Chapter 2318

When the two cars were driving side by side, Peter saw a man wearing yellow and black armor sitting in the driver's seat opposite. He had some impression of him; it seemed to be Deadpool's cousin or something.

Peter greeted him, who knew the other side really responded to him, but the tone was slightly helpless.

"Good evening, Spider-Kid, tell your companions to stop sending me messages. I don't need so many greetings!"

The other party's voice sounded much older than Deadpool's. It seemed their age gap wasn't small. Peter just wanted to ask, when Deadpool let out a scream.

"No! Cousin! I need to keep my complete arms and legs so Disney can make my figures! I didn't intentionally leak your contact information!"

Peter opened the Spider-APP, only to find that the group had already discussed it once. Actually, it was just Deadpool relying on his good relationship with Spider-Man, going to the Spider-APP forum to hang out when he had nothing to do. That day, he posted a photo with Deathstroke and captioned it "A journey of killing and cutting off dog heads with cousin, with blood splashing all over the sky."

They put Deathstroke's business card on the counter of the bar behind them. Deadpool forgot to blur it, and as a result, a bunch of Spider-Men deciphered Deathstroke's contact information.

The Spider-Men didn't know what Deathstroke was doing, only heard he was Wade's cousin, so they kept sending greeting text messages to Deathstroke.

If one said they had any serious business, it was fine, but actually, there was none at all. The content of the text messages was mostly "Wade's cousin, good morning, I'm Spider-Man, Wade's best friend, come play another day!"

It just so happened that this bunch of Spider-Men were often caught by Nick to work in the Battleworld and could send cross-universe emails. For a time, Deathstroke's mailbox was filled with spam, and he couldn't even receive emails for real orders.

Deathstroke originally planned to launch an information counterattack, but every one of the tens of thousands of emails he sent back using a virtual mailbox was replied to, making the person renting the server block him overnight.

Deathstroke felt it was necessary to teach this bunch of chatterboxes a lesson offline, letting them know that talking too much had a price.

Deathstroke turned the steering wheel, the car fishtailed, Flash let out a scream, the car body shook violently, and Peter's head hit the glass next to him directly.

"Oh!"

The two slowly stabilized. Peter revealed a bitter face and said, "It wasn't me who provoked him..."

"Deathstroke is very vindictive," Flash said. "The Robin in our universe was tossed around by him quite a bit. Batman warned them not to provoke Deathstroke."

Peter covered his forehead and said, "I can't control other Spider-Men; they can pray for their own blessings."

Flash accelerated again. Soon he discovered there were many cars behind, and the people sitting on them were all strange, and it seemed they were all driving from the fork in the road of the bridge just now. So he turned his head to look over there. An isolated island stood on the sea, with high-rise buildings, brightly lit, with planes taking off and landing from time to time, and many helicopters circling.

"What kind of place is that over there?" Flash muttered to himself. He didn't point for Peter to answer; after all, Peter wasn't a local either. Who knew Peter actually knew? He said, "Bruce said that's 'Black Island,' a special entertainment center built in recent years."

"Special? Where is it special?"

"That place is a 'three-no' zone, or one could say it's the international waters area. The world's top killers, gang members, and brokers, etc., who walk on the edge of the law, all gather there. That place is their stronghold, order-taking place, intelligence distribution center, and money-burning cave."

Flash clicked his tongue and sighed somewhat, "So close to Cat Getan, aren't they afraid Batman will go over and wipe them all out?"

Peter revealed an awkward expression.

Flash looked at him somewhat puzzled.

"It seems this island was built by Batman."

Flash widened his eyes and asked, unable to figure it out, "Built by Batman?!!! He... what did he build this kind of place for???"

"Probably to make money," Peter turned his head away and said, "At first I was the same as you, but soon he convinced me—unless you can eliminate all rich people, there will definitely be mercenaries and killers in this world."

"Top killers are mostly very rich. Instead of letting their money flow elsewhere to continue breeding crime, it's better to give it to Batman to engage in charity and save people. At least, even if there's only one person left in this world without any selfishness, we all believe this person will be Batman, right?"

Flash was speechless.

He waved his hand and said, "Don't repeat any words of the Batman of this universe again in the future. I feel my brain has been polluted."

Then he thought for a moment and said again, "This is too... I mean... hmm... too weird, no, it's not. He actually earns killers' money to engage in charity! He actually managed to earn killers' money! And took it to engage in charity!... Worthy of being Batman."

"You should say worthy of being Wei En."

"If the world's richest man isn't him, who else could it be?"

"Who says it isn't?"

White-Can flew to the sky above Black Island.

When he was testing the new armor, he actually already saw this island, but his line of sight was attracted by that mysterious ship. Now looking back, he wanted to go to the island to explore.

One could see that the vast majority of the buildings on this island were built recently, adhering to the consistent light pollution style of Cat Getan's new buildings. Everywhere were neon lights and glass curtain walls. On one of the tallest buildings, a huge Wei En logo was printed.

White-Can stopped in front of the bridge and walked onto the island, but no one expressed any objection to the steel armor he was wearing, because the vast majority of people here were dressed strangely.

Cat Getan's color was very black, making the neon even brighter. A light rain in the evening made the streets full of water stains, reflecting the phantom light streetscape, not knowing for a moment which was sky and which was water.

Walking into a narrow street, the head was full of flying drones, and the big bar sign was still changing colors. White-Can pushed open the door, and the camera turned toward him.

White-Can sneered and snapped his fingers at the camera. Instantly, the light went out.

He walked to the bar and looked at the situation in the bar without changing his expression. There was a drunkard by the window, but judging by his figure, he was quite well-trained. The scar on his arm should have been left by a bullet; he must have had a brilliant past.

The two people playing pool were also good hands; they looked like they should often fight in desert terrain. The bored-looking bartender next to them wasn't the kind of pretty boy common in bars. White-Can estimated he should be stronger than himself.

It seemed this was a tough guy bar. White-Can snapped his fingers at the bartender who was wiping a glass in the back. The bartender tossed his head at him, and White-Can saw a screen next to him with a menu on it.

The moment White-Can's line of sight focused on the menu, he gasped. Is this unit US dollars? Is it really not Hong Kong dollars?

When he saw that a most basic martini cost 300 US dollars, White-Can knew this was a black shop through and through.

But since he was already here, and he was wearing such flashy armor, yet ran away in a panic when he saw the menu, his face wouldn't be needed if it spread out. He still wanted to travel in this universe for a period of time; having a reputation as a coward wouldn't do.

White-Can directly ordered a 600-dollar Negroni. He repeated it in his heart: a 600-dollar Negroni, 1996, Cat Getan East Coast.

If a bar sells 10 drinks a day, the net profit could be 5800 US dollars. 5800 US dollars in 1996, what else is there to sell Extremis virus for?

Carrying his thoughts, he finished the drink. White-Can walked out of the bar. The impact of the alcohol on him was far less than the price. He swayed into a narrower alley next to him and saw a woman dressed up in a flashy way soliciting customers upstairs.

No need to look to know what this was for, but prostitution here didn't seem to be a legal business. The woman seemed very concerned about the cameras, constantly paying attention to whether there were patrolling drones around.

No Stark could possibly go to prostitute; after all, cover models couldn't even be cycled through. But in order to thoroughly investigate what was going on with the prices here, White-Can still gestured a price.

As a result, the woman first gestured a ten, then gestured a banknote. White-Can really wanted to curse. People doing flesh business in this kind of place actually dared to open a price of 1000 US dollars. Repeat again, 1000 US dollars in 1996.

White-Can still didn't believe in evil. He walked out of this alley and found a slightly larger bar. To be precise, it might be the largest on this island. On the street in the very center, there was an independent building, totaling three floors, brightly lit.

The Negroni here is 1000 US dollars.

White-Can, sitting in front of the bar, had already started thinking about whether this universe had already experienced a large-scale economic crisis. But if the US dollar had already inflated to this point, then it wasn't very scientific that the Third World War hadn't started yet.

When seeing that bottle of ordinary Scotch whisky reaching 60,000 US dollars, White-Can started thinking about the possibility of a huge planet loaded with gold hitting the Earth, but just coincidentally not affecting the Earth's operation, while also bringing at least a hundred times the gold reserves to the Earth.

What was even more outrageous was that someone really bought it.

White-Can looked around and discovered that there wasn't a weak hand around. Most were wearing various armors, wearing masks. Judging by the weapon configuration, none were just for show.

He listened carefully and discovered that the guy next to him who had just opened a 30,000-dollar bottle of wine was saying, "Don't you think this FBI is weird? Killing two ordinary people, and even sending the task to us. I almost thought their agents were all wiped out."

"Don't fucking say it. When I saw that informant, I thought I saw wrong. That guy almost had 'I'm a cop' written on his face."

"The price they offered isn't low, so there must be something fishy about this matter. Is anyone taking this order?"

"Haven't heard of it, but quite a few people want to go see the fun. After all, it's a bounty nature. What if it's easy to do, wouldn't one pick up a leak?"

From these words, White-Can deduced that these people should all be killers and mercenaries. No wonder this group of people earns money easily, and don't know when they will die, spending money lavishly. It couldn't be easier to pit this group of people's money.

It sounded like they took orders here, and the drinks sold expensive, presumably also covering the entrance fee, in order to screen customers.

But White-Can still couldn't help but think, who the fuck is the genius who thought of building an order-taking platform to concentrate a group of killers here to scrape them?

Bat-Bane, who had just returned to his office, let out a long breath. After having his assistant hire a complete, perfect nanny team to take care of Aisha, he clicked on the email of his Battleworld test version software and received Schiller's reply.

Browsing the specific details, Bat-Bane gradually widened his eyes. After watching for a full half hour, Bat-Bane closed the computer with a "bang."

Can't watch anymore. Bat-Bane felt a devil named Greed was gradually tightening his heart.