Chapter 41

Alvin drove to a small town on the edge of the Afghan desert.

“Moneyed sir, it’s your turn now~” He stopped the car, turned to Tony in the passenger seat, and gestured with his hand: your performance.

Tony casually opened the door, his clothes tattered yet still radiating gentlemanly poise.

“He… is he going to hit on her?” Ethan leaned forward, watching as Tony approached a foreign woman, flicked his hair dramatically, and began chatting confidently.

The foreign woman laughed heartily, clearly enjoying the conversation.

“Isn’t that normal?”

Alvin held the steering wheel with one hand, thinking Ethan still lacked exposure—Tony’s antics were far more elaborate than he imagined.

Ethan watched in disbelief as two strangers went from meeting to hugging and kissing in under five minutes.

Soon, Tony returned with lipstick smudged on his face, strutting back with a brand-new mobile phone in hand.

“How did you do that?”

Ethan couldn’t comprehend how he’d pulled it off.

“What do you mean?”

Tony turned, puzzled, to look at Ethan.

“Uh, I mean… that…” Ethan stammered, gesturing helplessly at their earlier embrace and kiss.

“Oh, you mean that? Easy.”

Tony shrugged, dialing a number as he spoke calmly: “I told her I’m Tony Stark—and then, as you saw.”

Alvin in the front barely held back his laughter, as if hearing Ethan’s heart shatter.

“It’s me, Pepper. I got out.”

After dialing, Tony first assured his safety, then added: “Call Rhodey, yeah, tell him I’m in Afghanistan… damn, what’s this place called again?”

In this world, the only number Tony could remember was Pepper Potts’.

“Herat,” Ethan whispered. “It’s called Herat.”

“Right, Herat. I’ll wait here for him.”

Tony swallowed hard and added: “Tell him to hurry. Bring three burgers when he comes.”

“And then… what?” Ethan, still unaccustomed to the legendary genius’s status, asked: “Shouldn’t we find somewhere to rest while we wait for him?”

“No.”

Alvin chimed in, teasing: “Isn’t there a military base right next door? They’ll be here soon.”

It’s well known that the Middle East produces oil, and oil breeds mold.

Conveniently, Afghanistan’s geography places it at the throat of the Middle East—naturally, it gets beaten regularly.

Given Tony Stark’s background, the Department of Defense and military would take him seriously—and with Rhodey’s rank as a Major General, summoning a mold base to greet him? Child’s play.

“This has nothing to do with me.”

Tony glanced at Ethan, suddenly feeling guilty and offering a weak explanation.

Fortunately, Ethan didn’t care much; the tension of the journey finally eased: “Good, now we’re finally safe.”

Soon, several armored vehicles rolled into town, and two Black Hawk helicopters hovered overhead.

The sheer scale of American power stunned Ethan in the back seat.

A Black American captain, drenched in sweat, sprinted to the Humvee: “Thank God, Mr. Tony Stark! You’re safe!”

“Where’s the plane?”

Tony glared at him, voice dark: “You’re not seriously expecting me to ride back in that piece of junk?”

“No no no, Mr. Stark—the transport plane is just outside Herat!” The captain wiped his brow, nervous: “I’ve contacted the nearby airbase—we’ve arranged a direct flight to New York to ensure your safe return!”

Watching the captain’s subservient demeanor, Alvin found it absurd.

But considering America’s bizarre logic, it wasn’t hard to understand—after all, whether in reality or film, isn’t everything for the rich?

“Heh, will someone shoot down the transport mid-flight with a missile this time?” Alvin teased.

The captain’s face twisted in embarrassment, but he dared not retaliate, only forced a promise: “Mr. Stark, we guarantee absolute safety!”

“I don’t have time for your nonsense. Lead the way.”

Tony waved him off, letting the mold base lead ahead.

News of Tony Stark’s kidnapping in Afghanistan had nearly spread across all of America.

The Department of Defense, under immense pressure, had prayed day and night—and thank God, this man returned unharmed, limbs intact.

Otherwise, the congressmen couldn’t imagine the public backlash they’d face.

Of course, public opinion meant nothing to Tony Stark.

In fact, right now Tony was overwhelmed—so much so he’d forgotten even Pepper Potts.

“Fuck, is this thing meant for humans?!”

Tony’s eyes were bloodshot, staring at the Adeptus Astartes-issue bolter, nearly tearing his hair out: “Who the hell thought to use rockets to propel bullets? The recoil alone could shatter an adult’s bones—insane, too… brutal!”

Here it comes—the 2K-era human ranting about 40K weapons!

Alvin watched Tony’s meltdown, amused, and shoved a double cheeseburger into his mouth, drained his soda, and sighed contentedly: “You good? I thought you were some genius, but you can’t even figure out something this simple?”

In truth, since the desert, Tony had subtly hinted he wanted to examine Alvin’s gear.

But Tony didn’t know—Alvin had deliberately exploited his curiosity, exactly as planned.

Thus, they reached an agreement.

Alvin handed over part of the equipment for Tony Stark to study; any research findings would be shared between them.

Mutual benefit? He was delighted—eager for Tony to study it thoroughly.

And thus, the above scene unfolded.

“Thank God, if you’d just shut your mouth, I’d make faster progress!”

Tony, eyes bloodshot, glared at Alvin, who sat nearby eating and drinking: “And I’ve said it before—don’t leave burger wrappers here!”

“What’s the harm? Isn’t JARVIS here?” Alvin shrugged.

“Mr. Alvin, I must remind you—I am Mr. Stark’s personal AI assistant, not a cleaning robot…” JARVIS, seemingly unable to watch further, chimed in: “Sir, there’s a charity gala tomorrow night—will you attend?”

“No, no, don’t bother me, JARVIS!”

Tony grumbled, then buried himself back in his research.

He was going mad—not because the technology was too hard, but because the weapon’s very design baffled him!

What kind of lunatic would design a gun that uses rockets to fire bullets?

Is this thing meant for fighting aliens?