Chapter 167: Killian

I don't know who gave them the courage, but pistols couldn't do any damage to the Extremis fighters.

While the two were chatting and waiting for backup, a sudden explosion rocked the place.

Blaine released his mental power and quietly slipped past every sentry and patrol.

It had to be said: Killian was truly capable—he had so many Extremis soldiers at his disposal.

But Blaine wasn't helpless. Even a S.H.I.E.L.D. base was for him like a supermarket; this ramshackle R&D site was no contest.

Boom.

Blaine kicked open the seemingly indestructible iron gate without mercy.

"Who—"

Swish, swish, swish.

Instantly the men inside were on high alert; every gun in the room swung toward the door.

The smoke cleared and revealed Blaine in black.

"Fire!"

Seeing that figure, Killian shuddered—he had never expected the Bounty Hunter to find this place.

Still, having dared to blow up his house, Killian had a sliver of confidence to cling to.

Pong. Bing. Mound.

Rapid gunfire erupted through the room.

It did nothing.

Blaine moved forward as nonchalantly as if walking in the rain—bullets peppered him, clinking off like rain on metal.

No—at this level, it wasn't merely metal. Killian's rounds were custom-made: armor-piercing, ground-to-air shells meant to shred aircraft. Three millimeters was nothing; they could punch through several centimeters of steel. That was Killian's small advantage—he knew ordinary firearms, even rocket launchers, wouldn't faze this famed Bounty Hunter.

But Blaine strode on, clearly enjoying it. The fusillade didn't slow him an inch. With only 325 physical points and the blessing of the Hunter suit, Blaine essentially ignored modern weapons. A true heavyweight would be another matter—something Blaine had not yet experienced.

"Enough. It's my turn."

Although the impact of rounds still registered, this was a fight, not leisure. The words had barely left his mouth when Blaine vanished.

"What—so fast?"

Blaine reappeared, knife raised. Each swing took a head. He might have toyed with deflecting bullets blade-on, but he preferred one clean strike—neat, efficient, his style.

With the Cursed Blood Knife in his right hand, he performed a graceful spin and sheathed it. Everyone present lay dead or dismembered except Killian.

"Interesting. I underestimated you. Besides that idiot Tony, I didn't expect such a powerful character. I admire you..."

Clap, clap.

Killian actually applauded, then slapped Blaine—part provocation, part disbelief.

"What kind of knife are you using? You don't even give Extremis time to heal."

Looking at the broken corpses, Killian was curious rather than angry. These people were defective test subjects—their wounds were clean, the black, putrid glow suppressing magma-red light that tried to burst forth.

"Knife to kill you."

"Then see if you can."

Before Blaine finished, Killian struck. He likely realized he couldn't win in a fair fight; sneaking an opening was his only hope.

"Hmph. Just a joke. You were the first to blow up my house—if I don't teach you a lesson, people will think I'm easy to bully..."

D—

Killian's magma-infused punch pierced Blaine's defense in an instant.

"Flash, afterimage—so fast..."

With his Extremis-enhanced reflexes, Killian's small motions left afterimages; Blaine could not simply evade them. And with mind-reading active, Killian tried to anticipate Blaine's moves. Blaine only sneered—he read Killian's petty thoughts and kept silent.

He wouldn't kill immediately; he meant to make an example. Just like Harold. A public slap must be seen through to the end. If his reputation as a Bounty Hunter was trampled, he'd never live it down. Blaine intended to put up a banner for all employers: hire me, and I answer. Mess with me, and you'll learn what it means to rouse a tiger. Whoever you are, whatever your motive, I—Blaine the Bounty Hunter—am not to be provoked.

Killian hammered the surroundings like a madman. Blaine's speed generated afterimages that seemed to swarm around him. The scene looked like a pack circling a small animal—each blow seeking not just flesh but to puncture the spirit.

"All you do is hide! Well-known bounty hunters only run."

"If this spreads out, people will laugh your asses off."

"Your memorial day will be next year; this will be your burial ground."

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Blaine saw through these thoughts at a glance. Even an old S.H.I.E.L.D. fox couldn't outplay him, let alone this man. Still, Blaine played along—he stopped, deliberately.

Killian thought his trick worked. With a sweep of his hand, a ball of magma blasted toward Blaine's face.

But Blaine barely waved a hand; the mass of magma shells brushed aside as if flicked away—no spark left. The +25 Hunter suit wasn't a joke: waterproof, fireproof, and heat-resistant.

"Ah—ah—ah."

Killian had a backup. With a roar, his clothes exploded outward, revealing skin that looked like living magma. He breathed flame, radiating blistering heat and casting the night in a bloody glow.

"Playing with fire? Then I'll burn with you."

As he spoke, Blaine put the Cursed Blood Knife back into Hunter space. Killian's relentless assault had turned the simple room into a ruin that could no longer withstand the explosions.

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