Chapter 39

The Ten Rings base’s defenses were lax, at least by Alvin’s current standards—almost laughably riddled with holes.

He parked the military Humvee several miles away, avoiding alerting the enemy, and slipped in under cover of night.

He’d expected at least a radical organization that had kidnapped Tony Stark, but there were only a handful of scattered guards, two of whom were even dozing off.

“Good, good, good—no wonder Obadiah wiped them out. These guys are pathetic!”

No hidden sentries, no patrols, no vigilance—the entire camp radiated sloppiness, making Alvin, who had crept in with caution, feel like a clown.

“Fuck, is this even a terrorist organization?” Alvin growled under his breath, liver aching with rage. “They’re worse than the gangs in the Lower Nest. I’d never believe this bunch of trash could’ve attacked Tony Stark without Old Man America and Obadiah backing them.”

If Tark had come, he could’ve severed the Ten Rings leader’s head in the time it took to smoke a cigarette, then strolled out with it casually slung over his shoulder.

But complaints aside—he still had a job to do.

Using the desert’s night as cover, Alvin employed the techniques he’d learned from Tark, moving like a ghost through the dark, silent and unseen as he infiltrated the base.

“Perfect. This is a chance to hone my infiltration skills.” Alvin drew his combat knife, crouched low, advanced slowly, lightened his breathing, and nearly erased his footsteps.

Soon, he reached the rear of the first sentry and erupted forward with lightning speed.

Muzzle clamp, throat slash—two motions, seamless, no pause.

The sentry’s eyes widened, pupils filled with terror—he never knew who killed him.

“Hmm, still not clean enough.” Alvin analyzed the sequence of his assassination, identifying one flaw: his movements were too broad, prone to noise.

If Tark had done it, there’d be no sound at all, and no blood spraying everywhere.

Now that he’d found the error, all that remained was gradual correction.

Fortunately, the base was full of trash—plenty to practice on, plenty to fix his mistakes.

As for why he was doing this... no special reason. Jamil gave him a jar of clean water; in return, Alvin would wipe out this organization.

Plus, he could practice Tark’s techniques—two birds with one stone. Was there a better deal?

“The blade angle was off a few degrees.”

“Observe your surroundings to avoid unnecessary noise.”

“Hmm, next time, stab straight through the heart—less blood spray.”

"This is rare and valuable practical experience!"

After eliminating the last sentry, Alvin wiped the blood from his combat knife and turned his gaze toward the base’s tents.

There must still be plenty of trash inside.

Just as Alvin prepared to sneak into the tents and eliminate those inside, a man stepped out of the cave.

“Shit!”

Alvin cursed silently—he knew the plan was ruined.

Sure enough, the man immediately spotted the blood-stained sand and the gruesome corpses of the sentries, his face twisting in terror as he turned to bolt back into the cave.

Without hesitation, Alvin drew his explosive pistol and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The explosive’s report was deafening, especially in the open desert.

The man’s head and upper body were obliterated in a single blast—the bullet embedded itself in the cave wall, carving out a crater the size of a washbasin!

Alvin blew the smoke from the barrel, expression calm: “Good. Now, Phase Two training: marksmanship and close-quarters combat.”

No sooner had he spoken than a shrill alarm pierced the silent night.

Terrorists jolted awake, bursting from their tents with rifles in hand. Seeing the dead sentries, they had zero training—brandishing AK-47s, they sprayed bullets wildly, relying on luck and sheer noise to intimidate.

Though Alvin wore a shell armor, it only covered his torso and had no helmet—if he got shot in the head, he’d have no one to complain to.

He rolled into cover, rubbed his temples, and sighed helplessly: “Can’t you just stay in bed and let me pick you off one by one? Save some ammo.”

Tark had given him a Star Legion-issue explosive pistol—only forty rounds total.

Each round was precious, and once spent, there’d be no resupply. Alvin was torn—using them on these trash made his heart ache.

As for the plasma gun... forget it. These trash didn’t deserve it.

As Alvin weighed his options, he decided to conserve ammo and activated his deflection field shield, then surged from cover at blinding speed.

Pitter-patter!

A string of bullets struck his shell armor and were fully deflected—even the paint didn’t scratch.

With the “Deflection Field Device” active, Alvin had no fear of being lucky-shot in the head. He zigzagged between cover, closing the distance to the terrorists in seconds.

“Kill him! Kill him!”

A bearded man, clearly of high rank, ordered someone nearby to shoulder a rocket launcher.

But as the man aimed, Alvin’s lips curled into a faint smile—the smile of death: “Perfect. Finally within attack range. Now... it’s my turn.”

The temperature plummeted rapidly; thin frost formed across the desert.

As if countless souls wailed in the wind, the terrorists’ heads exploded one after another like smashed watermelons.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

If there were filters, it would’ve looked like a dazzling fireworks display.

“Devil! He’s a devil!”

“Help!”

“No! I surrender! Don’t kill me!”

But no matter how they begged, none escaped death.

Soon, the Ten Rings base fell silent again.

Red and white viscous sludge, like spilled paint, was smeared haphazardly across the sand.

At that moment, gunfire suddenly erupted from the cave.

“Come on! Come on! You cowards!”

Out stormed a massive iron man, arms spewing fire, screaming wildly: “Tony Stark is here! Get out! Get out!”

The iron man froze mid-motion, as if cursed by a witch’s spell.

Gazing at the carnage—the brain matter, the headless corpses—he staggered, then vomited.

“Ugh—fuck, fuck, what is this?!”

Tony’s stomach churned; he wanted to throw up everything he’d eaten the day before.

Only then did he notice the boy in the desert, staring at him with a strange expression: “You okay?”

Their first meeting left Tony with deep psychological trauma.

After returning, Tony completely banned all foods associated with the words “white” and “viscous.”