Chapter 287: When Bullets Bowed
Under the lead of two burly guards, Gene and Doom stepped into the warehouse. Doom walked in front with an air of command, while Gene trailed behind, as if he were no more than an idle bystander observing the show.
They passed through a dimly lit corridor before arriving in what looked like a waiting lounge—really just a makeshift room partitioned off inside the warehouse. A worn sofa sat in the center, facing a massive desk that dominated the far side of the room.
The air reeked of gunpowder and stale smoke. Armed men filled the space, each one carrying an automatic rifle. Doom’s sharp eyes swept the room in a single glance and immediately tallied their numbers—twenty-three in total. Some lounged against the walls with cigarettes hanging from their lips, the rising smoke shrouding the room in a hazy gloom. Their stares were hard, predatory, like wolves waiting for a signal. At a word, they could easily reduce Doom and Gene into swiss cheese.
Gene didn’t bother to hide his indifference. He dropped lazily onto the sofa, as if this place were his own living room. Doom followed, sitting down with quiet confidence.
Moments later, one of the gunmen slipped out of the lounge. Not long after, he returned—ushering in a rotund middle-aged man, flanked by bodyguards, his belly leading the way. A fat cigar jutted from his mouth, and he carried himself with the swagger of someone who had grown far too comfortable with power.
"So," the man said, his voice muffled around the cigar. "Which one of you is Doom? I heard you’re looking to buy weapons from me."
Doom rose calmly to his feet and walked toward him. "And you must be Kafsky?"
For a split second, the man’s expression twitched—but then he burst into hearty laughter, his shoulders shaking as he smirked through a puff of smoke."Pretty boy, you think you can just waltz in here and demand an audience with my boss? You don’t even know who you’re dealing with!"
This was Kafsky—the most notorious arms dealer in all of Latveria. He had men, guns, and connections. In this war-torn country, his influence was second only to the so-called Baron who sat on the throne. If anyone in Latveria had the potential to topple the Baron, it was Kafsky—assuming, of course, he had the guts to try.
Officially, his men ran a logistics company. In reality, they were the backbone of the region’s black market arms trade. It was rumored Kafsky controlled entire military factories, along with supply chains that could smuggle in the most advanced tech—including stolen Stark Industries weapons. He loved to brag that his stockpile was large enough to "arm a nation."
"If you’re not Kafsky himself," Doom said flatly, "then there’s no point in continuing this conversation. I only speak with those who matter."
The fat man blinked in surprise, then let out another booming laugh. He paced slowly toward Doom, cigar in hand, eyes narrowing."Don’t get ahead of yourself, boy. I don’t know who leaked our location to you, but let me make one thing clear—I never intended to do business with you. I came here only to find out how you discovered us. But that doesn’t matter. Because soon... you’ll be begging to tell me everything."
At his signal, the room changed instantly. Every gunman raised their automatic rifles, their barrels locking onto Doom and Gene. Gene remained slouched in his seat, unbothered, as if watching a circus clown perform. Doom’s eyes, cold and devoid of emotion, swept over the soldiers. To him, their weapons were no more threatening than toys in a child’s hands.
"When this is over," the fat man sneered, puffing on his cigar, "I’ll grant you the mercy of a quick death. That’s just how generous I am."
In his mind, the speech was flawless—like something out of a gangster’s handbook. He was proud of it, savoring the role of executioner. From the cut of their coats and their bearing, it was obvious these two were foreigners—Americans, most likely. And he despised Americans. Arrogant, condescending, always radiating some imagined superiority. They didn’t understand Latveria. Here, there was only one rule: survive, and you become the rule.
But then... unease crept up his spine. Something about these two was wrong. Neither man showed even the slightest flicker of fear. Doom looked as cold as stone, his gaze sharp enough to cut. And the other one—Gene—sat with the calm amusement of a spectator, as if waiting for the next act in a play.
The fat man shook off the thought. Ridiculous. He had the money, the men, the guns. Why should he be afraid?
Drawing deeply on his cigar, he barked, "Kill them."
Twenty-three rifles roared at once. Streams of bullets spat out, forming a lethal wall of steel aimed straight at Doom and Gene.
But the bullets never reached them.
A surge of emerald energy erupted from Doom, sweeping outward like a tidal wave. The oppressive force pressed down on every soul in the room, commanding obedience. Even the bullets themselves seemed to bow to his will, halting mid-air as if frozen by some unseen hand.
The soldiers gaped in disbelief. Their weapons had fired, but the impossible was staring them in the face—time itself had bent to Doom’s command.
Then the green energy pulsed again. The suspended bullets shivered, turned, and found new targets—the very men who had fired them.
Screams filled the room as the bullets tore back into the gunmen with brutal precision. One by one, they collapsed, their eyes wide with disbelief even in death. Not a single man survived.
Only Kafsky remained, his cigar trembling between his fingers as the smoke curled upward in silence.
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T/N:
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