"Hello, White Devil."
At the Midnight Hotel, manager Thomas lifted his glass toward Zod in greeting.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Zod stared at him, baffled, and raised a glass of absinthe. He took a light sip—the smooth warmth and intoxicating aroma settling on his tongue.
"You really haven't heard? That's what the others call you now. Your reputation's become… intimidating. You've earned yourself a nickname."
Thomas smiled, clinking his glass against Zod's in congratulations.
"Not a great one. 'Reaper' would've been simpler."
Zod found the name tasteless.
But after completing five million-dollar-level contracts back-to-back without pause, he'd become a legend at the Midnight Hotel—no, a legend in the entire assassin underworld.
Finishing those jobs consecutively with zero prep time meant that even the boldest killers backed off after seeing the record he'd set.
Zod was in good spirits. Earning over ten million in such a short period and officially joining the ranks of millionaires—anyone would be pleased.
Though, in a hyper-capitalist place like America, millionaires were hardly rare.
Now that he had downtime, Zod wanted to craft himself a stronger suit of armor.
On Krypton, his birth role had been predetermined: a research specialist. Naturally, he'd pursued fields that interested him. But as a transmigrant, he hadn't limited himself to science alone—he'd deliberately befriended General Zod's faction with the goal of recruiting them one day… which was now impossible.
The armor he wore was his own creation, forged from refined Kryptonian metal and alien minerals he had collected. He called the resulting super-alloy "K-Gold"—a private joke no one else appreciated.
K-Gold was incredibly strong—high heat resistance, superb durability, excellent toughness, and remarkable hardness. The armor worn by General Zod's soldiers greatly enhanced their combat strength, but it shattered easily. Kryptonians fought with terrifying force; ordinary materials simply couldn't withstand the destructive impact of their battles.
K-Gold was different. Against most Kryptonian weapons, it remained pristine. Even the superweapons feared by Kryptonians only left superficial distortions on the surface. The alloy could absorb energy and regenerate itself.
Zod didn't need armor that granted combat power. He just didn't want to worry about his suit falling apart halfway through a fight. So a sturdier version was a must.
As for wearing a skintight suit like Superman? Absolutely not. His shame tolerance had limits.
Today, he'd come to the Midnight Hotel to acquire vibranium through their channels.
Vibranium didn't only exist in Wakanda. A traitor had once smuggled some out—Ultron had managed to obtain enough to build himself a full vibranium body. So Zod figured getting a small amount shouldn't be that hard.
Besides, Black Panther's father, T'Chaka, had sold tiny quantities abroad so Wakandan scholars could study overseas and advance the nation's science.
"Vibranium?"
Thomas had heard of the alloy—rare, sourced from an underdeveloped African country—but in recent years, it seemed to be surfacing more often.
"Ten thousand dollars per gram. That's just the listed price. The real price is even higher."
Thomas spread his hands helplessly. Not that the Midnight Hotel lacked the means—vibranium's market value was simply outrageous.
The kind of outrageous that could bankrupt a millionaire overnight.
"I still have about eight million in my account. How much can I get?"
Zod didn't even blink. Money was a tool. Use it when needed. And with the Midnight Hotel practically being a gold mine, he could earn it back easily.
"One moment." Thomas made a call. After a short exchange, he turned back.
"Five hundred grams at most."
He hadn't made the decision himself; he'd checked with higher-ups before giving an answer.
So expensive?
Zod had prepared himself mentally, but the number still exceeded expectation.
No wonder even Tony Stark never used vibranium armor. He updated his suits constantly—if he made them in vibranium, his Mark III weighed ninety kilos. Even if vibranium was lighter than steel, the total value would still be astronomical enough to ruin most people.
After resting at the Midnight Hotel for two days, Zod ran his fingers across the case holding the vibranium. Time to go.
The hotel's efficiency was excellent—another sign that Hydra likely stood behind it.
Back at his villa—now completed—Zod headed straight for the basement, his private workshop and research lab.
He began by analyzing the vibranium's data.
In hardness, it fell short of K-Gold. But its properties were what made it truly priceless.
When absorbing mechanical energy, its molecular structure didn't expand. Vibrational energy was stored within the molecular bonds themselves. As a result, fully charged vibranium became extraordinarily hard. The storage limit was unknown; if it existed, reaching it would probably trigger an explosion that released everything it had absorbed.
K-Gold, on the other hand, maxed out every resistance stat: heat, cold, corrosion, structural integrity, immunity to high-frequency vibration, kinetic durability—everything.
"With only a pound of vibranium, there's not much I can develop."
Zod frowned. If he could find the perfect ratio between K-Gold and vibranium, he could create armor that was virtually indestructible.
He was also intrigued by Proto-Adamantium and True Adamantium. Unfortunately, this world had no mutants, so the liquified form of True Adamantium didn't exist. Proto-Adamantium existed only in Captain America's shield. The formula for True Adamantium was held exclusively by the U.S. military—and even when produced, it was scarce and extremely difficult to manufacture. The only widely available version was the inferior Secondary Adamantium.
"So the answer is still… money."
Zod needed more vibranium. Before Ultron emerged, he didn't have to worry about scarcity.
He unlocked his black phone. The list of available contracts was packed. Hard to imagine how the world still functioned with so many people dying every day.
Then his eyes caught a job that specifically named him.
At this point in his fame and skill, missions chose him, not the other way around. Plenty wanted to hire him—whether he accepted was the real question.
This client, however, was generous: seven million dollars, just to remove a single target.
Zod checked the details. The target was a drug dealer, charges confirmed, already set for prison time. But now, at the last moment, the man had exposed information claiming he knew the secrets of Wilson Grant Fisk.
And tomorrow, he was scheduled to testify.
/-\
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