This ti it finally hit the nail on the head.
Killian's subordinate turned his head to the side.
However, Happy was still puzzled.
If this were an ordinary person taking that hit, the guy should have been knocked out long ago.
He wasn't left-handed, and Happy was very confident in his fists.
Such fist-to-flesh fighting attracted the exclamations of many won and the wary attention of n.
Happy frowned in confusion.
But his confusion soon gave way to shock.
At that mont, the subordinate's cheek—where Happy had struck—suddenly glowed with searing heat, magma-like energy surging beneath his skin, just like the man from earlier.
He turned slowly and looked directly at Happy, a reddish glow burning across his face as the Extremis coursed through him.
Happy froze.
Still, he forced himself to calm down, and then—
Another punch!
This ti, however, things ended differently.
The Extremis soldier caught Happy's fist with one hand, twisted, and hurled him backward with overwhelming force.
Happy's heavy body was flung several ters through the air, crashing into a food cart and shattering glass and tal in a violent burst.
"Peng! Peng!"
Happy groaned in pain, dazed and battered.
Seeing this, the crowd scread and scrambled to flee in panic. ??????s ?????????????? ??s ???????????? ???? NoveI[F]ire
anwhile, the man who had just received the briefcase was clutching his fists against his mouth, gasping heavily.
But it was useless.
A bright red glow spread across his face, veins bulging, his skin turning translucent, magma-like fire pulsing through his body—even his eyes burned with the light.
Happy, his face cut by shards of glass and streaked with blood, struggled to push himself upright.
The Extremis soldier—Eric Savin—walked toward him steadily.
Then—
"Savin! Save ! Save !"
The man with the briefcase cried out, his body convulsing violently.
Savin turned his head.
The man was on his knees, trembling, his entire body glowing hotter and hotter, the Extremis fire consuming him from within.
He stretched out a shaking hand, the red light blazing even brighter, the air around him heating to unbearable levels.
His mouth opened in a silent scream—sothing inside was about to rupture.
The next second, the glow reached its peak.
Without hesitation, Savin darted to the side.
Happy, caught in the blast path, rolled desperately and managed to take cover behind the wrecked cart.
Ti seed to freeze—
"BOOM!!!"
The man exploded, a furnace of heat and light tearing through the Chinese Theater. The temperature soared to thousands of degrees, vaporizing everything within range.
The shockwave ripped outward, blasting cars off the street outside, creating a bizarre accident in which eighteen vehicles collided—miraculously with no fatalities.
At almost the sa mont, across Queens, another Extremis test subject detonated inside a ho, killing the entire family and leaving nothing but a scorched crater.
Back at the Chinese Theater—
The explosion ended as quickly as it began.
The once-bustling venue was reduced to a ruin. Flas licked at the blackened wreckage, smoke and ash choking the air.
Most of the interior was incinerated by the blast.
Among the debris, Happy lay unconscious, his body broken and burned from the blast and searing heat.
Others hadn't been so "lucky." Those too close to the Extremis subject had been vaporized instantly, leaving behind only gray shadows burned into the walls, grim silhouettes of the dead.
But amid the wreckage, another figure stirred.
He rose slowly from the rubble, his skin charred black, his feet burned down to carbonized husks.
Then, before the horrified eyes of any survivors, the wounds began to heal. Flesh knitted, bones re-ford, and even his ruined feet regenerated at a speed visible to the naked eye.
This was Eric Savin.
Like the others, his body glowed with the Extremis fire. Unlike them, however, Savin controlled it.
Many innocents had died in the explosion—ordinary people with no idea what they were caught in—erased in an instant by the Extremis heat.
If the man who exploded could have scread, "I'll reduce you to ashes in three days!" no one would have dared to doubt him.
In a villa, Blaine lounged on the couch, munching potato chips and watching TV leisurely.
Foreign films were often pretty good, with a solid rating system. If he wanted to watch sothing more exciting, all he had to do was pick an R-18 film—no hunting for special resources needed.
But soone always had to ruin his good mood.
The TV convulsed again.
The Ten Rings logo flashed across the screen.
Blaine sighed. This ti, instead of changing the channel, he decided to see what these guys were up to.
After the logo faded, the "broadcast" began.
Old archival images and strange rituals appeared, intercut with modern news footage, creating a bizarre, unsettling effect.
But the real focus was clear: ard terrorists in the desert.
"Fortune cookies. They look Chinese. They sound Chinese."
A gravelly voice echoed.
"But they're actually an Arican invention… which makes them hollow, full of lies, and leaving a bad taste."
The screen showed an old, bearded man descending from a helicopter, won and children kneeling before him.
The dark-eyed figure filled the fra: the so-called "Mandarin."
"My followers have just destroyed another Arican illusion… and the ho of a so-called 'superhero.'"
"The Chinese Theater… and the residence of a bounty hunter."
"Mr. President, I know you must be shocked. But this is only the beginning…"
Blaine didn't bother to watch further. He clicked off the TV, his face blank, his mind replaying those words.
Then it hit him.
What the hell? Did you just blow up my house?!
*************************************
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