Marvel: Apocalyptic Beginning, a High-Level Game!

Chapter 305 Preparing to storm the Marvel editorial department!

As we all know, in Marvel's universe where power levels are clearly unbalanced, whenever an editor starts thinking about doing something different, they'll give a character an incredibly "awesome" setting—

For example, "single universe level", "multiverse level", "omnipotent universe level", "beyond universe level", or some other level, just exaggerate to the extreme.

However, compared to other concepts of "massacre of the Marvel Universe," Deadpool's massacre of the Marvel Universe is undoubtedly the most famous one.

Especially with Deadpool's strange character design seemingly starting to deviate from the Marvel writing team's established rules, he truly becomes unstoppable, killing anyone who gets in his way.

That's awesome.

Especially now—

When he raised his hand and pointed the pistol at the red and blue spider-like insect that had once fought alongside him, the other's spider-sense was already on the verge of exploding—

The sharp, needle-like alarm screamed wildly in Peter Parker's mind, making his scalp tingle and every nerve in his body tremble—but he still stood stubbornly in place, looking at his comrades-in-arms who had once fought side by side and shared joys and sorrows.

I hate you.

Spider-Man's voice came from behind the mask, hoarse and weak, like a string about to break.

His eyes—

Those eyes, hidden behind white lenses, once brimming with hope and faith—

At this moment, all that remains is a deep-seated exhaustion.

Deadpool shook his head.

His mask was expressionless, but something shattered in that movement.

His lips moved slightly; he wanted to say something—to say "I'm sorry," to say "It's for your own good," to say "You don't understand."

But he didn't say anything.

He fired the gun.

In his view, in this universe destined to be manipulated, everything is simply predestined.

If that's the case, then it's better to give everyone a quick end and let them break free from this puppet-like life.

---

Once Spider-Man fell, the carnage was completely unstoppable.

He killed everyone.

The Avengers. X-Men. Guardians of the Galaxy. High School Team. Team Champions. Teen Avengers. West Coast Avengers.

And so on and so forth, a whole host of different teams.

All the heroes, all the villains, all the mutants, all the aliens—

They all fell to his gun, to his blade, to the incessant chatter of his ever-open mouth.

In the end, after all the heroes and villains had been killed, he sat alone in the desolate world.

All around were ruins, scorched earth, and cities that were once bustling but are now deserted.

The wind blows, stirring up ashes and dust, like the smoke of a funeral that will never dissipate.

He sat on a broken section of a clock tower, his legs dangling in the air, swinging back and forth.

His gun rested on his knees, his knife was tucked into a leather holster at his waist, and the white lenses of his mask stared blankly into the distance.

Then, he prepared to find a way to break into the Marvel editorial office.

But the moment he stood up—the world spun around him.

The world felt like it had been twisted hard; all the colors, all the sounds, all the shapes were mixed together, like a spilled cocktail.

His stomach churned, his head buzzed, and his knees buckled, almost causing him to collapse to the ground.

When he opened his eyes again—

He stood on a quiet street.

The sun was shining brightly. The sky was a beautiful blue. In the distance, a figure in a red and blue bodysuit swung between the tall buildings, leaving a graceful arc in their wake. Some people were queuing for coffee at the corner cafe, some were walking their dogs, some were arguing, and some were laughing.

He returned to the very beginning of the time period.

"Oh—e on!"

Deadpool's voice exploded in the empty street, sharp as a knife.

He suddenly raised his hands above his head and then slammed them down, slamming the two pistols to the ground. They bounced twice, producing a series of crisp metallic clanging sounds.

"This isn't fair! How can we have a second playthrough?"

He's going crazy—or rather, he's been crazy for a long time.

His chest heaved violently, and his face behind the mask was filled with anger and resentment.

He bent down, picked up the two pistols, put them back in their holsters, and then drew two knives from behind his back.

The blade gleamed coldly in the sunlight, reflecting off his mask, whose expression was forever obscured.

His stance is already very clear—

Kill them again.

---

The observations of Cold Dew have already been completed.

He nodded in satisfaction after confirming that the guy in front of him had long since transcended the concept of the "editorial department" and was impossible to defeat using conventional rules.

His figure appeared silently beside Deadpool.

There was no sound, no fluctuation, not a breath.

The concept of the god of civilization perfectly conceals him within the cracks of existence—

It's not about invisibility or disguise, but rather that eerie state where "you're clearly there, but your brain tells you 'there's nothing there.'"

It's not about invisibility or disguise, but rather that eerie state where "you're clearly there, but your brain tells you 'there's nothing there.'"

But Deadpool's non-existent sixth sense—that thing that has been mocked, denied, and told "you don't have a spider-sense" in countless universes—suddenly exploded.

He turned around abruptly.

A long, adamantium metal blade traced a silver arc and precisely stabbed at the figure that had suddenly appeared beside him.

The sound of the blade piercing flesh was crisp yet dull; the adamantite blade could cut through anything.

This includes things like what's touted as "the hardest metal in the universe."

The knife went in.

Hanlu looked down at her chest.

The long sword was stuck in his body, its tip protruding from his back, gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

No blood, no wounds, nothing that should be there—

The knife was stuck there, like it was stuck in a piece of amber that hadn't solidified yet, or like it was stuck in a pool of water that had been paused.

Deadpool blinked. The white lenses on his mask moved slightly as well—

Up and down, like two little dots doing a tap dance.

He tilted his head.

Then he stabbed again with another knife.

The second Adamantine dagger pierced Hanlu's body with a tricky angle and fierce force, enough to pin an elephant to the ground.

Unfortunately, the knife pierced through it easily, as if it were piercing a lump of mud, or even nothing at all.

The sensation wasn't the resistance of piercing flesh, but rather a chilling, ethereal feeling, like piercing something that didn't exist.

Deadpool was certain that when he released his grip, his two knives were still embedded in the body of the person in front of him.

The hilt is exposed, while the blade is embedded in it, as if it were grown on top of it.

"Sandman?" Deadpool tilted his head, his tone genuinely puzzled. "When did you become Asian?"

"Uh—hello, Deadpool." Hanlu felt it was better to be direct. "I want to tell you something—"

He didn't finish his sentence.

Deadpool had already thrown a punch.

The fist, gloved in red, slammed into Hanlu's face with a pure determination that said, "I don't care who you are, I'm going to hit you."

But what followed wasn't that muddy, mushy feel—

It was a sharp, intense pain, like slamming your fist into an anvil, a bone-crushing pain.

"Click—"

A crisp sound of bone cracking.

Deadpool looked down at his wrist; the angle was no longer right.

His hand hung limply in an ergonomically unnatural position, his fingers twitching slightly, like a flattened spider.

"Oh—" His voice held a hint of sudden realization. "You're made of iron, aren't you? Colossus?"

"Listen up, Deadpool—"

Hanlu took a deep breath, trying to keep her tone calm, "You'll hurt yourself doing this."

My existence is rather special; you can't kill me, and I think—"

"The monkey steals the peaches!"

Deadpool suddenly attacked.

With his left hand, like an eagle's claw, he suddenly grabbed between Hanlu's legs from an extremely tricky angle.

The movements were swift, precise, and ruthless, resembling a brilliant scene from a classic movie.

But before his hand even touched the target, the fingertips of his glove began to dissolve—

As if splashed with concentrated sulfuric acid, the fabric spread upwards from the fingertips, exposing the fingers underneath, and then the skin on the fingers began to redden, blister, and peel off.

Deadpool quickly withdrew his hand.

His damaged hand, exposing the stark white bone, was still rapidly regenerating—

Muscles regrow, skin re-covers, and nails regrow.

But the burning pain from being scorched by the "concept" still made his lips twitch.

It's obvious that this tactic will be used soon.

He launched another kick. A side kick, powerful and precise, aimed straight at Hanlu's neck.

"Click—"

My leg is broken again.

Deadpool stood on one leg, the severed leg dangling in the air like a willow branch swaying in the wind.

His body was slightly tilted, his arms outstretched, trying to maintain his balance.

If you could see the face behind the mask, it would surely be a smile that's uglier than crying.

"Enough—Deadpool—" Hanlu's voice finally turned serious. "You'll hurt yourself like this."

He raised a finger.

Deadpool's body froze in mid-air—not because he was caught, not because he was frozen, but because he was "pulled out of the river of time."

His mouth was still open, his eyes were still wide open, and his broken leg was still dangling in the air, as if the pause button had been pressed.

He was unable to move.

But Hanlu, who had deliberately given the other party a break, had already started spewing profanities.

"Oh—shit—!"

Deadpool's voice squeezed out from his paused mouth, each word sounding like it was being forced out from between his teeth: "These guys have created another super-versatile superhero—aren't they tired?"

The words were illogical, lacked focus, and even lacked punctuation; they just poured out in one go, like turning on a tap that had been blocked for a long time.

until--

Hanlu slapped him across the face.

"Snapped!"

A crisp sound.

Deadpool's head snapped to one side, leaving a faint handprint on his mask.

His eyes—the white lenses on his mask—spun twice before closing.

His body went limp, like a machine that had lost power.

Hanlu ordered him to stand up again.

Deadpool suddenly opened his eyes, gasping for breath as if he had just been pulled out of the water.

His gaze fell on Hanlu, then swept over their surroundings—they were already in space.

Beneath my feet is the Earth, that blue planet slowly rotating.

There was no air, no sound, and no medium through which his voice could travel.

Deadpool opened his mouth, then closed it again—he knew that even if he spoke, the other person wouldn't hear him.

Hanlu began to pour what she wanted to say directly into his mind.

The feeling was strange; it wasn't from listening or reading, but rather an intuition that made me suddenly understand.

It's as if someone has pasted an article directly into your consciousness; you don't need to read it or understand it, it's just there.

"Deadpool, you want to kill the Marvel editorial team—no way. I don't care."

Hanlu's voice rang in his mind, calm and clear.

"But you should understand your current situation."

Even if you actually manage to infiltrate a Marvel editorial department, what if they write a story about you killing someone?

You should know that many fans who have already "eaten shit" are already addicted to it.

And as far as I know, you have a next step—like slaughtering those literary universes to sever some of the concepts of superheroes.

Speaking of which, Hanlu really wants to complain.

Damn, the Marvel Cinematic Universe really does sew anything together. Ultraman, Godzilla, even Transformers. And then there are all sorts of literary works—

These guys are really good at stealing. Generally speaking, content in literary works that has been privately attributed for decades doesn't infringe on portrait rights or copyrights, so it can be used freely.

Like Sherlock Holmes, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Mulan, Dracula and the Three Brides, Little Red Riding Hood, and so on.

In other words, theoretically speaking, Deadpool could use these literary universes as a springboard to jump directly out of the Marvel Universe and go to other universes.

Of course, this is also a way to escape.

But Hanlu didn't care about that. If he went to another universe, he might exist as a "blessing," but he would lose the possibility of further expansion in the future.

In the ocean, it may grow into a dragon or a megalodon;

But in rivers, it can only ever become a bull shark at best.

So now—

He wanted to catch this chattering little guy in front of him.

This is the last chance.

Deadpool hovered in space, the white lenses on his mask staring directly at Hanlu.

His mouth was closed—not because he didn't want to speak, but because he couldn't.

But in his eyes—

If those two white lenses can be called "eyes"—

Something was flickering slightly.

It wasn't anger, it wasn't fear, but something... something that hadn't appeared in a very, very long time, almost like curiosity.

"Who are you?" His lips moved silently.

Hanlu read his lips.

His lips slowly parted to reveal a meaningful smile.

"Your savior," his voice boomed into Deadpool's head, "or—your executioner. Your choice."