Iron Monger didn’t come down.
Luke hadn’t expected him to come down, anyway.
After all, for villains like this, being stubborn is standard operating procedure.
“I will tear you to pieces—” Obadiah roared, raising the mecha’s right arm.
The crooked machine gun began to whir again, its muzzle aimed at Luke.
Luke didn’t move.
His hands were still in his pockets.
That yellow suit fluttered in the night wind, the shirt collar wide open, the scent of cologne drifting over the ruins.
“Fine then~” Luke pulled his right hand out of his pocket and held up one finger.
“I’ll give you three seconds.” Iron Monger’s gun barrel spun to maximum speed.
“Just three seconds, okay~” Luke added, sounding incredibly sincere.
“Three.” Luke counted.
Obadiah pulled the trigger.
The machine gun spat tongues of flame.
Bullets tore through the air, hitting— The empty ground.
The yellow figure had vanished.
Obadiah’s targeting system was throwing errors like crazy.
Target lost!
Target lost!
Target lost!
Then he heard a sound.
Coming from behind.
Coming from the cockpit shell.
Someone was knocking.
“Hey~ Is anyone home?” Before Obadiah could react, the cockpit’s armor plate was ripped open from the outside.
Ripped open.
A two-centimeter-thick titanium alloy armor plate.
By one hand.
Like pulling the tab on a soda can.
It was ripped open.
Light flooded in, and Obadiah saw that face.
The eyes behind the sunglasses were curved, carrying a smile that made one’s blood pressure soar.
“Time’s up~” Luke reached his left hand into the cockpit, his five fingers gripping Obadiah’s collar.
Then he lifted him up.
The 120-kilogram Obadiah Stane, plus the 20-kilogram inner pilot suit.
Plus various cable connections.
The total weight exceeded 150 kilograms.
Luke held him with one hand, as if he were holding a chicken.
The wind blew, and Obadiah dangled in mid-air, kicking his legs wildly.
Cables were ripped apart, and sparks crackled and sputtered from the cockpit.
Iron Monger’s mecha, having lost its pilot, crashed backward, slamming into the ground and kicking up a huge cloud of dust.
The Glint-Glint Fruit’s ability was truly absurd.
But the physical constitution of the character Kizaru himself was at a monster level.
An Admiral is not just hyped up by their fruit ability alone—even though this fruit ability is invincible.
Pure strength, speed, reflexes, and durability; each one was far beyond that of an ordinary person.
Lifting a fat man with one hand?
That was nothing.
Luke carried Obadiah a few steps to a relatively flat piece of ground.
Then he let go.
Obadiah fell down, knees hitting the ground first.
With a “thud,” he knelt.
Standard.
Straight.
Textbook-perfect kneeling posture.
Obadiah’s mind went blank.
Three seconds ago, he was still in a 2.7-meter mecha, holding a machine gun, looking down on everyone.
Three seconds later, he was kneeling on the ground, his knees hitting rubble, wincing in pain.
Wait.
Wasn’t it supposed to be three seconds?
He hadn’t even heard “one,” this bastard had shouted “three” directly!
A thought exploded in Obadiah’s mind: You motherfucker are even more shameless than me!
You never intended to give me three seconds from the start!
You had planned to do this all along!
Luke looked down at the kneeling Obadiah.
A bald head.
A shiny bald head.
Reflecting the firelight in the ruins, it was blindingly bright.
Luke reached out his right hand and rested it on that bald head.
He stroked it gently.
And stroked it again.
Quite smooth.
“I gave you a chance, but you couldn’t make it work!” Luke rubbed his palm back and forth on that bald head a couple of times, staring down at Obadiah, enunciating every word clearly.
“I gave you a chance, but you couldn’t make it work!” Obadiah froze completely.
He had seen many arrogant people in his life.
Tony Stark is arrogant enough, right?
A former arms dealer, genius inventor, king of parties; everywhere he went, he was the center of attention.
But no matter how arrogant Tony Stark was, he had never touched his head.
And he had never made him kneel.
This was an insult.
A naked, blatant insult.
Twenty meters away, Natasha leaned against a partially collapsed wall, watching this scene.
Her mouth twitched.
It twitched again.
If you didn’t say this was a superhero, wouldn’t this just be a common thug?
Head patting?
Are you collecting protection money?
Natasha suddenly felt like she wasn’t watching a superhero battle, but rather two groups of people at a night market clashing over a barbecue stall spot.
Obadiah knelt on the ground, his face flushed red.
What was his status?
The number two at Stark Industries.
An arms dealer.
A billionaire.
A man who called generals at the Pentagon brothers.
Now, being stroked on his bald head and told, “I gave you a chance, but you couldn’t make it work.” This was more humiliating than being defeated.
A surge of anger shot from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
Obadiah gritted his teeth, let out a furious roar, and used his legs to spring up from his kneeling position.
His right fist, fueled by all his rage, smashed toward Luke’s face.
The fist was large, and the force was not small.
If this punch hit an ordinary person’s face, it would at least break their nose.
Luke didn’t dodge.
He didn’t even blink.
He just raised his right hand and brought down a hand chop.
A light, airy strike.
It landed on the side of Obadiah’s neck.
No light effects.
No energy fluctuations.
No traces of any superpowers.
Just a pure physical strike, one hand chop, clean and crisp.
Obadiah’s eyes lost focus instantly.
His body remained frozen in the punching posture for half a second.
Then, like a wall being pushed over, he fell straight forward.
Bang.
Face down.
Motionless.
The battle was over.
Luke looked down at Obadiah on the ground, confirming he was unconscious.
He shook his hand, as if he had just brushed off some dust.
Luke instinctively raised his hand, took off his sunglasses, and faced Natasha’s direction.
The air in the ruins was a bit stifling, and the lenses were covered in dust.
He wiped them with the hem of his shirt, then looked up at the partially collapsed wall twenty meters away.
Black Widow was still there.
Dyed Red Hair, black tactical bodysuit, a pistol hanging at her side.
She was watching him.
Luke tucked his sunglasses into his shirt collar and tilted his chin at her.
“All finished~” His tone was drawn out, the tail end of his voice rising.
Combined with that gaudy shirt and half-open collar, the greasiness was maxed out.
“Beautiful~” Natasha didn’t speak.
She walked out from behind the wall, holstered her pistol, and walked toward Luke.
Her pace was neither fast nor slow, her waist swaying slightly with a habitual gait.
Luke narrowed his eyes.
This walking posture…
This body proportion…
This face…
Luke put his hands in his pockets, leaned his shoulders back, and struck a pose he thought was very cool.
“What’s up~ If you want to go on a date, I’m off the clock now.” He winked at Natasha.
“If it’s tomorrow, maybe—” “Luke?” Luke’s mouth froze half-open.
The second half of his sentence stuck in his throat, unable to go up or down.
“…Huh?” Natasha stood in front of Luke, arms crossed, tilting her head to look at him.
“You know me?” A faint, imperceptible crack appeared in Luke’s voice.
Natasha’s mouth twitched.
“You’re just wearing a floral shirt.” She looked Luke up and down.
Yellow suit jacket, gaudy floral shirt, half-open collar, and a face that was completely clear and unobstructed by anything.
“Why wouldn’t I know you?” Luke froze in place.
The wind blew, flipping his shirt collar, and his brain operated at the speed of light.
No.
No, no, no.
System!
He called out frantically in his mind.
Didn’t this outfit hide my identity?!
The system’s notification popped up, cold and objective— [Reply to host: Yes, but the identity hiding function requires the full outfit to be worn completely.] [Equipment missing detected: Sunglasses.] [Host, you took off your sunglasses.] Luke’s hand froze in mid-air.
He looked down at the sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket.
Then he looked back up at Natasha’s face, which was plastered with the expression: “Do you think I’m blind?” It’s over.
Social death.
Worse than being beaten up by Iron Monger.
Natasha watched the changes in expression on Luke’s face.
From confidence to confusion, from confusion to shock, from shock to an indescribable awkwardness.
The whole process took no more than three seconds, but the amount of information was huge.
Her mood was complicated.
Every Agent in S.H.I.E.L.D.
has secrets; she knew that better than anyone.
Nick Fury’s archives were locked with everyone’s background; that wasn’t something she needed to worry about.
But she still couldn’t help but make a snide remark in her mind.
So you get off work on time every day just to come out and be a superhero?
Leaving exactly at six o’clock every day, rain or shine.
Colleagues thought he was rushing home to slack off, but it turned out he was changing clothes to save the World.
No.
You can’t call it saving the World.
The behavior of stroking someone’s bald head and saying “I gave you a chance, but you couldn’t make it work” was still a bit far from saving the World.
Natasha looked Luke’s outfit up and down again.
Yellow suit.
The pattern of the floral shirt underneath was still blinding under the setting sun.
She couldn’t help but twitch the corner of her mouth.
“Your taste is quite unique~”
Maybe it’s not a big deal now… maybe it will be later.
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”