Three days passed in the blink of an eye.
During these three days, Ross Vance truly witnessed what it meant to be an Imperial veteran.
He had originally expected the Astra Militarum to be nothing more than ten capable bodyguards, but Griffin Voss and his squad had staged a textbook operation in Hell’s Kitchen.
Day one: intelligence.
Griffin didn’t even wait for daybreak.
After Ross Vance handed down the scouting orders that night, Griffin split his squad into three fireteams.
One fireteam was responsible for high-ground observation and long-range surveillance.
The second fireteam disguised themselves as vagrants and staked out the alleys surrounding the repair shop.
Griffin himself took the remaining men and mapped out all the terrain on the outskirts of the repair shop under the cover of night.
By noon of the second day, a complete reconnaissance report was delivered to Ross Vance’s hands.
The repair shop’s front door, back door, side door, basement vents, rooftop firing positions, the relative elevations of surrounding buildings, and the width and escape routes of every alley were all clearly marked.
He had also mapped out the Three-Face Gang’s shift rotations, patrol routes, which window would be lit at night, and which back door someone would step out of for a smoke in the middle of the night.
What pleased Ross Vance even more than the intelligence was the reconnaissance on Three-Face himself.
The report was written very bluntly.
“The target’s ability is to destroy the enemy’s consciousness through psychic power.
However, the wind-up is extremely long, requiring him to focus his attention and stare at the target.
The estimated range does not exceed ten meters.
The way to avoid it is to avoid direct, prolonged eye contact.”
After reading the report, Ross Vance instantly understood what was going on.
A mutant with a long wind-up, short-range ability that could only turn a single target into an idiot.
To put it bluntly, he was just a squishy mage with a terrifying appearance.
In Marvel’s mutant classification system, this guy’s power level would barely qualify as Epsilon-class.
The only reason he could become a gang leader in Hell’s Kitchen was because he looked scary enough that ordinary people didn’t dare cross him.
But to a squad of Cadian Shock Troops that could instantly neutralize a target with bayonets within ten meters, he posed absolutely no threat.
For the remaining two days, Griffin began raising funds.
Ross Vance’s directive to him at the time was very simple.
“I’m still sleeping under a bridge.
Find a way to get some funds.”
As it turned out, Griffin’s understanding of “getting some funds” was on an entirely different scale than what Ross Vance had imagined.
Ross Vance had originally expected them to collect protection money from a few shops or shake down some dark bars.
Instead, Griffin took his entire squad and spent two nights disguised as members of various gangs, systematically wiping out the small gangs of Hell’s Kitchen one by one.
They shed their uniforms, put on old clothes salvaged from dumpsters, masked their faces, and struck specifically between three and four in the morning.
Over two nights, the liquid capital and cash hidden in the hideouts of seven small gangs in Hell’s Kitchen were swept completely clean.
When Griffin returned to report, he tossed a duffel bag stuffed with greenbacks in front of Ross Vance, his tone flat.
“My Lord, here is 4.7 million dollars in cash.
There are still two safes we didn’t have time to crack.
We will deal with them tonight.”
Ross Vance stared at the duffel bag, which was so stuffed the zipper could barely close, and fell silent for a long moment.
A few days ago, he was begging for apples at Old John’s fruit stand; a few days later, he had nearly five million dollars in cash.
From a vagrant to a member of the upper class worth millions, it had only taken him a single weekend.
Of course, having money was one thing, but he couldn’t spend it just yet.
Although Griffin’s style of work was clean and efficient, he had hit seven small gangs in one breath, throwing Hell’s Kitchen’s underworld into an absolute frenzy.
Over the past two days, many unfamiliar faces had appeared on the streets.
Every gang and faction was looking for that crew of masked robbers.
A few gangs even suspected each other, nearly breaking out into full-scale turf wars.
This chaos would settle down sooner or later.
But right now, they had made too many enemies.
If Ross Vance suddenly began spending extravagantly—buying property, luxury cars, and making a scene—it would be tantamount to openly admitting he was behind it.
Not to mention, such behavior could attract the attention of large organizations, like Kingpin’s criminal empire or, even worse, SHIELD.
It was completely contrary to Ross Vance’s plan of keeping a low profile for the time being.
However, while lavish spending was out of the question, improving their living conditions was perfectly fine.
Ross Vance’s baseline of tolerance had already been frozen through by the cold winds of Hell’s Kitchen.
Sleeping under a bridge for several consecutive days, he felt like his lumbar discs were about to bid him farewell.
And while Griffin and the others felt that under the bridge was already far more comfortable than the battlefields of the Imperium, having a squad of Cadian veterans sitting in a row under a bridge was indeed a pitiful sight.
Furthermore, this bridge had already become notorious over the past few days.
Griffin and his men had cleared out several waves of blind gang members who had come to demand “overnight fees” from them, leaving over a dozen corpses piled up by the river.
If they continued to stay there, they would be discovered sooner or later.
“We’re moving,” Ross Vance said, slapping his thigh in a decisive snap.
Near the territory of the Three-Face Gang, he found a local, small real estate agency that specialized in gray-market rentals.
They didn’t ask about the tenants’ identities and only accepted cash.
Ross Vance didn’t even have identification; he simply slammed twenty thousand dollars onto the agent’s desk, securing a six-month lease on a small three-story building.
That night, Ross Vance officially moved into the building with his ten Cadian soldiers.
Griffin spent an hour checking every blind spot in the building, posting concealed sentries at both the front and back doors, and converting the basement into a temporary armory.
He also led a few men to set up two rudimentary alarm systems along the edge of the third-floor rooftop.
Simply put, they were tripwire bombs.
If anyone dared to scale the rooftop, the entire street would hear the blast.
Ross Vance let Griffin allocate the rooms, then pushed open the door to his own.
A bed, a wardrobe, a table, and a chair.
It was as spartan as a college dorm, but he nearly fell to his knees when he saw the bed.
Finally, he didn’t have to sleep on concrete anymore.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the tap.
The moment hot water steamed out, he let out his most satisfied sigh since crossing over.
He took a hot shower for nearly forty minutes, washing the dirt and metallic tang of blood accumulated over several days down the drain.
Drying his hair, he changed into a clean set of clothes Griffin had recently purchased.
Ross Vance stood in the living room of the three-story building, looking out at the mottled streetlights of Hell’s Kitchen.
Holding a cup of hot tea, he felt as if his entire being had finally switched from “savage mode” back to “civilized mode.”
Griffin stood behind him, holding a hand-drawn map densely marked with every sentry post and patrol route in the Three-Face Gang’s territory.
“My Lord, we are ready to move at any time.”
Ross Vance took a sip of tea.
The warmth slid down his throat, heating his entire body.
He looked at the map, an excited expression appearing on his face.
“No rush.
Get a good night’s sleep tonight.
Tomorrow!”
He placed the teacup on the windowsill.
“We go to judge the heretics!”
Ross Vance slept for a full eighteen hours.
No cold winds blowing through the bridge, no vagrants sneaking in to cause trouble in the middle of the night, no sporadic gunfire and sirens echoing in the distance.
Only clean sheets and a mattress of perfect firmness.
This was the most peaceful sleep he had experienced since crossing into the Marvel universe.
That feeling of muting his phone, turning off his alarms, burying his head in a pillow, and sleeping soundly until he woke up naturally—he had finally reclaimed it in this alternate world.
When he woke up, he stared at the ceiling in a daze for a long while.
It wasn’t until he saw the gray New York skyline outside the window that he fully came to his senses.
While washing up, hot water splashed onto his face.
Ross Vance stared at his reflection in the mirror for a long time.
The smelly, hollow-eyed vagrant of a few days ago was gone, replaced by an energetic, clear-eyed young man.
Sleep and a sense of security were indeed the most basic yet luxurious supplies for humanity.
By the time he dried his hair and walked downstairs, lunch was already laid out on the dining table.
Griffin had managed to get an induction cooktop and a few pots from somewhere.
Using ingredients bought from a nearby market, he had somehow whipped up a decent spread.
Ten Cadian veterans sat around the long table.
Seeing him come down, they stood up in unison to salute.
Ross Vance waved his hand, signaling them to sit back down and eat, before pulling out his own chair to join them.
The meal was eaten in silence, but the atmosphere was entirely different from when they were under the bridge.
After the meal, Griffin cleared away the tableware and spread the hand-drawn map, heavily marked over and over, across the table.
Ten pairs of eyes focused on Ross Vance simultaneously.
Everyone knew that tonight was the night to get to work.
Ross Vance had read Griffin’s combat plan, and there was nothing to nitpick.
For Cadian veterans to fight a street gang of this level was like a professional boxer taking on elementary schoolers.
He gave only one final instruction.
“Griffin, according to the regulations of the Lex Imperialis, Three-Face is indeed a heretic.”
“I believe we should judge him according to the laws and protocols of the Imperium.”