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Chapter 113: The Gangster Who Comes To Your Door
🕑 Added 2025-10-09 11:23:24 +0000 UTCIn a small rental apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, New York, Allens slowly opened his eyes. Half a month had passed since he was expelled from the superhuman timeline. During this time, Allens had kept a low profile, focusing solely on training his psychokinesis.
Because his telekinetic power had weakened, he couldn’t move large objects anymore. Instead, he practiced fine control—microscopic manipulation using his mind.
At the moment, a round coin floated above his palm, spinning rapidly in midair. All five of his fingers moved slightly, but the coin remained suspended, circling with precision and speed. It looked eerie—almost unnatural.
For the past two weeks, the Heroes Rise System in his mind had remained dormant, silent as if in deep sleep—waiting for the right moment to reactivate and help him grow stronger once again.
In 2007, New York was still peaceful. There were no super-criminals or superheroes—just petty crimes like bank robberies. Even Hell’s Kitchen, known for its chaos, was relatively calm during the day.
During this quiet period, Allens had been reviewing his past experiences and refining his plans for the future. Today, he finally decided to leave Hell’s Kitchen and head to the Stark Industries Building.
Wearing a simple but clean suit worth no more than 900 yuan, Allens stepped out of his apartment—only to find dozens of gangsters waiting for him on the street. His brows furrowed slightly.
“Hey, boss, that’s him! That bastard Allens who ruined our deal with the Skull Gang!”
A burly man, about 1.9 meters tall with a buzz cut and a scarred face, pointed at Allens, his tone full of resentment.
“Hmph, seems the Mexican gang finally wants to make a move. Let’s see how terrifying they really are.”
Next to him, a thin man with sunken eyes and a vicious smile walked forward, pressing the barrel of his pistol against Allens’ forehead.
His name was Zangwill Adair, the current leader of the Mexican gang. In a recent turf war against the Skull Gang, the rival boss Hood Kane had hired Allens as a negotiator—who ended up sabotaging the Mexican gang’s entire plan. Because of that, the Skull Gang had rapidly expanded and now stood toe-to-toe with Zangwill’s operation.
Furious, Zangwill had been hunting Allens ever since. Now, he’d finally cornered him.
“Hey, kid, aren’t you supposed to be good at convincing people? Let’s see if you can talk your way out of this!” Zangwill sneered, pressing the gun harder against Allens’ head.
Allens met his gaze calmly. “Interesting… I was planning to head to Stark Tower, but it looks like you’ve given me a better idea instead.”
His eyes flashed dangerously. In an instant, the pistol in Zangwill’s hand began to disassemble itself. The metal parts floated apart piece by piece, scattering onto the ground.
“W–What the hell?!” Zangwill shouted, trembling as fear spread across his face.
A one-dollar coin appeared in Allens’ right hand. With a flick of his finger, the coin shot forward like a bullet.
Whizz!
The silver flash pierced straight through Zangwill’s forehead.
Then, as if alive, the coins began to dance in the air—bending through impossible angles and cutting through the skulls of every gang member around him.
Chi! Chi! Chi!
Bodies dropped one after another, blood pooling on the pavement. The blood-stained coins clattered onto the ground as Allens stepped forward, his expression cold and unflinching.
He had originally planned to visit Stark Industries, but after this encounter, another name came to mind—Kingpin.
That’s right. Wilson Fisk, known in the underworld as Kingpin—the crime lord who ruled over New York and most of America’s black market.
“Kingpin… a mountain of muscle and malice,” Allens murmured as he walked deeper into Hell’s Kitchen. “A ruthless strategist with power rivaling superhumans. Maybe it’s time I met him.”
In the heart of Hell’s Kitchen stood the Fisk Charity Building, a well-known philanthropic organization in New York. Its president, the respected businessman Wilson Fisk, was celebrated as a generous donor and humanitarian.
But no one knew the truth—Fisk’s true identity was Kingpin, the emperor of New York’s criminal empire.
The top floor of the building was converted into a massive private gym and training hall. Behind it stood a luxurious office furnished with solid oak and gold accents.
A giant man in a spotless white suit sat behind a dark gold desk. The space between his chair and the desk was tight—his massive frame filled every inch.
Across the room, dozens of elite fighters from around the world lay motionless on the floor, their blood staining the mats.
“Bullseye,” Fisk said coldly, his thick fingers tapping the desk. “How’s the investigation on this… persuader?”
“Boss, I’ve found something,” replied Bullseye, his top enforcer and chief of intelligence. “The man’s name is Allens. He’s only recently become active in Hell’s Kitchen. His previous record is completely ordinary—but lately, he’s displayed the ability to influence and manipulate others. Based on our findings, it’s likely a superpower.”
Fisk’s eyes narrowed to slits. “This ‘Persuader Allens’—can he be used? If not, kill him.”
A single vigilante in the streets was already a nuisance. The appearance of another metahuman made Fisk uneasy. He could feel that something big was coming.
“Boss, that’s what’s strange,” Bullseye continued. “According to our reports, Allens disappeared for some time—completely vanished—and only reappeared recently.”
Fisk leaned forward, his enormous bulk causing the wooden desk to creak under pressure. His eyes gleamed with intrigue.
“Disappeared for a while, huh?” he murmured. “Seems it’s time I met this mysterious Mr. Persuader… myself.”
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