[Bonus chapter for Powerstones]
"Did you hear? That guy Flash..." "Truly despicable. His existence is a disgrace to Midtown High!"
Thanks to the spontaneous "publicity" from the students on the bus, Flash's reputation as a "cowardly frame-artist" grew wings and spread across the entire school in an instant.
By lunchtime, the cafeteria was a monolith of whispers and mocking laughter directed at him.
As of today, Flash Thompson was effectively socially dead. It was the perfect ending Peter had orchestrated for him.
Given his public identity, Peter couldn't simply kill Flash. However, he could ensure the bully lost everything he once prized: his status, his popularity, and his pride. This was Peter's new standard for living.
If people don't provoke me, I won't provoke them. If they do, I'll pay them back tenfold.
School Sports Equipment Room.
This place was rarely visited, making it the perfect spot to practice without being heard—or spotted by S.H.I.E.L.D. satellites.
Just as Peter had theorized, training became exponentially easier once he framed the chakra output of the Rasengan as a mathematical model.
He didn't need water balloons, air balloons, or rubber balls. He simply attempted to form the sphere while scribbling variables and adjustments on a piece of scratch paper.
By the end of a single lunch break, a high-speed, rotating ball of blue light hummed in his palm.
Peter hesitated for a moment before pressing the sphere into the concrete floor. With a thunderous BOOM, the solid ground was gouged out, leaving a crater over two meters wide and half a meter deep.
After using the Horse Talisman to restore the floor, Peter nodded in satisfaction.
The Rasengan was complete.
Its power far exceeded his expectations. Combined with his raw physical strength, he doubted any supervillain in the Spider-Verse could take a direct hit and walk away. Even Iron Man's armor would likely suffer localized structural failure.
"With the Rasengan, I have no more weaknesses in terms of destructive power. My confidence for tonight's 'black-on-black' operation is at an all-time high."
As night fell, Peter used the excuse of "tutoring Gwen" to leave the house. Once out of sight, he ducked into an alley, pulled up his black hood, and masked his face with a gaiter and sunglasses.
Due to limited funds, his current "superhero" look was indistinguishable from a bank robber.
Moving like a phantom through the shadows of skyscrapers, he soon arrived at the infamous district of Manhattan: Hell's Kitchen.
He slowed his pace, focusing his enhanced hearing on the surrounding environment. While passing a local auto repair shop, he picked up a conversation that piqued his interest.
"Listen up, boys! Tonight's shipment is vital. Mr. Fisk worked hard to secure this split from Madame Gao!" a gravelly, coarse voice barked.
"If we pull this off, everyone gets a cut of this much!"
"Location is Pier 9 in Brooklyn. Time is thirty minutes from now. The buyers are a group of Russians. Bring your pieces and stay sharp—watch out for a double-cross!"
Kingpin? Madame Gao?
Hearing those names, Peter's eyes sharpened. Wilson Fisk, the "Kingpin of Crime," and Madame Gao, a high-ranking member of the Hand and a notorious drug lord.
He hadn't expected his first "farming" trip to involve the business of such major bosses. This was perfect. The more famous the target, the more likely he was to obtain high-value items for sacrifice.
He smirked under his mask. I choose you, Big Fatty Fisk!
Pier 9, Brooklyn.
The pier had been abandoned for years. The air smelled of rust and salt, and the flickering yellow streetlamps cast long, distorted shadows across the shipping containers.
A dozen gang members with pistols tucked into their waistbands loitered about, smoking and chatting, though their eyes remained vigilant. Soon, the roar of engines broke the silence. Three black sedans rolled onto the pier, and a group of burly Russians stepped out.
The leader, a man with a mohawk, barked in heavily accented English, "Where is Fisk? Why didn't he come to see me himself?"
"Our boss is a busy man. A small deal like this doesn't require his personal presence," a man with a scarred face replied, stepping forward with a thin, cold smile.
The scarred man snapped his fingers, and a subordinate opened a briefcase filled with neatly taped packages. Seeing the goods, the Russian leader's eyes lit up. He signaled his men to bring over two heavy metal cases from the car.
The cases clicked open, revealing stacks of crisp, new hundred-dollar bills.
Just as the two sides were about to swap the goods for the cash...
SHING!
A faint whistle of air cut through the night. A second later, a man on the outer perimeter collapsed without a sound. A small pebble was embedded in the center of his forehead.
"SNIPER!" the scarred man roared. He drew his pistol and rolled behind a car, aiming toward the Russians.
The Russians froze, then erupted in fury. The local gangs were so impolite! They actually tried to frame them!
"Stop them!" the mohawk shouted. His subordinates drew their weapons and began a chaotic shootout with Fisk's men.
Seizing the chaos, the mohawk grabbed the money cases and made a break for one of the black sedans. But just as he reached the door, a black-clad figure blurred out from behind a container like a pouncing leopard.
The mohawk was an old hand at this. Hearing the movement, he didn't think—he just pulled the trigger, intending to empty his clip.
However, after only two shots, the shadow was already upon him.
CRUNCH!
The mohawk's world turned black instantly as his consciousness spiraled into the void.
Splatter—
A spray of red and white hit the car window, nearly scaring the driver inside to death.
My God! What had he just seen? A two-hundred-pound Russian powerhouse had just had his head exploded by a single punch from a masked man with a slender, athletic build?