Chapter 58

Manhattan, the most chaotic Hell’s Kitchen, was like the sewers of all New York.

Its chaos gathered elite talents from every walk of life; in a sense, it could even rival the Undercity.

In the past, Obadiah, as an elder of Stark Industries, would never have looked down upon this rabble of the lower class—but times had changed.

If not pushed to the brink, he would never have dared to seek out ‘Wilson’.

Wilson Fisk was a well-known real estate tycoon across New York City, known for his charity work and frequent participation in philanthropy; to many, he was a kind-hearted businessman.

But unfortunately, everything has two sides—just like Wilson Fisk.

He concealed another, little-known identity: the undisputed black king of all America, ‘Kingpin’—a name that struck terror into the hearts of all who heard it!

His cruel and cunning methods, coupled with his overwhelming network of influence, made Kingpin’s position as solid as a mountain.

Any gang that crossed ‘Kingpin’ would find their heads severed and delivered to the top floor of Fisk Tower, placed before the black king’s desk—often before the next day dawned.

That was precisely why Obadiah dreaded going to ‘Wilson’.

But unfortunately, Pepper Potts had secretly infiltrated the office to investigate, and Obadiah sensed danger—he suspected his beloved nephew had begun to suspect him.

Drawing from past experience, Obadiah had learned one profound lesson.

Either don’t do it at all—or do it completely!

If that beloved nephew insisted on blocking his path, then better to eliminate him outright!

As he pondered, he arrived at Fisk Tower.

Obadiah parked his car and opened the door: “Take me to Wilson.”

The guards at the entrance had clearly been instructed; they led Obadiah onto a private elevator that carried him straight to the top-floor Fisk Office.

“Long time no see, Spartan.”

In the bright reception hall, a lavish crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.

A hand-sewn wool carpet from the Middle East felt incredibly soft underfoot; beyond it, a massive medieval oil painting adorned the wall, beneath which sat a two-meter-wide zaohong desk, behind it a massive man in a suit stretched taut over his frame.

Obadiah’s own near-two-hundred-pound frame seemed almost frail beside him.

Clearly, this was the black emperor who ruled all of America—the man known as ‘Kingpin,’ Wilson Fisk!

“Wilson, I’ve come to propose a deal.”

Obadiah wasted no time: “When it’s done, I’ll give you two billion dollars.”

Wilson’s thick, broad fingers clutched a cigar as he gazed at Obadiah, his voice calm: “I’m glad you came to me—but your attitude leaves much to be desired.”

“What do you mean?”

Obadiah’s face flushed and paled in turn, growing ugly.

Seated in his chair, Wilson lifted his eyelids slightly, his tone still level, betraying no emotion: “You come to me for help, yet you won’t even call me ‘Mr. Fisk.’”

That was, truthfully, not wrong.

In essence, Obadiah looked down on Wilson entirely.

A street thug, a beggar of the underworld—how could he compare to Obadiah, a pure-blooded son of the Stars and Stripes?

He prided himself as part of high society, surrounded by congressmen and military generals; if not cornered, how could he possibly turn to the underworld for solutions?

But the situation was such, Obadiah’s face twisted in agony as he forced out: “Mr. Fisk, I am willing...”

“Mr. Spartan, let me remind you,” Wilson tapped his finger lightly on the desk, cutting him off without mercy, his tone indifferent: “Many come to me for help. As a friend, I don’t mind resolving minor troubles for them—but you... from start to finish, you’ve shown not a shred of respect for me.”

“Then... esteemed Mr. Fisk, how should I express my respect for you?”

Obadiah’s face burned crimson-purple from humiliation, but he knew he was here to beg—he had to swallow this insult.

“Kneel.”

Wilson sat in his chair, yet he seemed an unclimbable mountain.

A terrifying aura surged toward Obadiah, as if the very air in the room had been instantly drained.

In its place came endless oppression; though Obadiah had met countless high officials and nobles, none had ever made him feel suffocated to his very soul, as Wilson did!

Thud!

Finally, Obadiah could no longer bear it—he knelt on the soft wool carpet.

In truth, he was merely a merchant; he had courage to deal with terrorist groups only because he believed his life was never truly at risk.

But Wilson was different—he was a man who rose from nothing to build a criminal empire!

“Good, Mr. Spartan.”

Watching Obadiah trembling, drenched in sweat, Wilson nodded slightly and tapped his finger on the desk: “I see reverence in your eyes—good. Now, rise. Let us discuss your so-called deal.”

Obadiah leaned on his weak knees and barely managed to stand again.

He looked at Wilson once more—but his gaze now carried a hidden thread of awe.

“Esteemed Mr. Fisk, I need your help eliminating a few problems.” Having experienced that moment, Obadiah now spoke with formal respect, his words subtly tinged with barely concealed fear.

“Names.”

Wilson said indifferently.

“Tony Stark. Alvin Valshus.”

Obadiah named them without hesitation, his eyes flashing with cruelty: “I want you to eliminate them as soon as possible. For this, I offer two billion dollars—except one condition: Tony Stark’s chest-mounted micro-reactor.”

“Not enough.”

Wilson lowered his eyelids and shook his head slightly: “The price you offer is insufficient, Mr. Spartan.”

Though he was the black emperor, he still followed ‘rules’—otherwise, how could he have ever sat in this chair through sheer brute force?

Assassinating Tony Stark was an act that would shatter the heavens!

If exposed, not only Congress and the military, but all of America’s financial and commercial circles would unite to boycott him.

The reason was simple: if you can kill Tony Stark today, you can kill someone else tomorrow—how long would anyone dare to do business under such chaos?

Wilson had reached this position not through physical strength, but through a cunning mind.

He knew clearly—this deal... was not worth it.

“Five billion! Five billion dollars!”

Obadiah gritted his teeth and doubled the reward again: “Esteemed Mr. Fisk, if you agree, once I take control of Stark Industries, I will give you five percent of annual profits!”

This time, to utterly eradicate Tony Stark and that damned Alvin Valshus, he no longer cared about the cost!

Five percent of Stark Industries’ annual profits? That was a staggering sum!

Even Wilson was momentarily moved; he licked his lips: “Mr. Spartan, you must understand—helping you assassinate Tony Stark will bring me immense trouble. This isn’t about money. Do you understand?”

“Mr. Fisk, I fully understand the risks.”

Obadiah remained calm and revealed his final trump card: “So I intend to surrender my shares in Stark Weapons Industries as compensation.”

Wilson, who had been unwilling, paused: “Then... on the other hand...”

Shares in Stark Weapons Industries? No one in the world didn’t covet them—this was the very thing the military had fought tooth and nail to obtain a fraction of!

“Since you’re my friend, I accept.”

Wilson licked his lips, like a beast shedding its human skin, his entire being radiating savage, violent energy: “I value friendship. Since you’re my friend, I’ll handle this for you, Mr. Spartan.”

Friend? Friendship?

Hearing Wilson’s nauseating words, Obadiah found them laughable.

What friendship? What loyalty? It was all about the money!

But it didn’t matter!

Obadiah lowered his head, his eyes revealing a cruel glint.

Once he obtained the micro-nuclear reactor, he could forge the Iron Armor—what use were black emperors... let them die!