After blowing the bearded man's brains across the wall, Darren rushed to Yinsen's side.
The man was in bad shape—worse than before. His breathing was ragged, his eyes glassy, his face pale as death itself. You could practically see the red "Game Over" flashing across his forehead.
Yinsen struggled to speak, voice thin as smoke. "I… I'm done for. Please… tell Tony not to waste his—"
"Yeah, yeah. Save the emotional lines for your next cutscene."
Darren interrupted without mercy. A green bottle appeared in his hand.
He twisted off the cap and unceremoniously dumped the liquid all over Yinsen's hands.
Yinsen blinked. What the hell? He was dying, and this guy was giving him a hand wash?
Then, before the thought was complete, a tingling warmth spread from his chest. He looked down—and froze.
The bullet holes in his torso were closing. Flesh knit, veins reconnected, blood stopped flowing. Within seconds, the wounds were gone.
[Item: Bio Hand Sanitizer™]
[Effect: Instantly heals most injuries. Can reattach limbs with ease.]
[Evaluation: Wash your hands, stay healthy.]
"This… this is impossible."
Yinsen sat up, touching his chest in disbelief. If not for the blood-stained shirt and bullet holes, he might've thought the whole thing had been a fever dream.
"Nothing's impossible."
Darren tossed the empty bottle aside like it was a can of cheap soda. He didn't even flinch. He had dozens of these healing items sitting in his game inventory.
Moments later, the system chimed:
[Side Quest "Save Yinsen" complete!]
[Rewards: +1000 EXP, +20 Tony Stark Affection, Item: "Pure Iron Poké Ball."]
[Item: Pure Iron Poké Ball (Weight: 100kg. Only the strong and the living deserve to be captured.)]
"Now that's what I call a quest reward," Darren grinned. "Main storyline missions really do pay better."
...
The heavy clang of metal echoed down the passageway.
A rough, clunky suit of iron armor appeared—welded together from scrap, smoke still hissing from its joints.
The faceplate lifted, revealing Tony's face—sweaty, anxious, but alive.
"Finally found you." He exhaled in relief. Seeing Yinsen still breathing nearly made him collapse from the weight of it all.
"Where are the terrorists?" he asked.
Darren gestured lazily with his chin. "Right there. All around."
Tony turned to look—and froze.
The ground was littered with corpses. Dozens of them.
Every one had a neat hole in the forehead. Blood pooled and shimmered in the dim light, painting the sand a deep crimson.
"You… did all this?" Tony stammered.
"Keep it lowkey," Darren said modestly, waving it off.
Tony took a sharp breath. Lowkey? The man had wiped out an army. Alone.
Still, Tony Stark was not a man who showed awe easily. He forced a smirk. "Alright, James Bond. You've done your part. From here on, it's my show."
He slammed the faceplate shut and stomped out of the cave in his Mark I armor.
...
Outside, the valley was alive with firepower.
Dozens of militants had taken position, all armed with Stark Industries weapons—ironic and cruel.
The bald warlord leading them raised his hand. "Open fire!!"
RATATATAT!
The entire canyon erupted. Bullets rained down in a metallic storm, slamming into Tony's armor with deafening clangs. Sparks exploded with every impact, a hurricane of metal on metal.
Even with the armor's protection, Tony could feel each hit in his bones. His body rattled inside the suit.
Using my own weapons to shoot me? That's low, even for terrorists!
But strangely, despite the eye sockets in his faceplate being wide open, not a single bullet struck them—as if the rounds had a built-in Don't hit the protagonist's face protocol.
Tony gritted his teeth. "My turn."
Flames roared from the suit's arms, engulfing the militants in front. Screams echoed as men were swallowed whole by fire.
The bald leader's expression twisted in rage. "Bring out the heavy machine guns! Suppress him!"
From higher ground, three mounted guns opened up, showering Tony with heavy-caliber fire.
RATATATATA!
The impacts rocked him like thunder. Sparks flew. One stray bullet tore through his right leg joint—he dropped to one knee, armor grinding helplessly in the dirt.
"Damn it!" Tony hissed.
The Mark I was tough but clumsy. It wasn't built for agility or long-range combat. Now pinned down, he was nothing but a sitting target.
The bald warlord saw his chance. "RPGs! Blow that tin can to hell!"
A soldier hoisted a rocket launcher onto his shoulder, aiming dead at Tony.
Tony's throat went dry. He knew exactly how much damage that thing could do—he had designed it. One hit, and he'd be a Stark-flavored smear on the canyon wall.
BOOM!
A single sharp gunshot split the chaos.
The RPG-wielder's head exploded like a dropped melon. The launcher tumbled harmlessly from his grip.
Tony turned—and there he was.
Darren, calm as ever, pistol raised, smoke curling from the muzzle.
"Listen up, Elon Musk," Darren called out coolly. "Your scene's over. I'll take it from here."
Elon… who?
Tony blinked. What the hell's an Elon Musk?
But there was no time to ask. "Get back! Their firepower's too heavy!" he shouted instead.
"Oh?"
Darren's lips curved in amusement. Instead of retreating, he holstered his pistol.
Then, to Tony's utter disbelief, a massive six-barrel minigun materialized in his hands, gleaming with a deadly metallic sheen.
"Compared to yours…" he said, eyes glinting. "…how about this?"
Tony's jaw dropped.
"What. The. Hell!?"
Where had he even pulled that monster from!?