"True." Quanxi glanced at the time. She still had plenty of her one-hour limit in the Marvel Universe, but it was about dinner time.
"The job is done. I'll leave that trash for you to handle."
Quanxi waved her hand with her back to Reze, her silhouette looking both free-spirited and lonely: "I'm going back to eat."
With that, her body turned into countless points of light, gradually dissipating into the air.
[Summon Ended]
[Quanxi (Crossbow Devil) has entered cooldown. Remaining: 23 hours 59 minutes.]
Quanxi's Incarnation in the 'inventory' turned black and white.
[The Scavenger's Mercy]:
No torture, no nonsense—a literal "Devil" hunting "humans." Using only cold weapon techniques, a team of fully armed thugs was wiped out in three minutes. An efficient slaughter bordering on art.
[villainess value +75, simulation value +180]
At the same time.
In an abandoned industrial zone several kilometers away from the Fisk Tower.
A black bulletproof sedan was hidden in the shadows of a street corner.
Fisk and Wesley sat inside with the windows tightly closed, but even so, the commotion coming from the inventory in those few short minutes made their hearts skip a beat.
There were only a few scattered gunshots at the beginning, followed by nothing but dense cutting sounds and screams of lives being forcibly extinguished.
Buzz—
The sound of a vibrating phone was particularly piercing in the dead silence of the car.
Wesley glanced at the caller ID and immediately answered: "Miss Makima."
"On the Russians' side, it's over."
On the other end of the line, Makima's voice was gentle with a hint of nonchalance.
One couldn't tell at all that she had just orchestrated a brutal massacre.
"As for the remaining territorial integration and how to take over their business and goods... that's your business. Keep it clean, understood?"
"Yes, by your will."
Wesley bowed his head deeply.
After hanging up, Wesley turned to look at Fisk.
Even in the dark, Fisk could see the fanatical admiration in Wesley's eyes.
"Mr. Fisk, Miss Makima says... it's over."
"It's over?"
Fisk's massive frame shuddered slightly as he glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist.
From the moment the first scream rang out to the time the call came in...
Only three minutes had passed.
Fisk pushed open the car door, grabbed his cane, and said hoarsely, "Let's go."
The two walked one after the other toward the silent inventory.
The inventory door was slightly ajar, a nauseating smell of blood wafting through the gap.
Fisk reached out with his leather-gloved hand and pushed open the heavy iron door.
Creak—
When the scene behind the door was fully revealed to them, even Fisk, who was used to cruel methods, had his pupils contract to the size of pinpricks.
Severed limbs and broken arms were everywhere.
The cuts were incredibly smooth; even Anatoly, the most arrogant one, had been sliced neatly before he could even draw his gun.
In the center of the inventory, in a clearing surrounded by a mountain of corpses...
Dozens of surviving Russian Gang members were currently kneeling in pools of blood. No one had severed their hamstrings, and there were no ropes binding them, yet they just knelt there with their heads buried in the ground, not even daring to look up when they heard footsteps.
Even though that white-haired God of Death had already left, the fear branded into the depths of their souls was enough to strip them of all courage. They only dared to kneel on the ground as if worshipping this sea of blood and mountain of corpses... and its perpetrator.
The inventory was terrifyingly quiet, so quiet that Fisk could clearly hear the sound of his own swallowing.
"This..." Fisk felt his throat go dry, his fingers gripping the cane turning white from excessive force.
The scene before him was bloody, cruel, and eerie, yet it radiated an indescribable religious atmosphere.
He turned to look at Wesley, only to find that there was no fear on Wesley's face; instead, it was filled with deep awe.
"Mr. Fisk, this is Miss Makima's... true power."
Fisk remained silent for a long time.
The humiliation of being controlled was, at this moment, replaced by something called 'ambition.'
If this power could be used by him... or rather, if he could be used by this power... Fisk stepped over the body parts on the floor, his leather shoes making a squelching sound on the viscous blood.
He walked up to the kneeling survivors, his mountain-like body casting a massive shadow.
At this moment, the Russian Gang completely became history, and the new empire belonging to Fisk and the woman behind the scenes, Miss Makima...
On this bloody night, officially began.
The Empire of the Big Stomach
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