I'm having a blast in Marvel!

Page 53

The next day, Chu Hang woke up naturally. He went to a shopping mall near the hotel and bought himself a few decent-looking clothes with cash. When he changed into a simple white T-shirt, khaki trousers, and a pair of brand-new sneakers, and put on his non-prescription glasses, he looked like a recent college graduate, clean-cut and with a scholarly air, completely different from the murderous demon he had been the night before.

Disguise is the first lesson in survival. This applies equally to both the battlefield amidst the flames of war and the neon-lit city.

In the evening, he returned to the neighborhood bar called "Screaming Skull".

This time, he didn't go looking for the fat man. He went straight to the bar, placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill under the coaster, and gently pushed it towards the bartender.

The bartender was a thin young man with a snake tattooed on his arm, its tongue flicking out. When he saw the hundred-yuan bill, the wariness and impatience in his eyes instantly melted into enthusiasm.

"Sir, would you like something to drink?"

"I'm looking for someone." Chu Hang lowered his voice and leaned forward slightly. "I need a document broker, the best kind. The kind who can make a dead person come back to life, and turn an undocumented vagrant into a citizen."

The bartender's smile froze for a moment. He subconsciously wiped the already gleaming bar counter, his eyes beginning to dart around.

“Sir, I don’t quite understand what you mean.” He began to feign ignorance.

Chu Hang wasn't in a hurry. He tapped the hundred-yuan bill lightly with his finger and said calmly, "I'll only ask once. If you don't know, I'll ask someone else. Consider this money my treat for you to a drink."

His tone was calm, but the undeniable composure and the fleeting coldness in the depths of his eyes sent a chill down the bartender's spine. He remembered the bruised and battered fat man from last night, who had come back with a long face, asking him about a mysterious Asian youth, and stammering that the "Queen of Spades" butcher's hand had been crippled and the entire venue had been taken over by one person.

The bartender's Adam's apple bobbed, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He quickly glanced around, then said in an almost breathless voice, "There's only one place. On Ivy Lane in the west of the city, there's a used bookstore called 'Yesterday's Book.' The owner is Elias, a very eccentric old man. Go to him and tell him you want to buy a copy of 'The Travels That Did Not Exist.'"

After saying that, he grabbed the hundred-yuan bill as if it were a hot potato, quickly stuffed it into his pocket, and then turned around to mix drinks for other customers, never looking at Chu Hang again.

Having obtained the information he wanted, Chu Hang got up and left the bar.

Yesterday's Books used bookstore sits on a quiet street corner, out of place with the bustling commercial atmosphere around it. The shop is small, with a thin layer of dust covering the window, and is filled with various yellowed old books. Chu Hang pushed open the wooden door with wind chimes hanging on it, and a unique smell mixed with old paper, dust and leather wafted out.

The shop was quiet, except for an elderly man with gray hair and reading glasses, who was sitting behind a huge oak desk, intently repairing a heavy book with a quill pen. That man was Elias.

Hearing the wind chimes, he didn't even look up, but simply asked, "What are you looking for?"

"I'm here to buy a book," Chu Hang said calmly as he walked to the desk, "a travelogue that doesn't exist."

Elias's hand, which was repairing the pages, paused for a fraction of a second.

He slowly raised his head, scrutinizing the young man before him through his thick reading glasses. His gaze was sharp as a scalpel, as if it could see into a person's soul.

“I only sell real history here,” he said slowly, his voice hoarse, like two dry leaves rubbing together.

"History is also written by people." Chu Hang met his gaze without backing down. "If it can be written, it can be changed. If it can be changed, it can be created."

Elias fell silent. He stared at Chu Hang for a full half minute, his gaze as if he were assessing the authenticity of an antique.

Finally, he lowered his head again, continuing to repair the book in his hands, and said calmly, "The alley behind the Grand Theatre, midnight tonight. Take a first edition of 'Moby-Dick' and place it on the trash can at the alley entrance. If the book is taken away, stay there and wait. If it isn't taken away, leave and never come back."

After saying that, he ignored Chu Hang and acted as if he were just an ordinary passerby asking for directions.

Chu Hang knew this was the first test—a test of his sincerity, financial resources, and patience.

He turned and left the bookstore. Finding a first edition of Moby-Dick wasn't difficult; the challenge was finding one in such a short time. He spent the entire afternoon scouring antique bookstores and private collections throughout the city, finally acquiring a reasonably good first-century edition of Moby-Dick from a collector eager to sell, for three thousand dollars in cash.

Midnight, in the alley behind the Grand Theatre.

It was pitch black, and the air was thick with the acrid smell of rotting garbage. Only the faint lights from the distant streetlights could barely outline the mountains of trash cans and clutter in the alley. Following Elias's instructions, Chu Hang carefully placed the rare book, worth three thousand dollars, on the lid of the most conspicuous green trash can at the alley entrance.

Then, he retreated into the shadows of the alley, leaning against the cold brick wall, and waited quietly.

Time passed by minute by minute.

The alley was deathly silent, save for the rustling of plastic bags in the wind. Chu Hang closed his eyes; his hearing was amplified to its limit. He could hear a stray cat a hundred meters away, its paws scraping against a cardboard box as it rummaged for food. He could hear a couple arguing quietly in their car fifty meters away.

Then, he heard several deliberately suppressed breaths that didn't belong here.

They lay in ambush on either side of the alley and in the second-floor windows of the building behind him. Their hearts pounded, filled with tension and a hint of bloodthirsty excitement. Two of them still carried the faint smell of gunpowder and gun oil.

This is a trap. Or rather, a second test.

A cold smile curled at the corner of Chu Hang's lips. Far from being nervous, he actually found it rather boring. Compared to the hail of bullets he had experienced, this small scene was like children playing house.

About five minutes later, the book was still lying quietly on the trash can, untouched by anyone.

Finally, the ambushers lost their patience.

A dark figure, as silent as a cat, slipped out from the shadows of one side of the alley, wielding a gleaming steel pipe, and slammed it down towards Chu Hang's head. Almost simultaneously, two burly men wielding daggers rushed out from the other side, blocking all his escape routes from the left and right. Their coordination was impeccable; they were clearly seasoned veterans. Any ordinary person caught in such a sudden and deadly pincer attack would have had no chance of survival.

But Chu Hang is no ordinary person.

Just as the steel pipe was about to hit the back of his head, he moved.

He didn't even turn his body; his head merely tilted to the side at an angle impossible for an ordinary person. The steel pipe, whistling through the air, grazed his hair and slammed into the brick wall, sending sparks flying. The attacker, having missed his target, wore a look of astonishment.

But he no longer had the chance to make a second expression.

Chu Hang's right elbow, like a venomous snake emerging from its hole, suddenly thrust backward with lightning speed.

A muffled thud. The attacker's chest felt like it had been struck head-on by a battering ram; his ribs shattered instantly, and he flew backward like a kite with a broken string, crashing heavily to the ground. He coughed up blood mixed with fragments of internal organs and died on the spot.

After taking down the first one, Chu Hang spun around to face the two burly men wielding knives. His eyes were cold and devoid of emotion, as if he were looking at two inanimate objects.

The burly man on the left roared, his dagger flashing as it aimed straight for Chu Hang's heart. Chu Hang didn't dodge; his left hand shot out with lightning speed, grabbing the man's wrist before he could react. The burly man felt as if his wrist were being clamped by hydraulic clamps, unable to move an inch no matter how much he struggled.

Chu Hang didn't even look at him; his gaze fell on the burly man rushing towards him on the right. He grabbed the arm of the burly man on the left and shoved him forward.

The burly man on the left, unable to control himself, plunged the dagger into his companion's abdomen. The man on the right looked down in disbelief at the familiar dagger in his stomach, then slowly knelt down.

Chu Hang then released his grip and kicked the knee of the burly man on his left, who was already terrified.

With a crisp cracking sound, the burly man screamed and fell to the ground.

There's only one left, the one in the second-floor window.

Chu Hang looked up, his gaze sharp as lightning, precisely locking onto the figure hiding behind the curtains. He casually picked up a broken brick from the ground, his arm muscles instantly bulging, and then swung it with a fierce swing!

The broken bricks whistled through the air like cannonballs, shattering the second-floor window with pinpoint accuracy and striking the sniper squarely in the forehead. A dull thud echoed from the window, followed by silence.

The whole thing took less than ten seconds.

He completely eliminated four professional thugs in a near-crushing, direct, and violent manner.

Chu Hang patted non-existent dust off his hands and straightened his collar, as if he had only done a trivial thing.

Deep in the alley, an inconspicuous iron gate creaked open.

Elias, leaning on a cane, emerged from the doorway. He was still dressed in his usual austere manner, but the way he looked at Chu Hang was completely different now. It was no longer scrutiny, but filled with intense interest and a hint of barely perceptible apprehension.

"You're quite skilled," he said hoarsely. "More efficient and clean-cut than any soldier I've ever seen."

"It's just to survive," Chu Hang replied calmly.

“Come with me.” Elias turned and walked back inside. “It seems you really do need a ‘non-existent travelogue’.”

Chu Hang followed him inside.

Behind the iron gate lay a hidden world. It wasn't a dark basement, but a futuristic studio. A dozen computer screens of various models flickered with a ghostly blue light, and printers, scanners, and laminators of all kinds—so sophisticated Chu Hang couldn't even name them—were neatly arranged. The walls were covered with blank passport, driver's license, and ID card templates from all over the world.

This is a factory that specializes in creating identities.

“Sit down.” Elias gestured to a chair, then poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Tell me, what kind of past do you need?”

“I don’t need the past.” Chu Hang sat down and got straight to the point. “I need a future. A clean identity, a U.S. citizen, with a complete Social Security number, birth certificate, and driver’s license. I need a matching bank account, preferably with several years of good credit history. In short, I need to be a real person, an ordinary person who can deposit hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash into a bank without arousing any suspicion.”

Elias took a sip of his drink and remained silent for a moment.

“This is the highest-spec package,” he said slowly. “I can make it. But the price is very expensive.”

"Name your price," Chu Hang said succinctly.

“One hundred thousand dollars.” Elias held up one finger. “And I’m curious, what do you want such a perfect identity for? I’ve seen plenty of people like you, most of them to hide from enemies or to live in anonymity. But you’re different. There’s no fear in your eyes, only ambition.”

Chu Hang smiled, leaned back in his chair, looked at the document dealer who controlled the past of countless people, and said something he would never forget.

"This is a deposit of 50,000 yuan."

"I want to use this identity to buy the future."

Elias was stunned. Looking at the mysterious and powerful young man before him, he suddenly felt that $100,000 might be too cheap.

"Deal." He finally nodded. "Come back in a week to pick up your new life. By the way, have you decided on your new name?"

Chu Hang thought for a moment, Howard Stark's smug face flashing through his mind, and then he thought of Iron Man, who was about to usher in a new era.

He smiled.

"Let's call him... Anthony Chen."

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Chapter 64 Spatial Abilities

A week is neither a long nor a short time.

For ordinary people, it was just seven ordinary days and nights. But for Chu Hang, these seven days were a crucial period in his transformation from a ghost of an era to a newborn of a new era. He wasted almost not a single second.

He found a hotel that didn't require an ID card and booked a room for a week for $1,000.

By day, he was like a dried-up sponge thrown into the sea, greedily absorbing everything about the era. The municipal library became his second home. From the post-Cold War world order and emerging economic theories to the burgeoning field of computer science, he buried himself in books, desperately trying to fill the fifty-year knowledge gap. He even went to internet cafes, which were still a novelty at the time, with just a few banknotes in hand. Amidst the maddeningly slow meows and dial tones, he witnessed firsthand the nascent form of the internet—the giant wave that would soon sweep the globe began with these simple and crude web pages.

As night fell, his hotel room became his training ground. He no longer needed to push his body to its limits through intense physical training, as he had during World War II; the super-soldier serum had already forged his physique to the pinnacle of human potential. What he needed to do now was a deeper lesson: control.

Take control of that new power that combines the Cosmic Cube, the Healing Factor, and the Super Soldier Serum.

He closed his eyes, his consciousness slowly sinking into his body. The power was no longer as violent and chaotic as when he first awakened; instead, it flowed gently through his veins like a deep, tranquil sea of ​​stars. He no longer tried to command it, but learned to guide it. With his "super will," hardened by ice and the passage of time, he acted like a patient shepherd, gently combing through those once unruly energy particles.

The progress was obvious. From initially only being able to make a single coin tremble slightly on his fingertip, to later being able to silently suspend all objects in the room, from the bed to the lamp, in mid-air; from only being able to slightly bend a fragile toothpick, to being able to twist a hard steel spoon into a knot like a pretzel. His control was undergoing a qualitative leap, almost on a daily basis.

He gradually realized that the essence of this power seemed to be the interference with space itself. On a small scale, it could distort light, making him appear to disappear into thin air; on a larger scale, it could even compress space, enabling short-distance "blinking" jumps. Theoretically, none of this was impossible. But this required an extremely terrifying amount of computational and mental strength. At his current level, at most he could make an incoming bullet detour slightly, or complete a rapid jump within three to five meters. Each such attempt brought immense mental fatigue, as if a piece of his soul had been ripped out.

This became his deepest trump card, a trump card that could turn the tide in a life-or-death situation, but which he could never easily reveal.

A week later, at midnight, he followed his memory and returned to Elias's studio.

It's still that old bookstore with wind chimes hanging in it. You walk through the narrow aisle between the bookshelves, and there's still that heavy iron door leading to another world.

Elias looked much more tired than before, his eyes sunken, as if he hadn't slept for days and nights. But his eyes were unusually bright, gleaming with an almost fanatical light, like an artist who had just completed a masterpiece examining his own blood and sweat. Without any pleasantries, he pushed a thick brown paper document bag from one end of the table in front of Chu Hang.

"Your new life." His voice was hoarse, yet it carried a sense of pride.

Chu Hang unfastened the metal clasp of the document bag and took out the items one by one, examining them carefully.

A brand new Social Security card, with the name "Anthony Chen" on it and a clear number, is indistinguishable from the genuine product in terms of both the hardness of the material and the anti-counterfeiting features.

A birth certificate that looks quite old, the paper slightly yellowed, carrying the distinctive smell of old paper. The printed font and doctor's signature perfectly replicate the unique marks of that era. The document records that Anthony Chen was born in 1973 in a public hospital in San Francisco, to Chinese immigrant parents who died in an accident years earlier. A background of an orphan, impeccably clean.

A California driver's license; the photo on it was taken a few days ago when Chu Hang came here. His expression is natural, his eyes are calm, and the background is a standard light blue.