Style Is the One Thing You Can't Lose

Dr. Erskine's funeral was attended by everyone from S.H.I.E.L.D., who had come to pay their respects.

Allen offered a white condolence envelope and asked Mrs. Erskine, "When does the feast start?"

"..."

The old lady was utterly baffled.

Wilson explained, "Allen, Western funerals don't have a funeral feast."

"If there's no feast, why would I give a condolence envelope?"

Allen casually took the envelope back and handed it to Wilson instead. "Give me my money back."

Taking back something he had just given made the scene exceedingly awkward.

Mrs. Erskine, who had already been overwhelmed with grief, nearly failed to recover and fainted on the spot.

Allen declared that a funeral without a feast had no soul.

Even as he joked around at S.H.I.E.L.D. every day, Allen had not forgotten his actual job.

Namely, his career as a triple agent.

Beep... beep-beep... beep...

Beep... beep... beep-beep...

Beep-beep... beep... beep...

The message read as follows.

'Dear Boss, this proletarian warrior offers you his lofty greetings.

I have successfully infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. The food here is of an exceptionally high standard, and everyone is so talented. They speak so nicely that it feels just like home.

Of course, as a proletarian warrior, I have always kept my mission in mind. I will never allow capitalism's sugar-coated bullets to corrupt my steadfast heart. To this day, they have not used ten blonde, blue-eyed, long-legged, G-cup beauties in lace garters and white stockings to seduce me.

It seems I have gained their preliminary trust.

Enough small talk.

I need to report important intelligence. S.H.I.E.L.D. is secretly conducting a project capable of controlling the world, but unfortunately, I have not been able to enter its inner circle.

Please rest assured, Organization. I already have a breakthrough and require approval for operational funds.

Proletarian Warrior, Allen.'

Far away in the Soviet Union, Karpov read the contents of the telegram.

He felt considerably more at ease. At the very least, Allen was working for the Soviet Union.

"What a remarkable man. He actually managed to gain a foothold in S.H.I.E.L.D."

Karpov was immensely curious. He picked up the desk phone and issued orders to the America-based agents, deciding to approve one hundred thousand dollars in operational funds.

For the Soviet Union's KGB, one hundred thousand dollars in exchange for an informant who could steadily provide intelligence was a worthwhile deal.

If Allen could not provide new intelligence, there would be no second payment.

Beep... beep-beep... beep...

Beep... beep... beep-beep...

Beep-beep... beep... beep...

The message read as follows.

'Great Leader of Hydra, Iron Curtain Empire offers you its highest respect.

After enduring many hardships, I have successfully gone undercover in S.H.I.E.L.D., but I dare not relax for even a moment in carrying out the Organization's mission.

Through contact with Howard Stark, I learned that they are researching a super metal called Adamantium.

Please rest assured, Organization. I will certainly obtain the alloy formula.

At the same time, I have encountered a problem. Without sufficient funds, I cannot carry out espionage work.

I ask Your Excellency, the Leader, to approve startup funds.

Note: No Pounds Sterling. Dollars only.

Iron Curtain Empire, Allen.'

After Schmidt read the telegram, a satisfied smile spread across his face. "He truly is someone who keeps creating surprises. He has already infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D.'s interior."

"A casual decision has solved the problem that troubled us. He is Hydra's first step toward infiltrating S.H.I.E.L.D.," Dr. Zola said with a flattering smile.

Hydra's infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. took place after the end of World War II.

With the Axis powers defeated, Hydra had lost its cover and instead accepted recruitment, naturally entering S.H.I.E.L.D.

"I have to admit, S.H.I.E.L.D. has quite a few good things. Adamantium certainly does not lose to the Super Soldier Serum."

Schmidt ordered, "Have someone transfer one hundred thousand dollars to him."

The Super Soldier Serum was on its way back. Once it arrived, Vanguard Technologies would immediately help research and crack it.

At that point, Hydra would have an army of super soldiers.

In fact, in the original storyline, the Super Soldier Serum could not be mass-produced cheaply either. Otherwise, the Axis powers could never have suffered defeat after defeat and lost the war.

Within three days.

The two cash payments reached Allen's hands.

In his private apartment, two suitcases of cash lay on the bed.

"Are they really that naive? They believed even the ravings of a lunatic. I almost feel embarrassed."

Allen did not care about money at all. He merely made up nonsense, sent telegrams regularly with an believe it or not, I believe it anyway attitude.

It was purely to kill time.

That night, Allen put on an eye mask with two holes cut into it, tied a bedsheet around his neck, and left the house while invisible.

The ancient Eastern nation facing invasion from Chrysanthemum Country was in a time of grave peril.

Chinese compatriots living overseas had voluntarily formed the Save the Nation Chamber of Commerce, raising funds to save their homeland by indirect means.

Among them, the group led by the Chinese Merchants Guild was the most active.

Bang!

A window shattered, and a figure landed before a group of merchants dressed in long robes.

"Who are you?"

Everyone drew their weapons and warily faced the unfamiliar intruder.

Their efforts to save the nation had naturally drawn assassination attempts from Chrysanthemum Country spies, so they paid particular attention to personal safety.

"Please say, 'Prince, please answer.'"

The crowd exchanged glances, considering whether to shoot him on the spot.

Under America's laws, trespassers could be executed without condition.

Allen ignored them, set the two suitcases on the table, opened them, and explained his purpose. "I'm donating two hundred thousand."

"So you are a righteous patriot. Everyone, put away your weapons."

The chairman hurriedly had everyone count the cash. Since he was here to donate money, he was one of them and naturally had to be treated with courtesy.

"Sir, though we have the will to save our nation, we cannot accept ill-gotten money."

Looking at such a large sum of cash, the chairman worried that its origin was improper and would bring unnecessary trouble.

"If you want to call it stolen, then call it stolen. I wouldn't care."

Allen grinned with a sly smile and said frankly, "I swindled it from the Soviet Union and the Axis powers. Surprised? Shocked?"

"..."

Why not say Emperor Xuanzong of America had personally allocated it to you?

"Sir, its origins are unknown. We cannot accept it," the chairman said firmly.

"You don't believe the truth, so I'll make up a reason."

Allen stroked his chin and, after a long pause, said, "Got it. I earned it by trampling souls."

Could that excuse be any faker? If trampling souls could earn that much money, everyone would probably line up to trample them together.

"If you don't believe me, burn it for the king of Hell. And while you're at it, write on the bills: 'For everyone's reincarnation, starting in Hell Mode.'"

With that, Allen prepared to go home and sleep. Wandering around at night was not something decent people did.

"May I ask your esteemed name, sir?"

The chairman saw through his intentions and decided to accept the money for now. If nothing went wrong after some time, they would exchange it for supplies to aid their homeland.

"I, Bruce Horne, never leave my name when doing good deeds."

Crash!

Allen kicked through another window, intending to jump out.

"Um, Mr. Horne, wait a moment."

Looking at the two shattered windows, the chairman said helplessly, "Could you use the front door next time?"

"That won't do." Allen refused without hesitation. "Justice and my soul can both be cast aside, but style is the one thing I can't lose."

With a leap.

Allen vanished into the vast night sky.