Two apples down, and the gnawing hunger in his stomach finally calmed down a bit.
Although he was still a long way from full, his mind could at least function again.
He closed his eyes and began carefully organizing all the information that had flooded into his brain since crossing over into this world.
The Psionic Seed given to him by the God-Emperor was real, and so was the ability to summon things from Stellaris and Warhammer.
However, the world he currently inhabited—the Marvel Universe—might look on the surface like a popcorn-movie realm full of flying superheroes, but it was actually a chaotic melting pot teeming with all sorts of monsters and horrors.
Ross Vance kept his eyes shut and began running through a mental checklist.
Setting aside The Avengers over in New York for a moment.
Thor was a literal Norse deity, a physical non-God-of-the-Emperor entity.
According to the Lex Imperialis, he ought to be burned at the stake on sight.
Iron Man’s Arc Reactor and armor could be classified as unauthorized, high-tech heresy by Imperial standards, though they weren’t a massive threat.
The Hulk, on the other hand, was a mutated monstrosity born from tampering with the sacred human genome—a sin among sins.
Looking further out, the Ancient One, Sorcerer Supreme, had guarded Earth for centuries.
She wielded unsanctioned psionics—multiversal-level psionics at that.
If the Inquisition ran into her, they’d have to hold a three-day council just to figure out how to tackle the problem.
Her apprentice, Doctor Strange, would later bargain directly with Dormammu while playing with the Time Stone like a yo-yo.
Moving up to the cosmic scale, Thanos could wipe out half of all life in the universe with a single snap once he gathered the Infinity Stones.
That kind of destructive power in Warhammer 40K would put him on par with the Chaos Gods.
Galactus, one of the cosmic entities, ate entire planets whenever he got hungry.
Even if the God-Emperor came in person, he’d have to weigh whether he was even big enough to fit between the guy’s teeth.
Then there were the Celestials, The Watcher, Dormammu, Mephisto, the Living Tribunal…
Ross opened his eyes and inhaled a deep breath of trash-scented Hell’s Kitchen air.
“The Golden Corpse really dug me a giant pit.”
By the strict standards of the Lex Imperialis, ninety-nine percent of the beings in the Marvel universe were heretics.
The remaining one percent simply hadn’t been discovered yet.
He was just an ordinary guy whose psionics hadn’t even awakened, wearing a tattered overcoat, dropped right into gang-infested Hell’s Kitchen.
His very first potential target was an unknown creature with three faces that devoured human souls.
Yet that wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part was that he actually intended to go through with it.
“So the most important thing right now isn’t passing judgment.”
“It’s staying alive.”
Survive first.
Then activate the Psionic Seed.
Grind starting from the lowest-level heretics, climbing his way up step by step.
These street thugs in Hell’s Kitchen were perfect starter-village mobs.
As for Three-Face, the soul-devouring entity—whether Ross could beat a starter-village boss was another story, but at least it was a reachable target at this stage.
Once his psionics awakened, he could summon some basic gear.
An Imperial Guard lasgun would do, or a Space Marine chainsword, or even a basic science vessel or construction ship from Stellaris.
As long as he obtained his first piece of equipment, the road ahead would be much easier.
Once he reached the late game, he could max out the Stellaris tech tree.
Focused Arc Emitters, Dragonscale Armor, Colossus-class World Crackers, Ringworlds, Matter Decompressors.
Pair those with Warhammer’s Astartes Legions, Grey Knights, Sisters of Silence, or even Primarch-level summons.
When that time came, most beings on Earth wouldn’t pose a threat to him.
Only then could he truly cut loose and figure out how to purge this heretic-ridden Marvel universe.
“Set a small goal first.”
“Survive the first week, activate the Psionic Seed, and pull the first piece of gear.”
Three tasks—and given his current circumstances, none of them would be easy.
Still, when he played Stellaris, he loved nothing more than hellish starts.
A fifteen-tile homeworld blocked right at the door by a Marauder Empire, and he’d still end up making it the galactic top dog.
The only difference between reality and the game was that he couldn’t reload a save, but the underlying logic was the same.
Ross leaned against the alley wall, sorting through the jumble in his head from start to finish.
The conclusion was crystal clear.
Three-Face—the monster with three faces that ate souls—whether it was a mutant, a creature from the Dark Dimension, or some other kind of fiend, certainly wasn’t something he could touch with his current physical build.
Charging in head-on was suicide, the kind of hilarious death where he’d die valiantly on his first day on the job, dead at three chapters old.
However, the protection-money thugs working under Three-Face were a different story.
When those guys in leather jackets had flexed their muscles in front of Old John’s fruit stand earlier today, Ross had observed them carefully.
Unsteady footwork, loose postures, fists that couldn’t even clench properly—clearly the type who relied on numbers to bully ordinary folk and had never undergone proper combat training.
Intimidating an old fruit vendor was one thing, but if they ran into a real tough customer, they’d bolt faster than anyone.
Furthermore, based on the reaction that had triggered the Psionic Seed at Old John’s earlier, these guys were very likely considered heretics as well.
At least the Psionic Seed had reacted to them.
Purging heretics didn’t require fighting a boss; trash mobs were still mobs.
He just needed to activate the seed first.
What if his very first summon yielded an Astartes?
The image rose in Ross’s mind: an eight-foot-tall Space Marine in power armor, boltgun slung over his shoulder, kneeling on one knee before him as a deep, resonant voice echoed from beneath the helmet: “For the Emperor!”
The mental picture was so gorgeous that his chest warmed up just thinking about it.
When that happened, Hell’s Kitchen?
He could walk sideways through the whole of Manhattan.
“Alright, that’s settled.”
No sooner said than done.
Ross began looking for his first prey.
He didn’t charge straight into Three-Face Gang territory—that would be asking for death.
He chose a safer strategy: stalking.
Nights in Hell’s Kitchen were never short on crime.
Ross needed to find the perfect ambush spot.
Secluded, but not too secluded.
Ideally a route frequently used by Three-Face Gang members, but along a stretch with little foot traffic.
He needed a target acting alone, not a group traveling together.
He walked east along Tenth Avenue for about twenty minutes, finally finding an excellent location near the intersection of 42nd Street and Ninth Avenue.
A narrow alley flanked by old apartment buildings, where the only working streetlamp at the entrance flickered fitfully on and off.
At the far end of the alley stood a rusting iron door bearing a “No Entry” sign, but judging by the weeds sprouting through the gap, no one had opened it in years.
The alley was less than two meters wide, barely enough for two people to walk side by side.
If a fight broke out, running away would be impossible.
More importantly, this alley sat right between an active bar and a defunct laundromat.
Patrons occasionally came out the bar’s back door to smoke, but nothing in this alley was visible from there.
Meanwhile, the laundromat on the other side had long been deserted, its windows boarded up tight.
A perfect location for a crime.
Ross stepped deep into the alley and crouched behind a stack of old cardboard boxes.
He curled himself into a ball, wrapping his tattered coat around his body.
From a distance, he looked no different from a pile of trash.
Then he began to wait.
Sure enough, just as Ross was shivering uncontrollably behind the cardboard, footsteps echoed at the alley mouth.
Ross peeked through a gap in the boxes.
A dark green leather jacket.
Black combat boots.
It was the tall, thin guy.
The one who had followed the red-haired man at Old John’s fruit stand earlier—the quiet one with the slyest eyes.
Right now, he was holding a half-empty beer bottle, swaying as he walked.
Alone.
He staggered into the alley, threw his head back to chug the remaining half bottle, and casually tossed the empty bottle against the base of the wall.
Then he walked to the middle of the alley, turned his back to Ross, and began unzipping his pants.
A golden opportunity.
There couldn’t be a better chance than this.
Ross slowly stood up.
His right hand reached into the inner pocket of his tattered coat, fingers closing around the fruit knife he had slipped from Old John’s fruit stand that afternoon.
The blade was barely four inches long, but it was honed to a sharp edge.
He took his first step.