When Lucas suddenly lost control, General Ross instantly realized something was wrong.
Yet, surrounded by dozens of armed soldiers and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, he still felt untouchable.
He was convinced that Lucas wouldn't dare attack a U.S. general—not unless he wanted to be hunted down by the entire military-industrial complex.
After all, killing an American general was no small matter. No matter how powerful Lucas was, he couldn't withstand the wrath of jets and tanks.
"Atmospheric Burst!"
Lucas's furious shout shattered Ross's arrogant fantasy.
He didn't hesitate—he struck.
"No! You can't—! I'm a general of the United States! I represent the government itself! This is treason!"
Ross's words were drowned out by the deafening roar of wind.
A massive emerald tornado erupted from Lucas's hands, swallowing the soldiers in front of him. Within the swirling vortex, green energy flared and twisted, tearing everything apart. The air filled with screams and the sounds of rending metal and flesh.
Ross stared in horror.
He never imagined Lucas would truly dare to strike, much less so mercilessly.
The blood drained from his face. His entire body trembled with primal terror—gone was the calm, commanding general. All that remained was a pathetic clown standing before a force of nature.
"Wind Rend!"
Lucas pointed at him. In an instant, razor-sharp green claws materialized before Ross, shredding the air and raking across his body.
"NO! Stop! Please—!"
A desperate voice cried out.
Betty Ross, tears streaming down her face, sprinted toward them. She threw herself in front of Lucas, kneeling on the broken ground.
"Please! I beg you—spare my father! I swear he'll never come after you or your family again! I'll do anything! If you want a life, take mine! Just… please don't kill him!"
Her cries were raw and broken. She had already lost the man she loved—now her only remaining family was about to die before her eyes. It was unbearable.
Lucas's expression didn't soften. Ross had dared to threaten his family—he saw no reason to care about Ross's. He didn't even glance at Betty.
But beside him, Gwen and Skye exchanged troubled looks.
Their hearts couldn't bear it.
Both of them were kind by nature. Even though they knew Ross deserved punishment, watching Betty's anguish tore at them.
"Lucas," Gwen whispered, "please… don't kill him. Give him a lesson he'll never forget—but let him live."
"Yeah," Skye added softly. "He's not worth staining your hands with his blood."
Lucas exhaled sharply. Seeing the two of them plead, he finally waved his hand. The storm of blades stopped abruptly.
Even so, Ross's chest was torn open, his body covered in blood. He lay half-dead on the ground, barely clinging to life.
"I'll spare him—for their sake," Lucas said, his voice cold and devoid of mercy.
"But if he ever dares touch my family again… next time, there won't even be ashes left."
Betty nodded frantically, sobbing. "He won't! I promise, he won't ever come after you again!"
She rushed to her father's side, checking his pulse. Seeing that he was still breathing, she pulled out her phone, her trembling fingers dialing for an ambulance.
Natasha, who had been silent all this time, finally sighed. "Enough. Agents—get Ross to a hospital. Don't waste the girl's tears."
Lucas turned away, his expression unchanged.
"You went soft again," Tony said with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. "But hey—I'm with you. Never argue with a beautiful woman. Especially when she's your woman."
He gave a dramatic shrug. "Still, I'll give you this—Betty's gorgeous. Shame about her father. Ross has been throwing his weight around the military for years; arrogance and paranoia like that don't die easy. Guess this will teach him some humility."
Lucas shot Tony a glare. "Oh please. Talking about arrogance? You practically invented it, Tony Stark."
Tony's helmet retracted, revealing a wounded expression. "Excuse me? I'm the least arrogant man in New York! I'm a philanthropist—generous, approachable, kind-hearted! I've been named Charity Ambassador three years in a row!"
Lucas snorted. "Right. Maybe you meant 'average man's best friend.'"
"You little punk," Tony muttered. "You're impossible to like."
Lucas just shrugged, ignoring him, and walked over to Coulson.
"Clean-up's on you," he said casually. "I'm out. Bye-bye~~"
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
Coulson sighed helplessly.
It was always like this. Lucas caused a scene, blew up half a district, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had to sweep up the mess—and the Director always approved it. It was exhausting.
Tony flew back to his mansion, while Lucas strolled through the city with Gwen and Skye, chatting as if nothing had happened. When they got tired, they slipped into the Chocobo Dimension to rest—or simply teleported home.
Peter, meanwhile, trudged back to his house in Queens, covered in dust and disappointment.
---
Later that night, back at the apartment, Lucas placed a new item inside his Trophy Display Case: a small vial of green blood—the Hulk's blood.
Now his collection held four trophies:
Sand from Flint Marko, the Sandman.
A gauntlet piece from Iron Monger, Obadiah Stane.
A vampire's fang.
And the freshly acquired vial of Hulk's blood.
The so-called Demon Hunter System insisted he collect these "trophies," claiming they were marks of honor and symbols of power.
"What a load of crap," Lucas muttered. "Dante collects trophies because he enjoys it. His power doesn't need validation."
But every time he protested, the system threatened to "unbound" from him, and Lucas had no choice but to comply. Still, deep down, he swore—
One day, when I'm strong enough, I'll make that damn system regret it.
After washing up, the three of them collapsed into bed, exhaustion finally catching up.
---
Meanwhile, in a dimly lit room not far from Lucas's apartment, a different kind of preparation was underway.
A dozen heavily armed operatives moved with silent precision, checking their weapons and gear.
"This is our target," said the squad captain, tossing several dossiers onto the table. "The order is clear: capture him alive."
Each soldier picked up a file and studied it carefully.
In the corner, a man sat silently on a sofa—a buzz-cut soldier with a cold, emotionless face. His most striking feature was his arm—entirely metallic, gleaming under the light.
"Read your intel and get ready," the captain ordered. "We move out at 0300 sharp."
One of the men nodded toward the silent figure on the sofa. "Captain, is he coming too?"
"He's our secret weapon," the captain replied. "He won't act unless absolutely necessary."
He shot a brief glance at the metal-armed man, then looked away quickly. Everyone knew what he was—a weapon in human form.
No mercy. No emotion.
Just an order-following machine.
And when unleashed, nothing could stop him.
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