Marvel: The Villain Chapter 387 Two hours later

Two hours later!

Peter piloted the Milano through a jump point and arrived in the vicinity of Morul. Morul was a world-famous planet, renowned for its breathtaking scenery and pleasant climate—a premier vacation destination. In terms of fame, it rivaled Xandar, the capital of the Nova Empire. Morul was under the rule of an empire, complete with its own residents, government, laws, and a substantial military presence to maintain order. Every tourist landing on Morul had to abide by the law and follow a strict registration process before being granted entry.

Peter parked his ship in a stable orbit and patiently underwent the security sweep, which felt much like a planetary customs check. Once cleared, he headed straight for the capital city. It was the most densely populated area and the hub for all tourists—the place where he was most likely to track down Jason.

He flew to the outskirts of the capital and prepared to land at the spaceport. Being a tourist world, Morul's spaceport was gargantuan, divided into indoor and outdoor zones. The outdoor zone consisted of vast, flat plains where tourists chose a spot based on their ship's size and paid the corresponding fee. Security there would watch over the vessels to prevent petty theft. Generally, outdoor parking was recommended for short stays.

However, for stays longer than three months, it was advised to use the indoor zone. The indoor zone was a massive, cubic structure that shielded ships from the elements, protecting them from wind, rain, and radiation. Additionally, the indoor zone housed various maintenance shops offering everything from aesthetic detailing to refueling, repairs, and hardware upgrades. Parking inside was exorbitant, but in return, the number of security personnel and their level of diligence increased significantly—especially if the tourist was generous with tips.

Peter slowed his ship as he circled the spaceport. He scanned the ships in the outdoor zone and found only small, budget-friendly vessels with cheap cannons and outdated engines. Jason was Valkyrie's master and clearly a figure of significant stature; Peter found it hard to believe such a man would be flying a piece of junk. It was a snobbish assumption, but in most cases, it was the absolute truth.

Finding no likely targets after a full sweep, Peter concluded that Jason must have parked in the indoor zone.

"This is gonna sting," Peter muttered, checking his bank balance with a wince.

As he piloted the Milano into the indoor hangar, he couldn't pull his eyes away. He loved starships—he was a hardcore enthusiast—and this massive building was filled with rare, limited-edition vessels. These ships didn't just have sleek, aggressive designs; they were packed with the most advanced engine systems, weapon arrays, and radars in the galaxy. Peter was drooling, but he knew he couldn't afford a single one of them even if he sold everything he owned.

Before long, amidst the dazzling array of ships, Peter spotted the one that matched Valkyrie's description: the Commander!

Overjoyed, Peter immediately parked the Milano next to it and geared up to disembark. Jason certainly wouldn't be on the ship right now, but the perimeter of the Commander was crawling with soldiers, ensuring no one could get close. Clearly, even with a massive tip, Morul's local security wouldn't go to this extent. These soldiers, hailing from various planets and races, were definitely Jason's men.

"Halt! No further!"

As Peter took a few steps toward the ship, several soldiers leveled their rifles at him.

"Hey, easy, fellas," Peter said, freezing in place and raising his hands. "I was sent here to find Jason."

The soldiers exchanged wary looks. "By whose authority?" One asked.

"Valkyrie's!"

At the mention of her name, the soldiers lowered their weapons and allowed Peter to approach.

"Where is she? Why did she send you?"

"She's in deep shit. She told me to find Jason immediately so he can bail her out." Peter pulled out the Sakaaran communicator she had left behind.

Seeing the device, the soldiers' final doubts vanished. It was a Sakaaran model bearing the mark of the Grandmaster—something an outsider would find impossible to forge.

"The master is in the city. We'll take you to him!"

Recognizing the urgency, the soldiers didn't hesitate. Two of them were assigned to escort Peter. They rented a high-speed hovercar and streaked toward the city center.

The hovercar soon arrived over the city and touched down in front of a massive casino. After spending three years on Sakaar, Jason had picked up a bit of a gambling habit under the influence of his environment; he had even mastered all of the Grandmaster's tricks. Having spent two days exploring Morul and tasting the local culture, a bored Jason had dived headfirst into the planet's largest casino and hadn't come out since.

The two soldiers led Peter into the building and all the way to a luxury private suite. As the soldiers pushed open the heavy double doors, Peter felt his throat go dry.

Jason... I'm finally going to meet him. What kind of man is he?

The ornate wooden doors swung open, revealing the scene inside. The suite was cavernous, covering at least a thousand square meters, decorated in a style that was both obscenely opulent and perfectly suited for a high-end casino. The three of them stepped onto a plush carpet toward an elliptical gambling table designed for sixty people.

However, there were fewer than five people at the table. Two factions sat at opposite ends, clearly demarcated, with a dozen guards standing behind each side. At the far end sat a portly, elegantly dressed old man with shock-white hair—Whitehead—flanked by two scantily clad young women.

Sitting with his back to the door was a single young man. The two soldiers walked over and whispered in his ear. The man turned slowly, looking at Peter with curiosity.

To be honest, when Peter saw the real Jason, he felt a twinge of disappointment. This guy didn't radiate a single signal of danger. He looked like nothing more than a playboy. He might be good at picking up women, but if someone said he had the power to level planets, it was impossible to tell. At least, judging by his face, clothes, and demeanor, that was the verdict.

Jason stood up slowly, leaning his hands on the table as he addressed Whitehead, the old man who looked like he had one foot in the grave but still hungered for feminine company.

"I apologize, but I have some minor business to attend to. Perhaps we will continue this another day?"

Whitehead adjusted his glasses and snorted. "You win two billion units from me and then try to run? It's not that simple, kid."

Jason spread his arms and smiled. "Then what do you propose?"

Whitehead pointed at the mountain of chips on the table. "I'll give you two choices. One: return everything you won. Two: play one big hand with me. The winner takes everything."

"All in? You've got guts. I'm in!" Jason laughed, retaking his seat. "However, counting my recent winnings, I have a little over three billion units on the table. You look like you're down to your last few million."

"You think I can't afford the stakes? Hah! What a joke. Let me tell you something: there aren't five people on all of Morul wealthier than me. The money I just lost to you was earned back while we were playing."

Whitehead looked at Jason with contempt and gave his bodyguard a look. The guard tapped an invisible earpiece and whispered something. Half a minute later, the doors opened. Several sultry casino hostesses walked in with smiles, carrying trays piled high with chips—all in the maximum denomination of one hundred million each. They placed the chips on the table, gave Whitehead an encouraging smile, and left.

Whitehead toyed with a chip. "Alright. The stakes are covered. Let's begin!"

Jason nodded. "Fine. What's the final game? Dice, cards, roulette, darts?"

Whitehead leaned forward, a cold smirk on his face. "I'm bored with those. For the final hand, I want something exciting. A fight!"

Jason spread his hands. "Sure. How do you want to play it?"

"Good!" Whitehead pointed at the guards behind Jason. "We both brought muscle today. Let them settle it in the ring. No guns, no blades—just raw, hand-to-hand combat. Three men from each side. No rules. No surrendering. A replacement only enters when one man is dead. The game is over when one side has no more men standing."

"And of course, if you're feeling confident in your own strength, you're welcome to step into the ring yourself. I wouldn't mind."

Hearing the rules, Jason began to clap slowly. "To the death. I like it. Deal!"

The group left the suite and headed down to the casino's main lobby. Large industrial robots cleared away the gambling machines to make room for a massive arena, while staff set up prime viewing spots on the second-floor balcony. Seeing the ring go up, the tens of thousands of gamblers in the hall erupted into a celebratory frenzy. Cards and dice were child's play. This kind of raw, life-or-death slaughter was the only thing that could truly get the blood pumping for a serious gambler.

As they took their seats on the second floor, Whitehead had already selected his three combatants. Jason turned to his men. "Anyone want to go down and have some fun?"

In response, all twelve guards stepped forward, volunteering for the match.

"Everyone wants in? Fine, I'll just pick. You, you, and you!" Jason pointed at three men at random.

The chosen guards were ecstatic. They vaulted over the railing and dropped thirty meters down to the lobby floor. Despite the massive drop, the guards didn't miss a beat, landing with perfect ease and showing no signs of discomfort.

Pros. These guys are top-tier, Peter thought, his brow furrowing in surprise. He asked himself: if he jumped from thirty meters, he'd at least twist an ankle, and likely end up face-planting and breaking a few ribs. These three hadn't even broken a sweat.

Seeing this, the expression on Whitehead's face shifted. He gave Jason a complicated look, clearly surprised that he had such high-level talent in his entourage. His shifty eyes darted around before he leaned over to whisper a new command to his subordinates.

A few minutes passed, but the match hadn't started.

Jason checked his watch impatiently. "Everyone's here. Let's get on with it."

Whitehead smiled. "Just a moment. I've decided to swap out my roster."

Jason narrowed his eyes.

"Now, don't go calling it cheating. I said bodyguards, but I never said it had to be the ones standing right behind me."

"Hmph. Fine. Just tell your people to hurry the hell up. I'm on a schedule!"

"Patience, my friend. Gambling is a pleasure that should be savored slowly."

A moment later, Whitehead's new bodyguards finally arrived. Peter leaned over the railing and his eyes widened. The men Whitehead had brought in were three hulking brutes covered in cybernetic enhancements. Most of their bodies were chrome and machinery; one had massive metallic fists, and another had literal mantis blades grafted onto his forearms.

"Heh..." Whitehead chuckled smugly. "These prosthetics are part of their bodies now. Can't really call it a violation, can we?"

Jason rested his head on his hand, waving a dismissive palm. "Whatever. Let's just start!"

"Good! Let the games begin!"

The first two fighters stepped into the ring. Representing Jason was a lean, lanky man who looked utterly unremarkable. Representing Whitehead was a brute—not tall, but with muscles that looked like they were ready to explode. From a visual standpoint, they weren't even in the same weight class. This highly anticipated match looked like a foregone conclusion.

The brute cracked his knuckles, a predatory grin on his face as he sized up his opponent. The lean man simply stared back with dead eyes, completely ignoring him. The casino referee climbed into the ring to announce the rules.

"My word, don't you have any other guards?" Whitehead taunted with a greasy smile. "The one you sent down is so scrawny... I'm afraid this will be over far too quickly. That would be such a bore."

Jason nodded in agreement. "You're right. If it's one-on-one, it really is too boring."

Without waiting for Whitehead's reaction, Jason stood up and shouted down to his man: "I'm in a hurry. Make it quick."

The lean man's eyes sparked with understanding. He pointed a finger at Whitehead's other two cyborgs waiting on the sidelines and spoke with cold provocation:

"You heard the master. He's in a hurry. All three of you—get in here at once."

The hall erupted into an absolute uproar.

"Is he insane?!" Peter gasped, his jaw dropping. Those three were mechanical monsters; their power was well beyond the human limit. Their reinforced plating was nano-synthetic skin—even a laser blast wouldn't leave a mark. Peter couldn't take one of them, yet this man wanted to take all three!

Faced with such an absurd request, the referee froze, looking lost.

The lean man frowned. "Is it against the rules?"

"Well, there's nothing in the rules that says..." The referee stammered. "I'll have to check with the other party."

Whitehead slowly recovered from his shock, looking at Jason with a derisive snort. "If someone wants to hand me money on a silver platter, I'm not going to say no!"

He gave the referee a sharp nod, agreeing to the change.

.

.

.

.

You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.

pat reon.com/GreenBlue17

200 power stones.

Top 100. All time.