
A thin layer of sweat covered his forehead, and his gold-rimmed glasses reflected a faint glint.
"Boss, the informant at Chase Bank has sent back a video."
Wesley's voice was tight.
He walked up to the large mahogany desk and handed the tablet over with both hands.
Fisk reached out with his thick fingers and took the tablet.
His fingertip tapped the screen.
The footage was a bit shaky, and the image quality was not very clear.
This was filmed by the informant with a phone from across the street.
But the situation in the lobby was captured crystal clear.
Banknotes scattered all over the floor, the vault door blasted open, and that berserk monster transformed into a sandstorm.
The video progress bar continued to move forward.
A blue light gate tore open amidst the yellow sand.
A young man wearing a black jacket walked out.
The sand filling the sky struck the man's clothes, tearing his jacket, but did not even scratch his skin.
He stood in place, catching the several-hundred-pound solid sand hammer with his bare hands.
A white shockwave exploded within the screen.
Even through the screen, Fisk could feel that despair-inducing monstrous strength.
Immediately afterwards, a black card was slapped onto Sandman's face.
That monster, which wasn't even afraid of bullets, actually retracted the raging sand all over the sky and knelt in the ruins,
knocking his head so hard it made loud thudding sounds.
The video finished playing and the screen automatically went dark.
The image froze on Aaron's pair of sand-stained cotton slippers.
Fisk did not speak.
His right hand holding the cigar stopped mid-air, freezing.
The crimson cigarette tip flickered uncertainly.
A section of grey-white ash broke off and smashed onto his white suit trousers,
burning out a charred edge.
He was completely oblivious to it.
"Aaron Parker."
Fisk uttered the name, his voice sounding like sandpaper grinding against a rusted iron pipe.
He threw the tablet onto the mahogany table.
The metal casing struck the hard wood surface, producing a crisp sound.
This was already the third time this name had appeared on his desk.
Every time it appeared, it was accompanied by a major event big enough to upend New York's landscape.
"Go check what Oscorp has been up to lately." Fisk stood up.
His heavy footsteps trod upon the Persian rug.
"Norman Osborn was slapped flying like a dog by him in Times Square."
Fisk walked over to the huge floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Shortly after, the Osborn family's genetic disease was suddenly suppressed, and that brat Harry directly took over the group."
He looked at the bustling traffic outside the window.
"What about Toomes? That Vulture who sells alien junk?"
Wesley swallowed a mouthful of saliva.
He opened the paper folder in his hands, the pages rustling.
"Pier 5 suffered a severe collapse last night."
Wesley lowered his head, "Toomes and his men have all disappeared. Not even a single screw of the alien weapons in the warehouse was left behind. The traces at the scene were wiped completely clean."
He paused, his tone becoming even fainter.
"The perimeter gang informants said they saw a ball of blue light before that."
Blue light.
Exactly the same as the light gate when Aaron made his entrance in the video.
The veins on Fisk's neck bulged one by one.
He abruptly turned around.
His broad back completely blocked out the lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The air pressure in the office seemed to drop by several degrees instantly.
"He is encroaching on my territory."
Fisk gritted his teeth, the flesh on his cheeks trembling violently.
"High-tech weapons, mutated creatures, top conglomerates."
He punched the bulletproof glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.
The dull crashing sound made Wesley's shoulders shrink.
"He has gathered all these things into his own hands!"
Wesley pushed up his sliding glasses, and more sweat beads formed on his forehead.
"Over at Madam Gao's side, all the laundry powder business has been stopped. The Hand's assassins have all shrunk back into the underground Base."
"The Russians bought plane tickets and fled overnight; the chips in the underground casino couldn't even be exchanged before the doors were locked tight."
Wesley's voice was trembling slightly.
"The whole Hells Kitchen is spreading rumors that a monster you can't afford to mess with has appeared in Queens."
"Boss, if this goes on, our business network in New Yorkwill completely paralyze. Nobody dares to take over his turf."
Fisk walked to the center of the office.
There stood a custom extra-large pool table.
The tabletop was covered with expensive dark green flannel.
He grabbed a pool cue from the cue rack.
Without aiming, not even looking at the table,
his right hand suddenly exerted force, and the cue fiercely stabbed into a cue ball.
Bang!
The cue ball slammed into the pile of balls with berserk kinetic energy.
The colored billiard balls splattered in all directions.
Two balls flew directly off the table, smashing into the blue-and-white porcelain vase in the corner of the wall.
The vase shattered into a floor of porcelain pieces, the crisp shattering sound somewhat piercing.
Another ball smashed against the wooden wainscoting, denting it.
"There is only one underground emperor in New York."
Fisk threw away the cue.
The solid wood cue smashed onto the ground, breaking into two halves.
"And that is me."
He breathed heavily.
The white shirt on his chest was soaked with sweat, clinging to his hard muscles.
Aaron Parker.
A high school student living in the Upper East Side.
Inscrutable in strength, acting without any scruples.
Most terrifyingly, he didn't seem to regard Hells Kitchen at all.
This kind of disregard made Fisk feel even more terrified than a direct provocation at his doorstep.
The underworld king's intuition was screaming alarms.
If this hidden danger was not eliminated immediately,
the underground empire he had painstakingly managed for over a decade would disintegrate within a month.
Those fence-sitting gangs would soon become just like Sandman,
kneeling on the ground without any dignity, kowtowing to that high schooler,
even turning around to bite him back, taking his life to claim credit with the new king.
This kind of thing was too common in the underworld.
Fisk extended his palm-leaf-sized right hand.
Grabbing a red billiard ball on the pool table.
The billiard ball was made of high-strength phenolic resin, its surface smooth and hard.
He gripped the ball in his palm.
His thick fingers slowly tightened.
"No matter how strong he is, he is still just a mortal of flesh and blood."
Fisk stared intently at the red ball in his hand.
"Poison, sniper rifles, bombs. I don't believe he's afraid of nothing. Even Superman can't withstand the armor-piercing rounds of an anti-material sniper rifle."
His knuckles turned a pale cyan due to excessive force.
The veins on the back of his hand twitched abruptly like twisted earthworms.
Terrifying gripping strength gathered in his palm.
Crack, crack.
Faint cracking sounds came from between his fingers.
Several cracks were forcibly squeezed out on the surface of the hard billiard ball.
White resin powder squeezed out from the cracks.
"Wesley, block the news of Chase Bank. Cut off all black market signal towers."
Fisk's voice was deep, carrying unquestionable murderous intent.
"I don't hope to see other gang bosses going to pledge allegiance to him tomorrow morning."
Wesley lowered his head and acknowledged.
He knew the boss was going to make a lethal move this time.
Crack!
Fisk's wrist suddenly exerted force.
That red billiard ball shattered directly into several pieces in his palm.
Sharp resin fragments pierced his palm.
Fresh blood flowed down between his fingers, dripping onto the dark green pool table cloth,
blurring into a few dark red bloodstains.
The debris pattered down onto the rug.
He didn't even look at the wound on his hand,
casually discarding the residue in his palm.
Fisk turned his head, looking toward a patch of shadow on the right side of the desk.
The lights weren't on there, pitch black.
A man wearing a long black trench coat was leaning against the corner.
The man was toying with a few sharp-edged playing cards in his hand.
The playing cards fluttered between his slender fingers, so fast that only afterimages could be seen.
Hearing Fisk's voice, he stopped the movement in his hand,
slowly walking out of the shadows.
Utilizing the neon lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows,
on the bald head of Bullseye was printed a conspicuous concentric circle Bullseye tattoo.
Fisk pulled over a white towel,
casually wrapping it around his bleeding right hand to bandage the wound.
"Go."
He stared into Bullseye's eyes, his voice reeking of thick murderous intent.
"Bring me back the head of that kid named Aaron Parker."
Chapter 38: Kingpin sends Bullseye to assassinate, mystery box item teaches him a lesson
Bullseye stood in the shadows five meters away from the office desk.
He licked his dry lips.
The tip of his tongue swept across the peeling corner of his mouth, bringing off a bit of dead skin.
Between two slender fingers of his right hand, an Ace of Spades playing card was pinched.
The edges of the card were frayed, but in those hands, it was sharper than a razor.
He flicked his wrist.
There was no buildup of force, not even his shoulders moved.
The playing card turned into a black afterimage, cutting through the dense cigar smoke in the office.
It flew past Wilson Fisk's fat face.
The resulting strong wind made the fine hairs on Fisk's cheeks stand on end.
"Thump."
A muffled sound.
The playing card was nailed firmly into the mahogany bookshelf behind Fisk.
Deeply embedded into the wood.
The tip of the Cuba cigar still smoking in Fisk's mouth, along with the ash and a small section of tobacco leaf, was neatly cut off.
The cut was as smooth as a mirror.
The cigarette butt fell onto the expensive Persian carpet, burning a small charred hole.
"Leave it to me, Boss."
Bullseye grinned.
The flesh on his face squeezed together, revealing a frantic and ferocious smile.
He turned around, the hem of his long black trench coat stirring up a gust of cold wind.
His leather shoes stepped on the carpet as he strode out of this oppressive office.
Until the heavy oak door closed, Fisk finally threw that half-section of cigar into the ashtray.
His right hand, wrapped in bandages, was trembling slightly.
The next morning.
Queens, New York, tree-lined avenue.
The snow from the previous night had been cleared to the roadside by sanitation trucks, piled into dirty black-mud snowpacks.
A thin layer of dark ice formed on the asphalt road surface.
The cold wind of early morning swept past, and the branches of the maple trees along the road made strange creaking noises.
The air carried a bone-chilling dryness.
Aaron carried a black canvas backpack on his back.
He was mingling among a group of high school students going to school.
The backpack strap on his left side was somewhat twisted, making his shoulder a bit uncomfortable.
He reached out to tug at it twice, but couldn't straighten it.
The canvas strap got stuck in the plastic buckle.
Aaron was too lazy to stop and fix it, simply ignoring it and letting it hang awkwardly on his shoulder.
In his right hand, he held a cup of hot coffee just bought from the street corner food truck.
The outer wall of the paper cup was somewhat scalding, and heat escaped through the plastic lid hole of the cup rim.
A few girls from the same school walked ahead.
They wore thick down jackets, lowering their voices to discuss the weekend party.
From time to time, they burst into a few crisp laughs, exhaling puffs of white breath.
Aaron brought the paper cup to his lips and took a small sip.
The coffee was too hot.
The tip of his tongue was scalded numb; he frowned slightly and moved the paper cup a bit further away.
This kind of ordinary high school student's daily life required a bit of patience.
One kilometer away.
The rooftop of an abandoned thirteen-story unfinished building.
Guardrails had not yet been installed here, with only a few rusted steel bars sticking straight out of the cement floor.
The wind at the high altitude was very strong.
Blowing the small gravel on the ground rolling everywhere, making a rustling sound.
Bullseye was wearing a grey tactical vest, lying flat on the ice-cold cement floor.
In front of him, a black Barrett M82A1 heavy sniper rifle was mounted.
The barrel was frighteningly long, its surface exuding a cold, hard metallic luster.
The huge bipod was nailed firmly into the cracks of the cement floor.
Bullseye's right eye was pressed tightly against the optical scope.
The crosshairs in the reticle spanned across ten city blocks.
They locked firmly onto the back of Aaron's head.
That was the location of the medulla oblongata. As long as it hit, even a deity couldn't save him.
A distance of one kilometer was extremely demanding on calculations of wind speed, humidity, and ballistic drop.
But Bullseye was a genius.
His brain was the most sophisticated fire-control computer.
He didn't need to look at a wind vane; just by feeling the airflow blowing across his cheeks, he could calculate the perfect lead.
He took a deep breath of cold air.
The cold air poured into his lungs, causing his heartbeat to begin slowing down.
Beating less than fifty times a minute.
His right index finger rested on the cold metal trigger, slowly increasing pressure.
To ensure absolute success, between the fingers of Bullseye's left hand, three precision steel throwing knives were also pinched.
The blade edges were as thin as cicada wings, without a shred of reflection.
This was his habit.
The heavy sniper rifle was the main course, and the throwing knives were the dessert to seal off the target's escape routes.
Even if the opponent could dodge bullets, they could absolutely not dodge his hidden weapon throwing technique.
"Goodbye, little bug."
Bullseye's teeth clenched together, making a rattling sound.
His index finger suddenly pulled all the way down.
"Bang!"
A deafening loud sound exploded on the rooftop.
The huge recoil pressed against Bullseye's shoulder, shaking his bones numb.
The muzzle spewed a dazzling orange-yellow tongue of fire.
The 12.7mm caliber armor-piercing incendiary bullet instantly tore through the gun breech.
Carrying a piercing sonic boom, it tore through the cold wind and headed straight for the target one kilometer away.
The exact moment the gun fired.
Bullseye's left hand gave a fierce flick.
The explosive power of his wrist was astonishingly large, even twisting his upper body at an angle.
The three precision steel throwing knives followed closely behind.
Carving three fatal silver lines in the air.
In a triangular formation, they tightly sealed off all possible dodging routes to Aaron's left, right, and above.
At the exact same second.
On the tree-lined avenue in Queens.
Deep within Aaron's mind, a loud "Buzz" exploded.
God-level Prediction's passive perception was triggered, the alarm sounding like a fully pulled air-raid siren.
His retina was covered with a layer of dazzling red light.
In Aaron's field of vision, the World suddenly slowed down.
The mouth shape of that girl speaking in front froze, and the white breath in mid-air stalled.
Four thick red dashed lines extended from the top of the building one kilometer away.
The middle red line pointed straight at the back of his head.
The other three locked onto his back heart, left neck, and right ribs respectively.
Aaron did not stop his steps.
He didn't even turn his head back.
He simply switched that scalding cup of coffee to his left hand.
Steel Body was enough to hard-carry sniper bullets, but this black jacket would definitely be scrapped.
He was too lazy to buy clothes again.
Intent sinking down.
In the system space lay a daily mystery box refreshed just this morning.
A gray hard paper box, looking completely ordinary.
The surface didn't have a shred of gloss.
"Open."
Aaron muttered silently in his heart.
The gray paper box shattered in his consciousness, turning into a light blue halo.
The halo followed the nerve endings and instantly flowed through his whole body.
[Obtained Reward: Absolute Vector Reflection Barrier.]
[Skill Description: Forms an absolute defense field half a meter around the host's body. Any physical kinetic energy attack with malice will be reflected back along the original path at double speed the moment it contacts the barrier.]
Aaron continued walking forward.
Leather shoes stepped on a piece of broken ice, and the ice surface cracked with a few white fine lines.
Everything looked no different from usual when going to school.
That 12.7mm armor-piercing bullet carried terrifying kinetic energy.
Spinning, it tore through the biting cold air.
Heading straight for the back of Aaron's head.
The three throwing knives followed closely behind, their blade tips aiming at fatal vital points.
Half a meter away from Aaron.
In the air, an invisible light blue barrier rippled slightly.
Just like a pebble falling into a calm lake surface.
The tip of the armor-piercing bullet crashed head-on into the barrier.
No explosion, no sparks.
Not even a shred of colliding metallic sound.
The high-speed spinning bullet was as if grabbed by the neck by an invisible giant hand.
The terrifying kinetic energy it carried was instantly drained dry.
The bullet stopped abruptly in mid-air.
The next microsecond.
This drained kinetic energy doubled, pouring fiercely back into the interior of the bullet.
"Swoosh!"
The armor-piercing bullet abruptly reversed direction in mid-air.
Its tail became the bullet tip.
Carrying twice the speed from when it came, it flew back along the original path.
The air was squeezed into a circle of white pressure waves.
Those three precision steel throwing knives likewise stagnated half a meter away.
Then they turned into three faster afterimages, flying backward in reverse.
Rooftop of the unfinished building.
Bullseye had just released the trigger.
The ferocious smile on his face hadn't fully blossomed yet.
His eyes were still pressed tightly against the optical scope.
Inside the scope.
That armor-piercing bullet he had fired with his own hands was rapidly magnifying.
Bullseye's breathing stopped completely.
His brain was completely unable to process this anti-common-sense scene.
"Bang!"
The armor-piercing bullet fiercely smashed the glass of Barrett's scope.
The huge kinetic energy directly pierced through the heavy gun receiver.
The entire sniper rifle was blown into a pile of scrap iron.
Shattered metal pieces splattered in all directions, hitting the cement floor and smashing out white pits.
Bullseye was terrified out of his wits, subconsciously raising his hands to block in front of his face.
His body desperately fell backward.
"Puff! Puff! Puff!"
Three sounds of sharp blades entering flesh rang out.
Mixed with the muffled sound of bones shattering.
The three precision steel throwing knives flying back, carrying twice the power, directly penetrated Bullseye's palms.
Fresh blood instantly burst out and sprayed.
The huge kinetic energy dragged his body backward.
With a loud "Clang!" sound.
The three throwing knives plunged deeply into the concrete load-bearing wall behind him.
All the way to the hilt.
The wall surface was shaken with a circle of fine cracks.
Bullseye's hands were nailed firmly onto the gray-white wall surface.
Both arms were pulled straight, his feet off the ground.
His entire person was suspended and hung on the wall.
"Ah——!"
A miserable, pig-like scream echoed across the empty rooftop.
Bullseye was in so much pain his eyeballs were almost popping out.
The flesh on his face twitched violently, and the veins on his forehead bulged one by one.
Fresh blood flowed down the wall surface, slamming into a red water stain on the cement floor.
He kicked his legs desperately, trying to pull his hands out.
Just a slight movement caused nerve-tearing excruciating pain that made his whole body tremble.
Cold sweat instantly soaked his gray tactical vest.
The air in front of him suddenly made a low air explosion sound.
Like something heavy being forcibly torn open.
A blue spatial jump gate pulled open out of thin air in Bullseye's terrified gaze.
The edges flickered with fine electric sparks, making a soft buzzing sound.
Aaron walked out unscathed, holding that cup of steaming hot coffee.
Chapter 39: What crime lord? A single punch shatters an entire building together!
A blue spatial jump gate tore open above the rooftop.
Faint electric sparks flashed along the edges.
Aaron held that cup of steaming paper-cup coffee and slowly walked out.
The cold wind blew the sand on the rooftop into a chaotic swirl.
Bullseye was hung on the grayish-white load-bearing wall.
Three fine-steel throwing knives pierced his palms, nailing him into a bloody cross.
Blood flowed down the wall, dripping onto the shattered wreckage of the Barrett sniper rifle.
Bullseye twitched all over from the pain.
His mouth was wide open, snot and tears smeared all over his face.
"Save... save me..."
He squeezed out a hoarse wail from his throat.
Aaron ignored him.
He raised the paper cup and took a sip of coffee.
The water temperature hadn't dropped yet.
The tip of his tongue was burned numb, and he frowned as he spat the small mouthful of coffee in his mouth onto the cement ground.
Spattering a few brown splashes.
He didn't need to ask out loud.
The passive perception of God-level Prediction flowed upstream along Bullseye's violent emotional fluctuations.
A scene smashed directly into Aaron's mind.
A spacious office.
The strong smell of Cuba cigars.
A huge fat man wearing a white suit crushed a red billiard ball.
"Bring me his head back."
The scene dissipated.
Aaron switched the paper cup to his right hand.
"Wilson Fisk."
He uttered the name, his voice blown away by the cold wind on the roof.
His thumb pressed against his middle finger, and a crisp snapping sound rang out again.
Another jump gate tore open in front of Aaron.
Without even looking at the wailing Bullseye on the wall, he stepped directly into the blue light.
The jump gate closed instantly.
On the empty rooftop, only Bullseye was left hanging on the wall like a rag, bleeding.
Hells Kitchen.
Fisk Tower top-floor office.
The smell of cigars in the air was choking.
Fisk stood in front of the mahogany desk.
He was using a white towel to wrap around his bleeding right hand circle by circle.
The wound punctured by the resin billiard ball fragments was still oozing blood, staining the white towel red.
Wesley beside him pushed his gold-rimmed glasses, preparing to report the losses of the clubs below.
Hum—
A muffled air explosion erupted in the center of the office.
The blue light instantly illuminated the dark Persian rug.
The fierce wind blew the documents on the desk flying all over the sky.
White paper spun in mid-air like snowflakes.
Fisk suddenly raised his head.
Inside the jump gate, that high school student wearing a black jacket walked out holding coffee.
The cotton slippers on his feet stepped on a quarterly financial report.
Wesley was so scared that his back retreated three steps.
His back hit the red wine cabinet behind him.
The glass bottles swayed, making a crisp collision sound.
Fisk threw away the half-section of the white towel in his hand.
He recognized this face.
That monster in white from the Chase Bank video, the hidden danger that kept him awake and uneasy.
"You dare to come here alone!"
A Beast-like roar erupted from Fisk's throat.
Without drawing a gun, without calling security.
Fisk had absolute confidence in his physical strength.
He could punch through a two-inch-thick steel plate with one punch.
His massive body, like an out-of-control heavy armored vehicle, directly smashed the mahogany desk blocking in front of him.
Wood chips splashed everywhere.
He strode across the ruins.
The custom white suit made an unbearable tearing sound under his bulging muscles.
Fisk swung the right fist wrapped with a bloody towel.
The fist was bigger than a sandbag.
Carrying a wind howl that tore the air, it fiercely smashed toward Aaron's head.
The momentum of this punch made even Wesley beside him feel his breath stall.
He had seen his boss use this move with his own eyes, smashing a Russian mob boss's head directly into his stomach.
Aaron stood in place.
His left hand was still holding that cup of coffee.
He raised his right hand and extended an index finger.
The fingertip met that heavy punch carrying terrifying kinetic energy.
Bang!
Fist and finger collided.
A circle of white air wave violently burst open in the center of the office.
The air wave overturned the leather sofa, shaking dense cracks out of the huge floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Fisk's right fist stopped in mid-air.
Firmly resisted by a fair index finger, unable to push forward even a single millimeter.
He felt as if his punch had smashed into a rooted iron mountain.
The powerful reaction force poured back along his forearm.
Crack!
The crisp sound of bone breaking was unusually piercing in the office.
Fisk's right wrist directly bent into an eerie ninety degrees.
The thick ulna and radius snapped neat and clean.
The pale bone stubs pierced through the skin, exposed to the air along with that bloody towel.
"Ah—"
Fisk let out a painful roar.
Clutching his broken wrist, his massive body staggered backward.
His back slammed heavily into the load-bearing pillar, shaking the dust on the ceiling straight down.
Aaron withdrew his index finger.
The Impact air wave from just now caused the coffee in the paper cup to slosh out.
A few drops of brown liquid splashed onto the back of his hand.
He frowned and shook the coffee stains off his hand.
He casually threw the paper cup onto the messy carpet.
The paper cup rolled twice, and coffee flowed all over the ground.
"Your punch is too soft."
Aaron looked at the underworld emperor panting heavily against the pillar.
"Since you like playing demolition so much, I'll help you out."
Establishing authority.
Wanting to completely trample New York's underworld underfoot, killing one or two people was not enough.
It must be done with the most absolute and shocking violence.
Smashing the idol in their hearts named "Kingpin", along with this building, into smithereens.
Aaron slightly bent his legs.
His right arm pulled back to the maximum.
The terrifying power of the Steel Body crazily compressed and boiled within the muscle fibers.
The air around his entire right arm began to produce naked-eye-visible distortion due to high-frequency vibration.
Fisk clutched his broken hand, staring fixedly at the young man gathering his strength.
An unprecedented death threat gripped his neck.
"No... wait..."
He wanted to beg for mercy, but his throat was too dry to make a sound.
Aaron ignored him.
His right fist, carrying the kinetic energy to destroy everything, fiercely smashed toward the granite floor beneath his feet.
Boom!
Sonic boom.
Truly deafening.
The sound exceeded the limit of what human eardrums could bear, and Wesley's ears bled directly, fainting away.
The moment the fist touched the ground.
A circle of violently peerless Impact burst radially inside the floor.
The hard granite floor rolled up like water waves.
Under this punch, the reinforced concrete floor slab was as fragile as a soda cracker left out for half a month.
The entire Fisk Tower trembled violently.
The four sides of bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows on the top floor exploded simultaneously.
Tens of thousands of glass shards sprayed outward like a rainstorm, scattering into the night sky of Manhattan.
Destructive cracks spread wildly downward along Aaron's fist.
The load-bearing wall collapsed.
Steel beams twisted and broke.
The top three floors of the building lost all physical support.
Rumble—
Under the pull of gravity.
Those three floors collapsed and plummeted inch by inch like building blocks.
Dust, gravel, and high-end office furniture mixed together, turning into a mudslide falling from the sky.
At this moment, in the night sky of Manhattan.
A helicopter belonging to New York News Channel 6 happened to be hovering in the nearby airspace.
The cameraman's lens just happened to capture this horrifying scene.
"Oh God! The top floor of Fisk Tower has exploded!"
The reporter screamed into the microphone.
The helicopter's searchlight shone fiercely onto that patch of sky-filling dust and smoke.
The high-definition camera synchronized the footage in real time to the TV screens of thousands of households.
The dust gradually dissipated in the cold wind.
The originally sharp top of the building was forcefully shaved flat by three floors.
Turning into a jagged ruin.
In the center of the ruins.
Aaron stood on a tilted concrete slab.
His black jacket fluttered loudly in the wind.
Not even his hair was messy, and the soles of his shoes didn't even get a speck of dust on them.
And less than two meters under his feet.
A reinforced concrete beam weighing more than ten tons smashed down diagonally.
In the gap below.
Wilson Fisk was pinned tightly inside the ruins.
This ruler of New York's underworld was in an indescribably miserable state at this moment.
His expensive white suit was dyed a grayish-red by blood and dust.
His legs were crushed to pieces by the stone slabs, and who knows how many ribs were broken.
He could only rely on his hands to barely prop up a little space to breathe.
The light beam of the helicopter's searchlight shone straight onto the two of them.
The camera zoomed in.
People all over New York clearly saw the scene in the ruins.
Fisk continuously spewed out bloody foam from his mouth.
He looked at Aaron overlooking from above.
His former arrogance, cruelty, and strategic mastery were ground into meat paste in front of this absolute violence.
"Don't kill me..."
Fisk's voice was hoarse, carrying a weak crying tone.
"All my money... territory... I'll give it all to you... I beg you..."
His shrill begging for mercy sounded somewhat piercing in the quiet night sky.
At this moment.
In the underground bar of Hells Kitchen.
In the abandoned auto repair shop in Brooklyn.
In the dim dojo of the Hand.
All the gang bosses, killers, and drug dealers across New York.
Were all standing in front of the televisions.
Staring with wide eyes, their teeth chattering, watching the footage in the live news broadcast with their own eyes.
Watching that young man in a black jacket standing atop the ruins.
And that conceited "Emperor" representing absolute power in their hearts.
Right now, like an old dog with a broken spine.
Crushed by a single punch, crawling beneath the concrete slab and begging miserably for mercy.
Chapter 40: The New King of New York's Underworld, Aaron's Laid-Back Daily Life
The searchlight beams from the helicopter shone straight down onto the ruins.
The blinding white light tore a gash open in the dark night.
Aaron stood at the very top of a tilted concrete slab.
His black jacket fluttered loudly in the cold wind.
He lowered his head to look beneath his feet.
The soles of his cotton slippers were not stained with a single speck of dust.
Beneath a reinforced concrete beam weighing dozens of tons,
Wilson Fisk was still coughing up bloody foam.
"Don't kill me… Money, territory… I'll give you everything…"
This fat man who once ruled the underworld of New Yorkhad a hoarse voice, resembling an old dog with a broken spine.
Aaron ignored him.
Killing a useless person had no meaning.
Leaving this miserable state for all the gangs in New Yorkto see was much more useful than a cold corpse.
He raised his right hand, his thumb pressing against his middle finger.
Snap.
The crisp sound of the snap dispersed in the wind.
A blue space warp gate tore open out of thin air, and Aaronstepped into it.
With a flash of light, the warp gate closed.
In the helicopter's camera lens, only a patch of broken walls and ruins and Fisk's wails remained.
The ratings of the news channels exploded through the roof this very night.
Citizens all over New York guarded in front of their televisions, watching that once-haughty underworld emperor lingering on his last breath in the ruins.
The next morning.
In an eight-hundred-square-meter penthouse luxury apartment in the Upper East Side, Manhattan.
Sunlight pierced through the newly repaired one-way explosion-proof glass, striking the Persian carpet.
The bitter fragrance of freshly ground coffee drifted in the air.
Aaron leaned back in the white genuine leather sofa.
Holding a wireless game controller in his hand, he watched the clear-stage animation of a racing game playing on the holographic screen.
On the marble coffee table in front of the sofa, things were piled up.
Over a dozen black leather lockboxes were open, crowding the table full.
Inside, they were packed with bearer bonds and cashier's checks from Swiss banks.
There were also dozens of bunches of luxury mansion keys and sports car keys with address tags hanging on them.
At the edges of the boxes, several steel-stamped title deeds were even stuffed.
These were loyalty oaths sent overnight by the surviving gang bosses throughout New York.
Kingpin had fallen.
They were afraid that the white-clothed freak who shattered a building with a single punch would step across the blue light gate tonight to bash their skulls.
No one dared to stick their neck out at this time.
Aaron tossed the controller onto the sofa cushion.
He stretched out his foot and gave a kick to the camphor wood box filled with gold bars on the carpet.
The gold bars collided, emitting a muffled metallic thud.
"It takes up too much space." Aaron yawned and rubbed the corners of his eyes.
Felicia wore a black and white maid outfit, standing beside the coffee table.
Her eye not wearing an eyepatch stared fixedly at those lockboxes representing absolute power in New York's underworld.
Her breathing was slightly trembling.
Her chest rose and fell with her breath, pushing the silk apron out into a slight curve.
"Hand these pieces of junk over to you." Aaron pointed at the coffee table.
Felicia was stunned.
She pointed at her own nose, her high heels stepping back half a step.
Her heel clicked crisply against the floor.
"Hand them to me? This is the underworld business of all of Hell's Kitchen and Queens!"
Although she was a master thief, facing this astonishing wealth enough to buy half of Manhattan, she still felt her throat go dry.
"I don't have time to manage those protection money bad accounts."
Aaron picked up the warm milk on the table and took a sip.
"You take charge. But I have two rules."
He put down the glass, its glass base clicking softly against the marble.
"First, touching drugs is not allowed."
"Second, harming civilians is not allowed."
Aaron looked into Felicia's eyes, his tone calm.
"Whoever breaks the rules, I will go to the roof of their house and stamp my foot. Do you understand?"
Felicia swallowed a mouthful of saliva.
She knew very well what that "stamping of a foot" concept meant.
She had watched yesterday's televised broadcast for an entire night.
The end of Fisk Tower was the best warning.
"Understood."
She gathered up the thick stack of ledgers on the table, her fingers trembling slightly.
Yesterday she was still a thief wanted by the entire city.
Today, she became the new queen of New York's underworld.
Having resolved these trivial matters, the apartment restored its peace.
Aaron leaned back, his whole person sinking into the soft sofa backrest.
The central air conditioning blew twenty-four-degree warm air.
Dispelling the chill of the early winter morning.
Felicia locked the ledgers into the safe and walked behind the sofa.
Kneeling on the cushion, she extended her hands painted with black nail polish.
Her fingertips pressed against Aaron's temples, gently massaging.
The strength was just right, dispersing the slight mental tension remaining from the Steel Body.
Mary Jane was wearing that navel-exposing white thin strap top.
She sat cross-legged on Aaron's right, holding a transparent glass salad bowl in her hand.
The bowl was filled with sliced Fuji apples.
She poked a piece of apple with a small silver fork and delivered it to Aaron's mouth.
"Open your mouth."
MJ chewed on bubble gum, her voice muffled.
Aaron opened his mouth.
MJ's hand shook, and the apple piece slipped down from the fork.
Plop.
It smashed onto Aaron's pure white short-sleeve shirt, leaving a small pale yellow juice stain.
Aaron looked down at the water stain and sighed.
MJ stuck out her tongue and hurriedly pulled a tissue to wipe it.
Her fingers intentionally or unintentionally pressed twice against Aaron's solid abdominal muscles.
Even through the cotton fabric, one could feel that terrifying muscle density.
Gwen, sitting on the left, couldn't watch anymore.
Today she was wearing a light gray home sweater.
She snatched the salad bowl from MJ's hand in one grab.
"That's because your nails are too long to hold the fork steady." Gwen said with a cold face.
She poked another piece of apple and steadily stuffed it into Aaron's mouth.
"Better than you, a bookworm who only knows how to do physics problems."
MJ rolled her eyes.
Supporting herself backward with both hands, her leather jacket scraped a sound against the genuine leather sofa.
The two girls began their daily bickering again.
Their crisp voices rippled back and forth in the spacious living room, neither willing to yield to the other.
The air was mixed with the scent of vanilla and rose perfume.
Aaron chewed the crisp and sweet apple.
Feeling Felicia's gentle massage on his forehead.
This was life.
How tiring is fighting and killing; lying on a genuine leather sofa to be a good-for-nothing is a transmigrator's ultimate dream.
He closed his eyes and comfortably exhaled a long breath.
The one-hundred-inch holographic television on the wall was turned on.
It was playing a boring weekend talk show.
The canned laughter of the audience came wave after wave, acting as white noise in the apartment.
Suddenly.
"Bzzzt——"
The holographic projection image flickered violently once.
Accompanied by a harsh electronic static noise, the talk show program was forcibly cut off.
The lighting in the living room dimmed down.
The red words "Breaking News" occupied the entire screen.
Gwen and MJ stopped arguing.
Felicia's massaging fingers also stopped on Aaron's forehead.
Inside the screen was a male news anchor sitting behind the news desk.
His tie was a bit crooked, and his face was pale.
The manuscript papers on the desk were scattered.
"A sudden massive power outage in New York City! A severe malfunction has occurred at the power hub of Oscorp Industries!"
The screen cut.
It turned into a live broadcast from Times Square.
The sky was gloomy, with a light drizzle falling.
The huge electronic billboards in Times Square all went dark.
Only in the center of the square, dazzling blue-white electric light burst out.
The light illuminated the gloomy sky as bright as day.
A humanoid monster exuding high-voltage electric current was floating in mid-air.
He was originally an ordinary maintenance worker who fell into an electric eel pool.
Now, his skin had turned a translucent ghost-blue, and high-voltage plasma flowed through his blood vessels.
The electric current crackled across the surface of his body.
"Max… My name is Max…"
The monster's hoarse voice was transmitted out through the on-site sound equipment.
Carrying a teeth-aching electrical buzzing sound.
His emotions were extremely unstable, his head tilted backward in agony.
He spread his arms wide.
His ten fingers shot out thick blue lightning, firmly adsorbing onto the surrounding underground cable interfaces.
Massive electrical energy visible to the naked eye surged into his body like a hundred rivers returning to the sea.
The powerful magnetic field directly flipped two nearby yellow taxis over.
The cars crashed onto the asphalt road, and glass shattered all over the ground.
The transformers along the roadside exploded one after another.
Fireballs rose into the air.
The onlookers screamed in terror, stepping on the fragments all over the ground and fleeing in all directions.
Riot Police raised their shields and retreated step by step, not daring to approach that electrified area at all.
Aaron slowly opened his eyes.
He swallowed the apple in his mouth.
His gaze crossed over the coffee table, quietly watching that blue-glowing electro-man on the holographic screen.