Chapter 124 – Kingpin's Wrath
As the undisputed king of the New York underworld—and indeed, all of the United States—Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin, possessed both the capital and the sheer, brutal leverage to reshape his environment.
Ever since he struck his deal with the Devil's Envoy, life had fundamentally changed. His focus had shifted from mere business expansion to the mastery of the Devil Fruit Qin Xiao had granted him. Deep within the shadows of Hell's Kitchen, Fisk had constructed a network of secret, reinforced training facilities. When the city could no longer contain the destructive output of his training, he pushed further into the suburbs, carving out private blast zones where he could unleash his full potential without consequence.
He had started small. His initial bombs were no larger than a standard grenade. But Fisk saw the potential Qin Xiao had promised: nuclear-level yields, or perhaps even worse. He had pushed his body to the brink, training until he could trigger explosions equivalent to rockets, tank shells, and finally, heavy-duty missiles.
But recently, he had hit a wall. His progress had stalled, leaving him in a state of simmering, volatile rage—a rage that saw several of his subordinates vaporized for minor infractions.
Then came the sky-tear over Stark Tower.
When the Chitauri portal opened and their forces began to bleed into the surrounding districts, one wing of the invasion force steered toward Hell's Kitchen.
Fisk stood on the balcony of his high-rise tower, watching the chaos unfold. He didn't react with fear; he reacted with the possessive fury of a man defending his own kingdom.
"Tell every gang in Hell's Kitchen to mobilize," Fisk commanded, his voice a low, gravelly thunder. "All of them. If I find a single group staying in the shadows, they won't survive to see tomorrow."
It was the first total mobilization he had ordered in years. Hell's Kitchen dropped their blood feuds. Today, there was only one enemy.
Down in the streets, the battle was frantic. The Chitauri infantry surged forward, only to be met by a wall of high-caliber gunfire from Hell's Kitchen's deadliest hitmen.
"Boss, the ground troops are being held, but the Leviathans are ignoring our fire!" a subordinate reported.
Standing beside Fisk was Bullseye, the marksman extraordinaire who served only the Kingpin. He looked up at the sky, his eyes tracking the massive biomechanical beasts. "The soldiers on the ground are one thing, Fisk. But those leviathans? How do you propose we take those down?"
Fisk didn't answer. He simply discarded his cane and cracked his neck. Despite his massive, hulking physique, he moved with the predatory grace of a cat.
BOOM!
He ignited the soles of his shoes, launching himself off the balcony like a human cannonball.
"I want to see what you've become," Bullseye whispered to himself, watching the Kingpin disappear into the sky. "You said your power came from the Devil's Envoy... if this works, I might have to go see him myself."
Fisk's strategy was simple: the mouth of the Leviathan.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
He didn't just fly; he turned the air into a propellant. Every explosion beneath his feet sent him careening faster, breaking the sound barrier, his trajectory erratic and impossible to predict. He was a streak of fire in the sky, more missile than man.
He dove straight into the maw of the nearest Leviathan.
"Hell's Kitchen is not for you," he growled.
BOOM!
The internal explosion was catastrophic. Fisk didn't just detonate on contact; he allowed himself to become the bomb, ripping through the creature's internal organs until he burst out the tail end, leaving the behemoth a lifeless, plummeting wreck.
He didn't stop. He pivoted in mid-air, chaining explosions beneath his feet to slingshot toward the next target.
The Chitauri pilots swarmed him, their energy weapons painting the sky in lethal light. Fisk moved like a fish in water, his body detonating in micro-bursts to weave through the incoming fire. He was a blur, unpredictable and unstoppable.
He slammed into the next Leviathan, triggering a massive concussion blast that forced the creature's head downward. The sudden momentum shift caused it to flip violently, crashing into its own kind.
Fisk snatched a handful of metal debris from the wreckage. He compressed his energy into the scraps, his eyes glowing with the raw, volatile power of the Bomb-Bomb Fruit. With a final, massive blast, he hurled the debris forward.
The metal shards acted like shrapnel from a cruise missile. The Chitauri pilots in his path didn't stand a chance; they were shredded in an instant, falling like broken dolls.
The Kingpin had turned the sky into a slaughterhouse.
Down on the streets, the hardened criminals of Hell's Kitchen watched in stunned silence. They had known Fisk was powerful, but this? This was god-like. They had seen him as a boss, but today, they saw him as a force of nature. As the Kingpin continued to dismantle the invasion fleet, every gangster in the city came to a silent, collective understanding: the Kingpin's crown was not just secure—it was untouchable.
He was a one-man army, and today, he was the king of the sky.