Chapter 61: Let's Talk About Franklin

It wasn’t just Iron Man—there was an avalanche of orders that instantly filled up Meimumu’s private website. The situation became so overwhelming that even the bank called and emailed, asking if he needed any special financial insurance services. With fifty million dollars in his pocket, Meimumu could have bought half the street across from him without exaggeration.

After all, in times of war, the wealthy are always the first to flee. Following the Battle of New York, property prices across from the New York Sanctum had plummeted, dropping to about ten thousand dollars per square meter. Moreover, with Meimumu’s impeccable credit and his status as a distinguished medical expert, his credit limit was sky-high.

Of course, Meimumu had long since regarded wealth as nothing more than dirt. If this were an ordinary transmigration, with so much money at his disposal, he’d have already fallen into decadence. He could have bought a Lamborghini, driven it to Times Square, and just abandoned it on the street—“I don’t need it anymore.” He could have spent his days exchanging life experiences with young models.

But with Thanos set to arrive in two years, it was like the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. His heart was cold with dread; there was no time or mood for self-indulgence.

Meimumu greeted Hamir, “I’m heading out to buy materials for traps. I’ll be back within an hour.”

Hamir was mute. He bulged his eyes and, unable to speak, simply nodded in silence.

Relying on his memory from the movies, Meimumu found what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. After some careful disguise, he wrapped himself up like a mummy and walked inside.

“Who’s there?!” Instantly, at least three burly men leveled their strange-looking ‘guns’ at Meimumu. One man, clad head to toe in black metal armor and wearing a full helmet, nervously activated every weapon system on his suit.

“I’m just a mysterious person who happens to know there are good things for sale here,” Meimumu said.

“Are you kidding me? Give me one reason not to shoot, or you’re dead!” Despite their bravado, it was clear from the sweat on their brows that none of them had ever killed anyone.

“My reason is... this.” Meimumu lifted the case in his hand and, moving slowly, opened it.

When the men saw the colorful contents inside, they visibly relaxed. A million dollars in cash—no one could deny that was sincere.

Noticing their lack of professionalism, Meimumu almost laughed, but held it back. “So... can we sit down and have a proper talk? I don’t have time for trouble. I just want some custom goods.”

One of the men said, “Alright, for now. But if I find out you’re up to something—”

“Wait!” The man in the black metal armor with massive metal wings stopped his underling. “Friend, we can do business, but shouldn’t you take off your mask first?”

“I think it’s better for both of us if business stays business,” Meimumu replied, quietly conjuring another case of cash behind him with his Sling Ring.

Money speaks to the heart.

The group was already tempted, though suspicion lingered.

Meimumu continued, “Of course! If you insist on not discussing Franklin with me, I can always talk to you about something else.”

With a casual flick of his arm, the semi-transparent “Vatu Demon Sword” flashed through the air.

Beside Meimumu, a steel rack was sliced neatly in two, the upper half crashing down with a deafening clang as it could no longer support its own weight.

In the next instant, a semi-transparent blade whizzed past the metal birdman, effortlessly severing several dangling wires.

Sparks crackled from the cut wires, and a strange silence filled the air.

Meimumu put away his weapon and spread his hands. “So, shall we talk about Franklin, or shall we discuss other matters?”

Suddenly, the man in black armor laughed. “Interesting. I think we’d rather talk about Franklin.”

“Excellent.”

No one knew exactly what kind of shady deal Meimumu struck with these mysterious individuals, only that the next evening, a large shipment was delivered to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts.

After the delivery, in a secret warehouse, a bald white man asked his boss, “Boss, any clue who that masked freak was?”

From last night to today, the man in black armor had never removed his helmet—until now. He took it off to reveal an unremarkable middle-aged face, slightly balding, the kind often dubbed as the “all-American look.” The only thing that set him apart was his sharp, hawk-like gaze, which seemed to elevate his whole demeanor.

“No idea. But we’ll find out eventually.”

“It’s fine. I think we’ll know soon enough,” said a chubby, engineer-type white man with a grin. “I added a little something to the shipment. The moment it moves, I’ll know.”

The engineer spun his laptop around, showing a blinking dot on the screen.

The armored man grabbed the engineer by the collar. “Idiot! Who told you to plant a tracker? I still don’t understand how that guy attacks, or even if he’s human. You could get us all killed!”

“Boss, it can’t be that serious, can it?” The engineer, struggling to breathe, suddenly noticed the blinking dot had jumped on the screen.

To the horror of every man present, the dot had teleported. From an abandoned warehouse ten kilometers away, it had relocated... right to this new base they had just set up today.

“What? That’s impossible!” The engineer trembled all over.

As shock turned to terror among the men, a sharp sound snapped everyone’s attention.

With a sudden “clack,” a huge case appeared on the table in the center of the hall—a table that, mere seconds before, had been completely empty and surrounded by at least five men.

“Ah!”

“Dammit!”

“When did this thing get here?”

The men shouted in panic, grabbing their weapons and scanning the room—even with night vision, they saw nothing.

With a rattling sound, the case opened itself, revealing piles of colorful bills inside.

The engineer, far from pleased, felt a chill run up his spine from tailbone to skull, cold sweat soaking his back.

In the midst of the cash, his tiny tracking device sat perfectly upright.

A recording played from a small device inside the case—the mysterious man’s voice:

“Mr. Adrian Toomes, I can understand your rudeness and curiosity. But understanding does not mean forgiveness. This time, I’ll let it go. Next time, I’ll discuss the matter of honesty with your wife and daughter.”

In that instant, Adrian, clad in black armor, turned ghostly pale.

Yes, he was none other than the future “Vulture”—the villain who, in the Marvel world, would soon stand against Spider-Man Parker.