Marvel: The Villain Chapter 388 A Hard-On

The rules were changed on the fly, shifting from a 1-on-1 to a 1v3 match. The spectating tourists were baffled. The physical disparity between the contestants was already massive, putting Jason’s side at a severe disadvantage. Now, they were intentionally throwing away their only edge.

What was the strategy? Was this a case of extreme confidence in their fighter, or was Jason just an utter moron? Regardless, the crowd loved the drama. People generally aren’t upset by a spectacle when it’s not their own money on the line.

Whitehead’s three fighters climbed into the ring. They cracked their knuckles and smirked at Jason’s guard, looking at the scrawny pole with a smile.

"Don’t blame us, kid. Blame your blind luck for following a master with a hole in his head."

"Heh, I’ve been fighting in pits for years. Never had a payday this easy."

"Enough talk. Let’s dispose of him so we can collect the bounty and get drunk!"

The guard stood with his arms crossed, his eyelids heavy as he gave the three a dismissive glance.

"Are the contestants ready?" After reading the revised rules, the referee immediately vaulted out of the ring. An unregulated brawl didn’t need an official in the middle of it. They could fight however they wanted—preferably until brains were splattered on the canvas—to give the audience their money’s worth. A referee inside would just be an obstacle, and past experience had shown the risks of being caught in the crossfire.

"Ready."

"No problem!"

"Let’s go."

"Hmph."

Seeing all four were set, the referee struck a massive golden gong.

The resonance acted as a starting pistol. The first cyborg shot forward like an arrow from a bow. He was a mountain of meat, his muscles so engorged that his face looked comically small and disproportionate in contrast. Seeing the fist coming his way, the guard didn’t retreat; he advanced.

With fluid, agile footwork, he ghosted past the heavy punch. Leveraging his superior speed, he closed the gap instantly and slammed a fist into his abdomen. The punch, infused with a terrifying concentration of energy, nearly punched clean through the man’s stomach.

The brute felt an agonizing surge of pain as his internal organs were liquefied, and then... nothing. It felt as if a grenade had been shoved into his gut and detonated. But the guard wasn’t finished.

His fists became a blur, raining down like a localized storm. In the blink of an eye, he landed over a dozen strikes. The brute’s body, which would have made a bodybuilding champion jealous, was now covered in deep, jagged craters. Organs ruptured, bones shattered, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he collapsed into a heap of broken meat.

He was unrecognizable. He was definitely not surviving that.

The roar of the crowd died instantly. Every jaw in the room dropped. Faces turned pale as they stared at the ring.

The other two cyborgs arrived a second later, flanking the guard. Their faces were no longer arrogant; they were masks of pure shock. They hadn’t expected their friend to be obliterated in the time it took to take two steps. While that man had been a fighter, he wasn’t weak. They certainly didn’t have the confidence to one-shot him. In fact, it should have been impossible.

Realizing the scrawny man wasn’t a victim but a predator in disguise, their survival instincts flared. They unleashed everything they had. The cyborg with the metal arms aimed a piston-like strike at the guard’s temple, while the one with the mantis blades went for the throat.

The lethal strikes were inches away, but the guard remained unperturbed. The audience’s hearts were in their throats.

With a sudden burst of power from his feet, the guard’s lean frame drifted backward.

The two cyborgs stared, their eyes filling with despair. In that split second, the gap in power became clear. The guard had hopped out of range, but the cyborgs couldn’t pull back their momentum.

A crisp sound echoed as the mantis blades, aided by the awkward positioning, sliced clean through the other cyborg’s metal arms. The cut was surgical.

"AAAAAGH!!!"

The cyborg whose metal fists had been severed roared in agony, veins bulging in his neck. Even though the limbs were mechanical, they were integrated into his nervous system. The pain of losing a prosthetic was no less than losing a limb of flesh and bone.

The mantis-blade cyborg froze in panic, guilt and horror washing over him at his comrade’s scream. But his real mistake was simple: he dared to lose focus in a life-or-death struggle.

The guard closed the distance. The armless man was no longer a threat; his primary target was the blades. He leapt high into the air, using his core strength to deliver a spinning kick to the back of the mantis-blade cyborg’s head.

The reinforced skull shattered instantly. The head exploded like a ripe watermelon, showering the canvas with gore. The guard landed and didn’t miss a beat. He grabbed the mantis-blade cyborg’s limp arm and drove the remaining blade forward with a violent thrust.

The jagged edge pierced the armless cyborg’s throat.

"Ugh..." The man clutched his neck, blood geysering from the hole and pooling on the floor. He pitched forward, dead before he hit the ground.

The farce of a fight had ended almost as soon as it had begun. Less than ten seconds had passed since the gong had sounded.

The guard stepped down from the ring, his expression as bored as if he’d just finished a light jog. The tourists stared at the blood-soaked canvas for several seconds of stunned silence before erupting into a deafening wall of sound. The praise and cheering were so loud it felt like they would tear the roof off the casino.

"This... this is impossible! Those were professional killers!" Whitehead gripped the arms of his chair, unable to believe his eyes.

"Heh. Prosthetics are part of the body, right? I assume that last move didn’t count as a violation," Jason said with a dry, biting mockery.

"You..." Whitehead’s eyes were bloodshot as he glared at him.

"You win some, you lose some. I’ll be taking those five billion units now. Much appreciated." Jason stood up, offering a polite, mocking bow.

That smirk was the final straw. Whitehead’s expression twisted.

As Jason and his guards walked through the lobby, the crowd of tourists parted like the Red Sea. They stared at these outsiders with a mix of curiosity, awe, gratitude, and resentment. Peter puffed out his chest, soaking up the attention.

The group reached the exchange counter. The guard tapped on the glass. "Hey, snap out of it. Cash out these chips. Now."

"Uh... yes, sir! Right away!" The teller, shaking off his shock, frantically began counting the chips and processing the transfer to hard currency.

The massive sum—over five billion units—was packed into dozens of high-security cases. Jason’s guards took the lead, and Peter eagerly helped by carrying two cases himself.

"Stop!"

As they were about to exit, Whitehead’s voice boomed through the hall. He was standing on the balcony, looking down.

Jason turned around. "Still not satisfied? My apologies, but you’ll have to wait for another opportunity."

"Another opportunity?" Whitehead let out a cold, jagged laugh. He pointed a shaking finger at Jason. "You don’t have another opportunity! You’re dead!"

At his signal, hitmen hidden in the crowd drew laser pistols and opened fire. A storm of laser bolts converged on Jason. Some of the guards had decent aim, hitting Jason directly. Others were terrible, missing their target and shattering glassware, tables, and benches. A few were simply sociopaths, spraying the crowd and killing several innocent bystanders in the crossfire.

Whitehead’s retaliation was a blatant violation of planetary law and casino rules, but he was entrenched on Morul. He had power. He had influence. Even if he committed a massacre in broad daylight, he could just pay off the right people and sweep it under the rug. No one would touch him.

This was why his men were so eager to kill. They were used to acting without any consequences. Being humiliated on their home turf by an outsider was a stain they couldn’t endure.

They emptied their guns. The gunfire finally ceased. As the smoke cleared, the crowd was seen cowering behind cover or huddled in corners, their reactions practiced and cynical.

But Jason, the primary target, was standing exactly where he had been, completely unharmed. Even the guards standing next to him were untouched.

The assassins stared, their eyes bulging with shock.

"What the hell?"

"Did we miss?"

"No, I saw the hits!"

"Then why is he still standing?!"

Peter, crouching in a corner with his blasters drawn, stared at Jason in disbelief.

"Bastards," Jason said softly. He turned around.

The guard dropped to one knee. "Master, your command?"

"Since they don’t have manners," Jason said flatly, "Kill them all."

"Action!"

The guards dropped the cash cases, drew their weapons, and vanished into the crowd like shadows.

"Quick! Kill him! Kill him now!" Whitehead shrieked, his voice cracking.

The lobby became a meat grinder. Screams of agony mingled with the hiss of lasers and the ring of steel. Blood and viscera splattered the ornate walls. Jason’s guards were elites hand-picked from the Sakaaran arenas. They had survived the most brutal meat-grinders in the galaxy and had been empowered by Jason’s own energy. Whitehead’s hired muscle was nothing more than leeks waiting to be harvested. They were decapitated, dismembered, and gutted before they could even scream.

In minutes, the lobby was a charnel house. Hundreds of assassins were wiped out.

Seeing his elites being slaughtered like farm animals, Whitehead finally felt the cold touch of terror. He realized then that he had picked a fight with a monster he couldn’t possibly hope to overcome. He tried to flee, but a guard intercepted him, dragging him back to Jason like a dead dog.

"Wait! Please! Don’t kill me!" He begged, dropping to his knees.

Jason looked down at him. "I ignored the sore loser act at the table. I ignored the cheating in the ring. But firing a gun at me? You just stepped over my line."

Whitehead began to plead frantically. "I was wrong! I’ll pay! I’ll give you ten billion! No—I’ll give you half my estate! My holdings are worth trillions!"

"Stop," Jason said, his voice calm and terrifying. "Do I look like a man who needs money?"

"No, you can’t kill me!" Seeing that bribery was off the table, Whitehead switched to threats. He stood up, gasping for air. "I know you’re strong. But are you stronger than an army? If you touch a single hair on my head, the military will surround this place. I promise you won’t leave Morul alive. Ask them! They’ll tell you who I am!"

Whitehead glared at the surviving crowd, but the tourists looked away, too scared to meet his gaze. Only a few brave souls whispered, "He’s right. He means it."

Jason looked intrigued. "Interesting. Killing you brings out the army? Who the hell are you?"

Whitehead said with renewed confidence. "Tell him. Tell this outsider exactly what my status is."

"......"

The crowd began shouting all at once, a chaotic roar of voices that made no sense to Jason. One of his more informed guards stepped forward.

"Master, based on my intel, this old man is a close associate of the Empire’s heir. He handles the dirty work for the Crown Prince. There are rumors that the Prince is the actual owner of his entire corporate empire."

Hearing this, Jason’s face fell into a look of bored disappointment. "I was hoping for royalty. You’re just a high-level lackey. How dull."

He raised his right hand, fingers curling into a loose grip. A massive hand of shimmering blue energy manifested in the air, clamping around Whitehead like a vice.

"You... you’re insane! Didn’t you hear them? Kill me, and you’re an enemy of the state!"

"Heh. Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve killed more enemies of the state than you’ve had hot meals."

"No! You bastard! You—"

Jason closed his fist. The energy hand constricted with bone-shattering force. Whitehead was crushed into a formless pile of gore in an instant.

"Shit! The madman actually did it!"

"Don’t just stand there! Run! The army’s coming!"

"I just wanted to play some cards! I don’t want to die for this!"

The lobby descended into pure pandemonium. Tourists and staff alike battered down the doors to escape. Furniture was trampled, machines were overturned, and cash and chips flew through the air like confetti.

The group left the casino, cases of cash in hand, and boarded several hovercars, streaking toward the spaceport. Jason sat on a plush, wide sofa inside the transport.

"Alright. Tell me. What happened to Valkyrie? And the Orb... you’re the one who swiped it, aren’t you?" He asked.

Peter, still reeling from the violence he’d just witnessed, sat opposite him and swallowed hard. He straightened his back, trying to find the words.

"I stole the Orb, yeah. But the buyer backed out when he realized Ronan the Accuser wanted it..."

Peter spent the next few minutes detailing everything that had happened over the last few days. When he finished, Jason asked, "This Gamora you mentioned... who is she?"

"She’s a daughter of Thanos," Peter said. "She was sent to work for Ronan to keep him in line, but she betrayed him..."

Jason’s brow furrowed. "Thanos?"

That name again. The third time he’d heard it from someone else.

"Yeah," Peter nodded, quickly moving to defend her. "Technically, she’s his adopted daughter. Thanos slaughtered her people and took her to train as a weapon. She hates his guts."

Jason asked, "Where did Ronan take Valkyrie?"

"I don’t know," Peter shook his head. "But Ronan has a hard-on for Xandar. My guess? Now that he has the Orb, he’s launching a full-scale invasion."

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

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