“First, I’ll go find Madame Gao.”
Keeping in mind the meeting location provided by the captain, he continued forward.
Compared to the decadent extravagance of the Upper East Side, Hell’s Kitchen exuded an air of bleakness and squalor.
A heavily made-up woman leaned against a streetlight pole, puffing out clouds of smoke, the acrid stench of cheap cigarettes drifting in the night breeze.
The dim yellow streetlight cast a feeble glow, drawing a swarm of buzzing insects.
In the dark shadows of a corner, several ragged vagrants huddled together clutching liquor bottles.
They glared fiercely at Luke Lane, yet none dared take a single step toward him.
“The Marquis of the Blood Wardrobe’s face really has some serious intimidation factor.”
Facing the hostile glares piercing from all directions, Luke Lane curled his lips into a careless smile.
He was currently wearing the skin of Bai Yifei, the Marquis of the Blood Wardrobe: his skin cold and white as frost, silver hair falling over his shoulders, and lips vividly crimson as though freshly dipped in blood.
A plain white sash bound his waist, while his outer robe featured a dark woven pattern of intertwined black and red.
The headpiece topping his hair was simple yet bizarre, exuding an overall sinister allure and crushing pressure that gripped the soul.
These hyenas, who hunted by instinct, sensed the danger immediately.
Their Adam’s apples bobbed, and they involuntarily stepped back.
Not a single one dared raise a finger.
He navigated through the streets and alleys, finally coming to a stop before an inconspicuous, hidden factory with peeling paint and rusty iron doors.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
“What are you doing here?”
The two guards at the door had sharp eyes, their hands quietly dropping to their bulging holsters.
“This is the place.”
Luke Lane tilted his head, a sinisterly enchanting smile floating on his lips.
***
“Where are the people who were supposed to handle things for me?”
In the second-floor office, Madame Gao leaned on her cane, her voice low like muffled thunder.
“Jason… hasn’t contacted me yet.”
“Perhaps the wind was too strong tonight and something went wrong with his boat.”
The middle-aged man kneeling at her feet spoke in a shaky voice, cold sweat dripping down his forehead.
Having dealt with Madame Gao for many years, he knew all too well that beneath her frail, withered appearance lay power far beyond ordinary humans and terrifying methods.
“I will give you one more chance.”
“If you mess up again, do as those workers did and gouge out your own eyes.”
Madame Gao narrowed her eyes.
Her expression was calm, almost kindly, yet the words coming out of her mouth were like ice-dipped daggers.
“Yes… yes!”
The man hastily responded, his forehead practically glued to the floor.
“Wait.”
Madame Gao suddenly turned her head, her ears twitching slightly.
“We’ll handle this later. An uninvited guest has entered the factory.”
Before her voice had even faded, she turned with her cane and walked downstairs with steady strides.
***
On the factory’s ground floor.
Luke Lane strolled inside with a leisurely pace, as if taking a walk in his own backyard.
“Who are you?!”
Several guards quickly raised submachine guns, their dark barrels trained squarely on him.
Before they could pull the triggers, a bone-chilling frost surged up through their fingertips, freezing their limbs and bodies in the blink of an eye.
Living men turned into vivid ice sculptures frozen in various poses.
Madame Gao, who had just stepped off the stairs, saw this scene.
Her knuckles tightened sharply, and the head of her cane slammed onto the floor.
Her face darkened instantly as she glared at Luke Lane.
“Who might you be, sir?”
“The Marquis of the Blood Wardrobe, Bai Yifei.”
Luke Lane swept his gaze across her thin, frail frame, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.
Truth be told, he held little interest in an old criminal who had lived for over a century, running a traditional dark faction reliant on drug trafficking and money laundering.
But there was no helping it; Hell’s Kitchen only had so much talent.
Picking the best among a bunch of dwarves was his only option.
[Shock Value from Madame Gao +15]
“The Marquis of the Blood Wardrobe, Bai Yifei?”
Madame Gao’s pupils contracted slightly, her gaze locking onto his ancient, traditional attire.
Her heart skipped a beat—the Qi cultivators of Kunlun who trained spirit and energy favored such garments as well.
Yet the man before her showed no righteous demeanor in his movements; instead, he radiated a sharp, unpredictable killing intent.
“I came to America on personal business and am short a few reliable hands.”
Luke Lane retrieved a hideous Gu insect from his robes and held it up in his palm.
Madame Gao’s face turned instantly pale.
She barked at a nearby group of blind workers, “Stop him!”
With that shout, her body shot backward as she turned to leap toward the exit.
“Thinking of leaving?”
The corners of Luke Lane’s lips curved into a cold, sharp arc.
The ground exploded as dozens-of-meters-tall, razor-sharp ice spikes surged out of the earth, encircling Madame Gao in an airtight icy cage as she watched in frozen shock.
Tapping his toes lightly, he launched into the air and landed solidly atop the highest ice spire.
Looking down at the panicked old woman in the cage, his tone was casual: “You cannot escape.”
[Shock Value from Madame Gao +100]
In the center of the ice formation, Madame Gao stared intently at him before slowly bowing her head.
“I am willing to submit.”
“Good.”
Luke Lane nodded.
In a flash, he appeared directly before her.
The moment he looked down, a sharp glint flashed in Madame Gao’s eyes.
Twisting her waist, her palms struck out like striking vipers straight for Luke Lane’s abdomen.
“I expected nothing less.”
Luke Lane sidestepped effortlessly, dodging the blow, and delivered a backhand palm strike straight into her chest.
Madame Gao hastily defended, crossing her arms to block, but the force blasted her flying backward ten meters until she slammed heavily into the wall.
“Cough… cough!”
She dropped to one knee and wiped away the blood from the corner of her mouth—blood filled with tiny, glittering ice crystals.
Absurdly powerful!
She looked up at Luke Lane, her voice raspy and dry.
“Marquis of the Blood Wardrobe… I submit in earnest.”
“True or false makes no difference to me.”
“Once you’ve tasted this Gu insect, you’ll never want a second helping.”
Luke Lane flicked his finger.
The Gu insect shot into the air, circled her head three times, and plunged straight into her left ear.
“Agh!”
“I beg of you! Stop! Spare me!”
Agony racked her like steel needles gouging through bone, piercing deep into her brain.
Madame Gao curled up on the ground, rolling frantically and screaming in agony.
“Your first task.”
“Summon the remaining four leaders of The Hand here.”
“I have a few matters for you to handle personally.”
Only when her pain reached the verge of collapse did Luke Lane signal the Gu insect to pause.
“The others are not in New York… I fear it will take some time.”
Madame Gao lay prostrate on the floor, her head bowed low in utter deference, hiding the surging malice and indignation in her eyes.
[Shock Value from Madame Gao +200]
“No rush.”
As the system notification chimed again, Luke Lane’s smile widened, his eyes curling slightly.
Did she submit in earnest?
He couldn’t care less.
All he cared about was how to squeeze more Shock Value out of these figures tied to major fate nodes.
And these three consecutive gains from Madame Gao clearly proved it: in the Marvel world, those who could truly leverage the fulcrums of destiny were always the superheroes and top-tier supervillains.
For instance, the famous Iron Man, Tony Stark.
***
A few days later, on the top floor of Stark Tower, an iconic landmark of New York.
Reporters from *The New York Times*, *The Washington Post*, *The Daily Bugle*, and various major media outlets squished together, shoulders supporting cameras and hands clutching voice recorders, arrayed like cannons and rifles at the ready.
Today, Tony Stark—who single-handedly commanded half of New York’s entertainment headlines—was dropping another bombshell.
Stark Industries was about to launch the new generation of Jericho missiles: more powerful, longer range, higher precision, far outstripping all existing conventional missiles.
The Pentagon had already rushed to sign a massive procurement contract.
As expected, Stark Industries’ stock price was set to trigger another round of skyrocketing gains.
But…
The sharp-suited, witty Tony Stark the journalists anticipated was currently in dire straits.
“So… Mr. Joker.”
“What is your goal here?”
“Money?”
“Let me go, and I can give you a number you couldn’t count in a lifetime.”
Tony Stark was tied up tightly, his clothes disheveled and his face smeared with grime.
Yet his chin remained stubbornly lifted, his tone light as if discussing the weather.
“Just for kicks.”
Luke Lane tilted his head, his crimson lips curving upward in an eerie, unsettling smirk.
He had assumed a new face now, plastered with exaggerated face paint—both ludicrous and sinister, the spitting image of the notorious “Joker” from the DC Universe.
“Kicks?”
Tony’s lips tightened as he rattled off a number:
“One hundred million dollars.”
“Take the money for my life, and let me go right now.”
Before his words finished, his right hand subtly rubbed the raised button on the side of his left wristwatch.
“Don’t waste your breath.”
“The signals in this place were jammed by me long ago.”
Luke Lane cheerfully searched Tony’s entire body, pulling out his smart wristband, encrypted earpiece, and micro-communicator, crushing each into scrap metal.
Then he grabbed a black cloth and gagged him firmly.
“Mph, mmph!”
Tony shook his head violently, eyes practically shooting fire as he glared daggers at Luke Lane.
“Why so serious?”
“Come on, put on a smile.”
The moment he finished speaking, Luke Lane yanked hard with his hands.
The corners of Tony’s mouth were forcibly pulled open into a twisted, rigid grin.
“Now that’s more like it.”
Luke Lane nodded in satisfaction and snapped his fingers loudly.
A dark shadow surged out from the corner’s gloom, silent as ink.
“Find an unused bathroom and stuff him inside.”
Luke Lane’s tone was nonchalant, but his body was already shifting quietly.
In the blink of an eye, he took on the exact appearance of Tony Stark himself.
“The good show is just getting started, Tony.”
He grinned at Tony’s shocked, unfocused eyes, turned around, and pushed the door open to walk out.
***
“He’s out!”
“Tony Stark is coming out!”
The reporters in the front row jumped up and shouted excitedly.
“Mr. Stark, please elaborate on the Jericho missile’s combat capabilities!”
“How much was that Department of Defense order worth?”
“Eyewitnesses claim you’ve been visiting certain discreet clubs frequently. Has your taste changed?”
Luke Lane raised a hand and gently pressed down, instantly silencing the clamor.
Taking the microphone, his voice rang out steady and powerful:
“Today, I have only one announcement to make.”
“Effective immediately, Stark Industries is terminating all weapons research and production.”
“May the world be free of war, and may peace reign forever.”
“Amen.”
He slowly made the sign of the cross over his chest with his right hand, the gesture familiar yet flippant.
Blinding flashes instantly exploded, and reporters swarmed forward, hurling questions like bullets.
“Sorry, everyone, Tony’s had a bit too much to drink.”
Obadiah Stane rushed onto the stage, grabbing Luke Lane’s arm and growling under his breath, “Have you lost your mind?!”
“Old man, since when do you tell me how to run things?”
Luke Lane shook his wrist to fling off Stane’s grip, his voice arrogant and distant.
His mannerisms were carbon copies of Tony’s usual overbearing attitude.
*Click!
Click!*
Shutter sounds rained down in a dense barrage.
“Remember, this is Stark Industries.”
“I call the shots.”
Meeting Obadiah’s disbelieving glare, he raised his head slightly, turned, and walked away with crisp, suave steps.
***
Inside a standalone villa in the Upper East Side, Luke Lane hummed an off-key tune while watching Stark Industries’ stock price plummet down the screen.
He grinned like an orchard farmer who had just harvested an entire grove.
In just a few short hours, news of “Tony Stark Personally Shutting Down Weapons Division” and “Clashing Publicly with CEO Obadiah Stane” had blown up the trending searches across America.
The stock price cratered off a cliff.
Retail investors cried out in despair, and forums were flooded with outrage, declaring Tony deserved to rot in hell.
And for Luke Lane, Shock Value was pouring in like water.
[Shock Value: 123,769.78]
“Harvest season has arrived.”
This was how you truly manipulate public opinion.