Deadpool clapped his hands with satisfaction.
On the ground in front of him lay three tightly bound figures—face down, hands secured behind their backs, still wiggling stubbornly like determined caterpillars. Steve was at the front, Carter close behind him, and the unfortunate driver trailing in third place.
Deadpool nodded proudly.
"As expected of me. My binding technique is pure art."
He placed his hands on his hips and admired his own work.
"Honestly, even if the Oscars are rigged and I don't win Best Actor, I'll definitely win something in fine arts. Installation art, performance art, rope art—why limit myself?"
He paused.
"Wait. What are the top art awards in the world?"
He blinked behind the mask.
"…I have never once researched this."
A deep sense of injustice filled his heart.
"I have talent. And I've been neglecting it."
While he was lost in thought about global art recognition, the three captives had managed to wiggle nearly five meters forward.
Deadpool snapped out of it.
"Oh come on!"
He jogged forward cheerfully, grabbed Steve by the ankle—since Steve was the fastest—and dragged him back to the starting line like resetting a game character. Then he repeated the process with Carter. Lastly, he hauled the exhausted driver back into place.
He stepped back and crossed his arms.
This… was entertaining.
Deadpool stroked his chin thoughtfully and decided to let them try again.
After they wiggled ten meters, he would drag them back.
After the fourth round, the driver completely collapsed halfway, breathing heavily. That kind of movement wasn't meant for ordinary civilians.
Carter, however, endured eight full rounds before finally stopping. Whether she was exhausted or simply realized resistance was pointless was unclear.
Deadpool cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone.
"Go, Steve! You're the best! Brooklyn pride!"
Steve, face red with effort and humiliation, thought silently:
I'm tired. Just end me.
"Ah," Deadpool sighed dramatically, "happy times are always short-lived."
He stepped closer to Steve and looked down.
There it was.
The proud symbol of American strength.
Deadpool swallowed.
His hand began to move—
No!
At the critical moment, his left hand grabbed his right wrist and pulled it back.
"Control yourself."
Steve had once been thin and frail. Only after receiving the super soldier serum had he become this.
Which meant—
"This muscular masterpiece is a product of science!"
Deadpool stomped his foot down in mock outrage.
"You, Steve, with your innocent face and heroic image—using technology to show off!"
Ding.
Mission Complete. Free Attribute Point +1.
"Whew."
Opportunity.
Steve gritted his teeth. Veins bulged along his arms. His muscles tightened.
The rope snapped.
Deadpool blinked.
Before he could react, a large hand grabbed his ankle.
"Oh no," Deadpool said calmly. "I've made a mistake."
In the next second, Steve twisted his waist and slammed Deadpool into the ground with full force.
Dust rose into the air.
Deadpool's body lifted slightly from the impact, but he wasn't worried.
Before fully hitting the ground, he planted one palm down hard.
A visible gust of air burst outward in a circular wave, blowing dust aside.
Using that force, he flipped upward, wrapped his legs around Steve's arm, twisted mid-air, and pinned Steve flat onto the ground.
He leaned close to Steve's ear.
"It's a shame you're still fresh out of training camp. If you had more experience, I'd be the one on the ground. I was actually looking forward to that."
Steve's face flushed with anger. He struggled, but Deadpool knew the human body too well. As a former mercenary, he understood leverage, joints, and pressure points.
Steve couldn't generate proper strength.
Deadpool quickly re-tied him, securing the knots expertly.
And before stepping away—
He stomped once more.
"Excellent craftsmanship."
Then he glanced toward Carter.
Carter stared back, eyes wide.
Bang!
Deadpool stomped the ground near her.
"…Still not as solid."
Carter's expression froze.
Was that—
Disdain?
Did he just compare her—
To Steve?
Her mind raced.
Was he saying she couldn't compete physically?
She glanced sideways at Steve.
Silently.
…She couldn't.
Deadpool prepared to leave, then suddenly remembered something.
In classic martial arts stories, there was always that unfortunate pigeon character who got ignored.
He tilted his head thoughtfully.
"No, no. That would be inappropriate."
He took Carter's confiscated weapon, then smoothly drew the long sword from his back.
With a swift motion—
Slash!
"No!" Steve roared, eyes bloodshot.
Carter shut her eyes.
She felt the ropes loosen.
They fell away from her wrists.
Deadpool sheathed the sword.
"Bye bye!"
He waved casually and skipped off.
Today had been a success.
He had teased both Captain America and the British Agent.
A productive afternoon.
Carter quickly untied her legs, rubbing her wrists where the rope had left red marks. She stood, brushed off the large shoe print on her uniform, and went to untie Steve.
"Aren't we going after him?" Steve asked, jaw tight.
Carter looked at him like he had lost his mind.
Your gun was taken.
You just got tied up twice.
He heals from gunshots.
And you want to chase him?
She shook her head.
"He doesn't appear to have hostile intentions. And we are not prepared to deal with him."
There were too many unknowns.
How did he heal?
Where did the ropes come from?
Where did the sword come from?
And how did he take a bullet like it was nothing?
"Let the Strategic Scientific Reserve handle this," she said calmly.
She helped the driver up, apologized sincerely, and even handed him compensation money.
Before leaving, she looked once more in the direction Deadpool had gone.
Something told her this would not be their last meeting.
---
After leaving the scene, Deadpool smacked his lips thoughtfully.
"This world needs more entertainment."
Without hesitation, he opened a random door along a quiet street and stepped through.
On the other side was a dim hall.
Rows of wooden seats.
A large cross at the front.
Stained glass windows glowing with colorful light.
Sunlight filtered through the patterns, scattering beautiful reflections across the floor like a living kaleidoscope.
Deadpool blinked.
"A church?"
He was now in casual clothes. Two careful steps forward.
"Cough… young man. Can I help you?"
An older priest walked out from a side corridor. He looked about sixty, slightly overweight, wearing traditional robes.
"Nothing," Deadpool replied casually, waving a hand. "Just taking a stroll."
The priest frowned gently.
"This is not a place for strolling."
He touched the cross pendant around his neck and slowly made the sign of the cross.
"The Lord's light protects this place. If you are without sin, you have nothing to fear."
Deadpool tilted his head.
"And if I'm very creative with sin?"
The priest ignored the joke.
"If you believe you have sinned, pray sincerely. The Lord forgives those who truly repent."
Deadpool stared at the cross.
He walked closer.
Sunlight refracted through the stained glass and danced across his mask.
He was silent for several seconds.
Then—
He pointed at himself.
"You sure about that?"
The priest smiled calmly.
"The Lord forgives all."
Deadpool slowly looked up at the cross.
Then back at the priest.
Then back at the cross again.
For the first time that day, he didn't make a joke.
He just stood there.
Still.
And for a man who never stopped talking—
That silence meant something.