At night, on the streets of Brooklyn.
A frantic-looking man ran in panic, knocking down pedestrians one after another. He clutched a leather bag tightly to his chest with his left arm, while a handgun hung conspicuously from his right hand.
He looked back every three steps, unable to hide his deep fear beneath his madness.
At the street corner emerged a man in red... uh, a person.
"Wow, Red Swordsman!" The men on the street cried out in delight.
The women, however, had far more complicated feelings.
Some sympathized with Adam Smith's plight; some resented him for taking away women's freedom; and some simply thought the guy looked pretty good and was even a celebrity, so... they wanted to jump him.
That was perfectly normal. Three women could put on a whole play, while a girls' dorm room could create more than a dozen group chats.
Hearing the commotion, the fleeing man turned around and immediately raised his gun, firing wildly behind him.
The red figure flashed, sword light drifting unpredictably. The blade split the bullets apart with effortless ease.
Although Adam Smith's sword still had the shape of a Han sword, its material was no longer what it used to be. Hydra had used its stockpile of Adamantium to custom-build this treasured sword for him.
This big sword was much harder than his original two.
Not only was it hard, but once Adamantium had been sharpened, it was incredibly keen. It could slice through iron like mud without any Inner Force enhancement.
Adam was extremely satisfied with this big sword. If he ran into Iron Monger again, he could gut it with a single slash.
The bullets were cut into tiny fragments and fell at Adam Smith's feet, drawing gasps of amazement from the surrounding citizens.
"Oh my god, Red Swordsman really is the strongest superhero! Captain America is nothing compared to him!" This was obviously a plant arranged by Hydra. The targeting was far too blatant.
But in the eyes of ordinary citizens, Captain America's story had happened over sixty years ago. People were more willing to believe what they saw with their own eyes.
"Move aside. Don't get in my way." Adam Smith had no interest in being the friendly neighborhood hero of New York. His attitude had always been cold.
Yet Americans tended to see that coldness as aloof coolness. Many people liked that sort of thing better; if you spoke to them too nicely, they might not even bother with you.
Bullets were completely ineffective against the red figure. The drug-addled robber emptied his magazine, yet could only watch helplessly as Red Swordsman strolled toward him as if taking a leisurely walk, then sliced off the gun in his hand along with several fingers.
To preserve his public image, Adam Smith deliberately held back. He rarely chopped off arms or legs anymore, usually destroying criminals' weapons before knocking them unconscious with a punch.
As soon as he finished his usual routine, Hydra's people immediately stepped forward to clean up, call the police, and then a swarm of reporters surrounded him to take pictures and conduct interviews.
Although Adam Smith had turned himself in to the New York police at the press conference, he was released on bail after merely going through the formalities.
After that, under Hydra's arrangements, he cracked down on gangs and saved the elderly and children everywhere. Every time, reporters just happened to catch it on camera, and it made prime-time news.
Anyone with eyes could tell that a powerful force stood behind Adam Smith.
So today, a stubborn female reporter charged to the front, thrusting her recorder beneath his mouth before anyone else could.
"Mr. Smith, I have to say, breaking through my colleagues' blockade to interview you was incredibly difficult!"
Blonde, big waves—she hit all four of Adam Smith's triggers, and she was smoking hot besides.
Adam's expression immediately darkened, and a dangerous glint seeped into his eyes.
The female reporter assumed her sharp words had struck a nerve, so she smugly introduced herself. "I'm Christine, a reporter for Vanity Fair. May I ask you two questions?"
Having already figured out how to deal with this blonde with big waves, Adam Smith curled his lips. "Sure."
"Mr. Smith, I noticed that every time you do something good, reporters always happen to catch it at just the right moment. Don't you think that's too much of a coincidence?" Christine pushed the recorder a little closer.
"It's not a coincidence. I pay them to work overtime." Adam Smith looked completely composed. "Everyone should honor the spirit of a contract, shouldn't they?"
That blunt truth left Christine speechless for quite some time. Every prepared line in her head had become useless.
How could this be?
He wasn't following the script!
"Fine, it seems you admit that you deliberately manufacture newsworthy events." Christine openly tried to bait him into a trap.
Unfortunately, Adam Smith did not care at all. Right now, all he wanted was to have his way with the blonde with big waves in front of him.
"The deeds of superheroes deserve widespread publicity. So now, I'd also like to ask Miss Christine to work overtime. We can go somewhere else and discuss it in detail."
Christine met that blazing gaze and revealed a smile of triumph.
Did he think taking good photos alone was enough to win a Pulitzer Prize?
You needed a spirit of dedication!
The scene shifted. In a hotel suite, Christine wrapped herself around Adam Smith and kept kissing and nibbling him, wildly enthusiastic.
Adam Smith endured the disgusting sensation of saliva touching his skin and did not kick the woman away. Instead, he remained calm and unhurried, as though waiting for something.
After Christine, swept up in the moment, finished kissing above, she swiftly undid Adam Smith's belt and yanked downward.
First came shock, then utter disbelief.
Adam Smith wore a smug smile.
Why had he become a superhero?
It was so that, after becoming famous, he could attract these slutty women. Then, when they got carried away with their enthusiasm and suddenly saw an empty gun carriage, those looks of shock, rage, and despair... merely imagining it made him tremble with excitement.
"Well?" Adam Smith smiled cruelly. "Surprised? Disappointed?"
He shoved Christine onto the carpet and walked over to the toolbox.
Just as Adam Smith was about to begin his violent abuse, Christine's eyes lit up as she shouted at him, "Oh my god, this is amazing!"
"Do you know what? You satisfy two of my needs at once!"
"Come on! Hurry up!"
"..."
This time, Adam Smith was the one left speechless for a long while.
She wasn't following the script!
Furious, Adam Smith vented all his rage on Christine, bringing out one tool after another.
In the end, he exhausted himself, while Christine was completely intoxicated.
Adam admitted that this time, he had miscalculated.
He had thought his ex-wife was already perverse enough, but there were even more perverse women in this country!
Late at night, Hydra's cleanup crew waiting outside hurried in carrying a stretcher. The scene was as bloody as they had expected, but the victim's reaction was entirely unexpected.
Although Christine was covered in wounds and bleeding profusely, her eyes were unfocused, her cheeks flushed, and she kept muttering, "Oh god! He was so amazing... so fierce!"
To attract even more women, Adam Smith had not killed her, but the miserable screams he had imagined never came.
"Bastard, I refuse to believe there isn't a single normal woman in America!" Adam still wanted to continue.
Outside the hotel, a paparazzo secretly photographed Christine being carried into an ambulance and bribed the paramedics to record her muttering.
The internet erupted.
"Bitch! I don't believe it. Is he really that good? Damn it, I'm definitely going to challenge him one-on-one and restore the honor of American women!"
Adam Smith had never expected that his terrible reputation among women would develop in such a bizarre direction because of this.
Of course, he did not reject it. The more women threw themselves at him, the more he could abuse.
What he did not know was that besides men and women watching him, others of his kind were watching as well.
In an underground arena in Atlanta, corpses lay everywhere, and blood flowed like a river.
The bald man in red looked at the breaking news on the television screen and revealed a vicious smile. "Lord Dongfang can only be mine!"