Chapter 62: You're the Black King, aren't you? Let me see how tough you really are

The setting sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky gradually darkened.

Wilson loved to stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows of Fisk Tower at sunset, watching Hell’s Kitchen slip from dusk into night.

Because only after the sun set did Hell’s Kitchen reveal its true face.

Dirty, chaotic, bloody... a kingdom belonging to the Black King, obeying no laws or rules, only bowing to him—Wilson Fisk, Kingpin!

Wilson was accustomed to lighting a Cohiba cigar, pairing it with a glass of whiskey, then sitting in that plush chair, silently admiring his kingdom.

But this time, something felt different.

Wilson gazed at Hell’s Kitchen sinking into night, bathed in the last glow of the setting sun, yet it appeared desolate, bleak—even the sparse figures on the streets suddenly sent a chill through him.

“No, bad news, BOSS!”

At that moment, a subordinate burst through the door in panic, face pale with terror.

Normally, anyone daring to disturb him at this hour would be rewarded with a bullet.

But perhaps that fleeting chill had given Wilson a foreboding sense—he turned, eyes fierce and brutal, locking onto the intruder: “What happened?”

“J-just now... Hell’s Kitchen has been completely sealed off!”

The subordinate trembled, sweat pouring down his face, voice shaking with fear: “The men below say they saw dozens of military armored vehicles—and even... even tanks!”

Armored vehicles? Tanks?

The moment Wilson heard this, he suspected his subordinate was high.

“Are you sure you didn’t misread?” It wasn’t that he didn’t believe him—it was simply unimaginable. The military had nothing to do with them. Why bother sealing off Hell’s Kitchen?

Could it be the army was short on DP and came to raid Hell’s Kitchen?

That made no sense—even if they looted the entire district, it wouldn’t last two days for those damn soldiers.

“BOSS, I swear I didn’t missee!” The subordinate’s face turned ashen as he raised a trembling hand in oath: “Hundreds of armored vehicles have surrounded Hell’s Kitchen—no fly can get out!”

“Order everyone back. Absolutely no provocation of the military!”

Wilson realized the gravity of the situation and immediately turned to grab the phone on his desk.

The military was moving aggressively—he needed to know at least some of the inside information.

After dialing one number, Wilson carefully chose his tone, trying to sound as gentle as possible: “Senator Charles? This is Wilson Fisk...”

“Wilson? What Wilson? I don’t know you. Don’t call here again!”

To his shock, the senator on the other end outright denied knowing him and hung up.

“??? ”

A dark premonition surged in Wilson’s chest.

He quickly dialed the second number—but the result was nearly identical; this time, no one answered at all.

The third, fourth... up to the tenth call—either no one picked up, or they outright denied him.

CRASH!

Wilson smashed the phone with a punch, black veins bulging, his face turning purple with rage.

“I spent so much money—and in the end, they’re all useless! Useless!” His furious roar echoed through the vast office; his fists, like iron bowls, shattered the two-meter-long rosewood desk—revealing just how terrifying his strength was!

“No, bad news, BOSS!”

As Wilson seethed with rage, the same subordinate rushed back in—this time, his face was ashen, as if he’d lost a family member.

“What is it? Speak!”

Wilson growled irritably, glaring at the subordinate.

“The military... they’ve all moved in—they’re heading straight for Fisk Tower!”

“Target... me?!”

Wilson’s pupils shrank sharply, then twisted into a snarl: “Damn it—what the hell happened? Why is the military after me?!”

He couldn’t understand—how had the military bypassed Congress to openly seal off Hell’s Kitchen?

Had the damn senators in Capitol Hill all lost their brains?

But now, there was no time for Wilson to ponder.

“BOSS, shouldn’t we fight them?”

The subordinate suddenly had a flash of inspiration and offered Wilson a suggestion.

Fight?

Wilson nearly laughed.

Fight the military? What did he think he was?

He was the Black King—not Superman. What could he possibly use to fight professionals?

Even if a superhero showed up, ask him if he could survive a single round from a main battle tank’s cannon.

Besides, the military clearly came prepared—armor, tanks, and who knows if fighter jets were already warming up. What could he possibly match them with?

“Get out of here!”

Wilson didn’t bother with him—he slapped the idiot across the room.

Just as he was about to escape through the secret passage, his years-honed instinct suddenly screamed a violent warning of danger!

Almost instinctively, Wilson’s massive body curled into a ball and rolled like a dung ball to the corner of the room.

BOOM!!

The next second, the specially reinforced office wall was blasted open by a massive hole.

Amid swirling dust, a towering black shadow stormed into the office: “Wilson Fisk, come out and face me!!”

At first, Wilson’s fury surged—he was ready to charge out and teach this bastard a lesson.

Show him with his iron fist who the true Black King of Hell’s Kitchen was.

But the moment he peeked out and saw the black shadow entering the room, he instantly abandoned that unrealistic thought.

It was a two-meter-tall humanoid mech—but unlike the sleek designs in sci-fi novels, this mech was enormous!

And the number and variety of weapons mounted on it reached a psychotic level!

Under its left arm: a six-barrel Minigun. Under its right arm: a grenade launcher. On each shoulder: a mini-cannon. Around its waist: a grotesquely designed firearm.

“Motherfucker...”

Wilson’s eyelids twitched—he wondered if the military really needed this thing to deal with him?

It wasn’t even using a cannon to kill a mosquito—it was using an atomic bomb to kill a mosquito!

“Friend, isn’t there some kind of misunderstanding here?!”

Just one glance told Wilson this thing was beyond human combat—he immediately chose to beg.

“Misunderstanding? No misunderstanding!”

Tony, seething with rage, raised his left arm—the Minigun primed to fire.

The whirring of machinery sounded like the death knell of fate!

Wilson cursed furiously in his mind—what had he done to deserve this? Why was the military going to such lengths to hunt him down?

“Hey, you there?”

Suddenly, Alvin’s voice crackled through the armor, interrupting Tony’s killing intent.

“Pepper found?!”

Tony was startled with relief—and momentarily forgot about Kingpin.

“Not yet, but soon,” Alvin said calmly, unhurriedly: “Just remind you—keep Kingpin alive. Don’t kill him.”

Tony glanced at Kingpin slinking away and gritted his teeth: “Fine, I’ll spare him. Move faster!”

With that, the Minigun on his left arm fired a short burst, cutting off Kingpin’s escape route.

But after thinking it over, Tony still couldn’t swallow his anger—he glared fiercely at Kingpin, then discarded both arm-mounted weapons, clenched his fists together, and let out a dull metallic clang: “Come on. You’re the Black King, right? They say you’re tough. Let me see just how tough you really are!”