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At the edge of the city's industrial waterfront, a derelict factory pulsed with garish light, a cancerous sore on the dark coastline. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of cheap liquor and stale cigar smoke. Raucous laughter and the clinking of glasses echoed off the corrugated metal walls, punctuated by crude, boasting shouts.
"Heh, Boss, we really scored this time. A fresh batch of prime goods," a man with a thin, rat-like face said, his voice slick with sycophancy as he addressed the man in the center of the room.
The leader, Victor Drake, took a deep, appreciative gulp of wine. "It's all thanks to the hard work of my brothers," he said magnanimously, though his eyes held no warmth. As he spoke, he twisted his fingers into the snow-white hair of the young woman beside him, forcing her head down. She was stained with tears, her body trembling.
She was terrified, but dared not resist. In the last few days, she had seen with her own eyes what happened to the other indebted women. After these men had sated their desires, the girls were unceremoniously thrown into back-alley brothels. She knew, with a certainty that hollowed out her insides, that tonight was her turn. But no matter how scared she was, resistance was not an option. Her one-year-old son was counting on this money to save his life.
She had no education, no special talents, and no money. The child's father had vanished the moment she became pregnant. All the young woman had left to sell was this body, as young and fragile as her hope. Feeling the greedy, predatory gazes of the gangsters upon her, she tried to shrink into herself, to become invisible.
"Why are you hiding?" Victor snarled, his good mood evaporating. He grabbed the woman by her neck and slammed her face-first onto the sticky, splintered table.
"Hgh—hghh…"
Just as the woman's breathing hitched, her vision tunneling into darkness, the factory doors burst inward with a deafening crash of metal.
"Who!" Victor bellowed, instantly alert, his hand dropping to his side.
A figure stood silhouetted in the ruined doorway, encased from head to toe in sleek, silver armor.
"Tsk. The profile didn't do you justice," a voice, filtered through the armor's speakers, echoed with disgust. "You're even more repulsive in person."
The newcomer was, of course, Russell. He had always known that this world, a place he still thought of as an alien version of the Ming Dynasty, was far from the peaceful society of his original Earth. But it wasn't until this moment, standing in this den of casual cruelty, that he truly saw the depth of the darkness buried just beneath the surface.
Victor Drake stared at the armored man, his mind racing. "You're a cardmaker," he stated, his voice cold. "What business do you have with me?"
"I've just come to borrow something," Russell's detached voice replied, a chilling counterpoint to the room's previous chaos.
Victor was confused, but the dangerous aura radiating from the armored figure was unmistakable. He forced a placating tone. "Whatever you want to borrow, just say the word. As long as I have it, I will gladly satisfy you."
"Oh, I'm sure you will," Russell said. "I've come to borrow your head."
Before the words had even fully registered, Russell summoned his card. A figure with moss-green hair and three swords at his hip materialized beside him. It was a coincidence of timing that both of his newest creations, Zoro and the [Mark 3], were completely unknown, making them the perfect tools for this disguised operation.
Victor's face froze, then twisted into a mask of fury. "You arrogant bastard!" he spat. In an instant, a crimson-skinned figure holding a steel trident appeared before him—a bronze-level demon card.
"Zoro," Russell commanded calmly. "Make it quick."
At the command, Zoro settled into a combat stance, placing the hilt of his third sword between his teeth.
Seeing this, Victor couldn't help but let out a derisive laugh. "Hahaha! What kind of joke card is this? Are you trying to make me die of laughter?!"
Hearing the mockery, Zoro's eyes turned to ice. A terrifying, almost visible aura began to emanate from him. "Oni Giri… Asura: Nine-Sword Style!"
For a fleeting moment, Victor thought he saw the phantom image of a three-headed, six-armed demon overlapping Zoro's body. The illusion was so powerful he recoiled, his heart hammering against his ribs. A trick? An illusion? he thought, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. He was snapped back to reality by the roar of his own card as the demon spewed a torrent of raging fire toward Zoro.
Victor's men, seeing the fight begin, finally reacted. Those with cards summoned them; those without scrambled for cover. But after a single, percussive blast from the repulsor cannon in Russell's palm obliterated several Iron-level summons, the rest of Victor's men froze in their tracks.
Victor saw the power of the armored suit and his heart sank. "It's all on me," he realized.
By now, the flames had reached Zoro. The horrible heat was so intense it caused the tips of his hair to curl. But then—
"Ittoryu: Shishi Sonson!" (One Sword Style: Lion's Song!)
As Zoro's voice rang out, the scene that followed made Victor's pupils shrink to pinpricks. With a single, imperceptible movement, the entire wave of fire was cleanly cut in half. The next moment, Zoro vanished. When he reappeared, the demon card behind him had a bloody line across its chest, and it dissipated into particles of light.
"What!" Victor's voice was a sharp screech of disbelief. He couldn't comprehend it. His primary bronze-level card, defeated in a single exchange. The only explanation was that either the opponent's card was of an impossibly high quality, or the man in the armor was a silver-level cardmaker.
Both possibilities were terrifying. Both were outcomes he could not accept.
But reality was not optional. Victor's face contorted into a smile that was uglier than a grimace of pain. "Sir, please, just let me go! I'll give you everything, all my property, I swear it! And her," he said, pointing a trembling finger at the woman on the floor, "she did it voluntarily, sir! It was all voluntary!"
The only response was the sharp, whistling sound of a drawn blade. "The fact that you think that would make a difference," Russell's cold voice echoed, "is what makes me sick."
As the blade flashed, Victor Drake's sinful life came to an end.
"Don't move!" A nervous, trembling voice suddenly cut through the silence. One of the remaining thugs was holding a sharp knife to the woman's throat.
Russell didn't even turn his head. A six-barreled minigun swiveled up from the [Mark 3]'s shoulder pauldron. With a deafening, mechanical whir, a single round crossed the room, and a bloody hole appeared on the gangster's forehead.
"You really should have just stayed quiet and hoped for the best," Russell sighed. He then turned his gaze upon the other terrified hooligans. "Right, then. Time to clean up."
The minigun began to spin again, and Russell methodically reaped the lives of every thug present. He felt no burden in his heart. The things he'd overheard before entering the factory had been enough to convince him that every single person here was scum. Killing them was a public service. Besides, the cleaner the job, the less likely his identity would be exposed.
After a few moments, the sound of gunfire stopped. The factory was now a charnel house, filled with corpses. Russell let out a deep breath, the adrenaline slowly beginning to fade. It was the first time he had killed so many people at once, but his recent experiences had hardened him to the sight of blood.
Right. Now for the exciting part: looting the bodies.
Unfortunately, to Russell's immense disappointment, the men were all poor. Then again, he reasoned, who brings their life savings to a grimy warehouse for a night of debauchery? "Ah," Russell sighed silently. It seemed that unlike the protagonists in other novels, he was not destined to get rich by scavenging from his defeated foes.
At that moment, the only two living people in the factory were Russell and the woman. She had her hands clamped desperately over her mouth, terrified that making a sound would draw his attention.
Seeing this, Russell shook his head and walked towards the factory door. He knew that leaving a witness was a risk, a potential loose end. But when it came down to it, he just couldn't bring himself to kill her. He was counting on his concealed movements to and from the site, and the full-body armor, to keep his identity secure.
"Sir," a timid voice suddenly sounded from behind him. "Can you… can you please tell me your name?"
Russell paused at the doorway, his back still to her. He considered for a moment, then spoke without turning his head.
"I am Iron Man."
"?"
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