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That's right.
It was just his clothes.
The bullets hadn't even touched his skin.
Thanks to the ridiculous powers of the Smooth-Smooth Fruit, Deadpool's entire body was so unbelievably smooth that the bullets couldn't pierce him even if they wanted to. They simply bounced right off, as if his skin was coated in the universe's slickest Teflon.
"Hah! So the Smooth-Smooth Fruit does make me bulletproof! Man, I should've eaten that weird magical fruit years ago," Deadpool said, clearly delighted with his newfound invincibility. He glanced down at the holes riddling his suit, which had not been quite so lucky.
It made him think. For years, the whole reason he rocked a red suit was because it hid all the bleeding. It was practical and edgy. But now? Now, he was a man who didn't bleed at all.
That opened up some wardrobe options.
"Maybe it's time to rebrand. Black, maybe? Or hot pink! Ooh, tactical glitter!" he grinned, spinning dramatically on his heel as if addressing a fashion show audience—except the only people watching were the terrorists still standing there, completely frozen in shock.
To them, this whole thing was pure nightmare fuel.
This lunatic had casually shrugged off a full spray of machine gun fire like it was a gentle summer breeze, and if that wasn't terrifying enough, he'd deflected half their bullets with nothing but a pair of swords. That wasn't something a regular guy could do. That was… demon behavior.
But wait. One of the smarter terrorists squinted, noticing the damage to Deadpool's uniform. "Wait a minute! That's body armor!" he shouted, suddenly piecing it together.
The others quickly caught on. 'Oh. Oh, thank God.' For a second, they'd genuinely believed this guy was some supernatural hellspawn sent to punish them personally. It turns out he was just a lunatic in high-end gear.
Relief flooded in and then, just as quickly, fury.
"Light him up!"
*RATATATATA!*
Gunfire roared to life again, but this time, Deadpool was already moving.
*CLANG!*
Steel flashed in the sunlight as his katanas spun through the air, slicing the incoming bullets in half before they could even get close. And then—
*SLASH!*
He was on them. The blades cut through their throats like they were made of paper, the edges so sharp they barely felt a thing before the blood started to spray.
*SHK! SHK!*
In the span of a few heartbeats, the entire squad lay crumpled at his feet. Not a single one was left standing. Deadpool sent the lingering blood droplets flying off his blades in a perfect crimson arc with a satisfied little flick of his wrists.
"Next?" he said cheerfully, already locking onto the next unlucky target down the road. And just like that, he was off again, charging forward like the world's most chaotic, sword-swinging wrecking ball.
*BOOM!*
The ground shook violently as an explosion tore through the air, sending a ripple of shockwaves across the battlefield.
Deadpool reacted on pure instinct, diving into a quick, sloppy roll just as a thick cloud of dirt, smoke, and debris erupted behind him. The force of the blast didn't just knock him off his feet—it launched him several meters, sending him crashing headfirst into a jagged pile of rocks.
His skull flattened like a pancake on impact.
For anyone else, that would've been the end—instant game over.
But for Deadpool? Not even close.
Within seconds, his body bounced back like rubber. He staggered to his feet, shaking his head side to side until it popped back into its proper shape, looking mildly annoyed but completely unharmed.
He followed the trail of smoke back to its source and spotted it immediately: a tank, its cannon still glowing faintly from the recent shot.
"A tank? Oh, come on. That's overkill," Deadpool grumbled, casually brushing bits of dirt and rock out of his suit. But even as he complained, his feet were already moving, carrying him right back toward the fight without hesitation.
*BOOM! BOOM!*
The tank's cannon fired again—two deafening blasts back-to-back. Shells rained down, forcing S.H.I.E.L.D. agents into cover, scrambling for safety as dirt and shrapnel filled the air.
From her position, Black Widow tapped her earpiece. "Clint, you seeing that?" she asked, keeping her voice calm despite the chaos. "Think you can handle it?"
Before Falconman could even answer, a new voice broke in over the comms.
"No need. I got this."
It was Kingpin.
"And, lucky for you, I'm already in position."
Falconman, arrow already notched and ready to fire, paused for a second. There was a slight beat of silence, and then, with a shrug, he relaxed his bowstring and swapped to a different arrowhead. If Kingpin wanted to show off, so be it.
After all, this whole mission wasn't just about rescuing Tony Stark, it was also their first real test run for the Devil Fruit users on the team. If Kingpin wanted to flex? Let him.
Black Widow had the same thought. While keeping up steady suppressive fire to keep enemy soldiers pinned down, her gaze shifted, watching Kingpin closely. She wanted to see just what he could do.
All eyes were on him.
And Kingpin didn't disappoint.
The moment he stepped forward, his entire body began to shift. His skin darkened, hardening into gleaming metal as he activated his Devil Fruit ability. Every inch of him, from his broad shoulders to his clenched fists, looked like he'd been sculpted from solid steel.
Without a word, he launched himself forward in a single explosive leap, covering the distance between him and the tank in seconds. His hands, already glowing red-hot, pulsed with heat like they were fresh out of a forge.
The nearby terrorists panicked. They unleashed a storm of gunfire, desperate to slow him down.
*RATATATA!*
*RATATATA!*
But the gunfire was useless. Every bullet that hit Kingpin's body simply ricocheted off, clattering harmlessly to the ground like pebbles bouncing off solid iron. He didn't even slow down.
In a matter of seconds, he was right in front of the tank, towering over it like some unstoppable force of nature.
"HRAAAAH!"
With a thunderous roar, Kingpin grabbed hold of the tank's massive barrel, both hands glowing with an intense, fiery heat. His fingers dug into the thick steel and, with barely any effort, clenched down hard.
*CRUNCH!*
The barrel folded in his grip like an empty soda can, twisting and warping until it was completely useless.
Several yards away, watching the scene unfold, Raza, the leader of the terrorist group, couldn't stop the audible gulp that slipped from his throat. His eyes were wide with disbelief, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing.
'Did… did that fat guy just… crush a tank barrel with his bare hands?! What kind of monster was he?!'
'And that sword-wielding lunatic from before he cut down a whole squad of gunmen like they were nothing!'
'Where the hell were these freaks coming from?!'
"Boss! We have to retreat! We're getting slaughtered out here!" One of Raza's senior officers came sprinting over, his voice trembling with sheer panic. Fear was written all over his face, clear as day.
Raza's fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening in frustration. Retreat? After everything they'd built here? After all the resources, all the planning, all the sacrifices? Abandoning the site now would be catastrophic.
But then, his eyes swept across the battlefield.
His forces were being annihilated. His so-called elite troops were getting picked off like helpless prey. And it wasn't just skill; these people were playing with powers that defied logic. The armored juggernaut. The sword-wielding psychopath. The archer who could rain death from the sky. They weren't fighting soldiers. They were fighting monsters.
Raza's pride wanted to resist, but reality left him no choice. If they didn't pull out now, there wouldn't be anyone left to retreat.
''Retr—"
Before he could even finish the word, something sharp and unexpected cracked against the back of his skull.
*THWACK!*
His own lieutenant suddenly smashed a fist into the back of his head.
*THUD!*
Raza's body collapsed instantly, hitting the ground like a sack of bricks.
Standing over him, his 'lieutenant' lowered his fist, his expression eerily calm. Without hesitation, he knelt down and pressed one hand to Raza's unconscious face and then touched his own.
His skin rippled. His features shifted.
And in just a few seconds, two Razas were lying there: one unconscious on the dirt and one standing tall, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
The second Raza, the new one, smirked slightly. Because, of course, it wasn't really Raza at all.
It was Black Widow.
The surrounding terrorists stood frozen, their eyes wide with absolute terror.
"What the—?! @#&!%$!"
Their frantic shouts spilled out in a chaotic mess of their native language, panic overtaking any sense of discipline. A few of them scrambled to raise their weapons, desperate to defend themselves, but they never got the chance.
Their new "leader," the freshly transformed 'Raza,' was faster. Without hesitation, she spun on her heel, smoothly raising the very same rifle the real Raza had been carrying. In the blink of an eye, she opened fire, cutting down the nearest group of his own men before they could even process what was happening.
The air filled with sharp, echoing gunfire, and then, just like that, silence.
Lowering the smoking weapon, 'Raza' casually brushed some imaginary dust off her sleeve. With a practiced ease, she straightened out the front of her shirt, making sure the disguise was flawless.
Then, she inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders, and took a commanding step forward.
"All units, cease fire!"
The voice rang out sharp and authoritative, echoing across the battlefield. It was unmistakable the voice of Raza himself.
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Next Chapter: Tony Stark: Are Devil Fruits Actually Real?
Next Next Chapter: Tony Stark Nearly Pisses Himself
Next Next Next Chapter: I Have to Visit That Devil Fruit Shop
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