After saying goodbye to Dr. Genus, Jovian began tracking down Zombieman…
In a dim, shadowy warehouse, a man in a trench coat hid in the dark, quietly watching everything.
"Thirty of them?"
After confirming the headcount, he reached under his coat and drew his weapons.
"Hey! You'd better surrender now!"
He then walked straight toward the gangsters who were busy unloading cargo.
"Huh?"
"Who the hell are you? Mind your own business!"
The moment the trench-coat man stepped into view, one irritated thug strode up in front of him.
"I'm asking you to stop transporting contraband. If you refuse, I will intervene with force and put an end to this illegal operation."
Even with the thug's threat right in his face, the trench-coat man stayed calm, speaking coldly and evenly.
"Do you even know where you are?"
The thug pulled a handgun from his pocket, jammed it against the man's head, and shouted.
"Looks like talking won't work. In that case…"
The trench-coat man sighed, a little resigned. If he could help it, he didn't want to take things that far with humans.
Bang!
A gunshot roared through the warehouse.
A spray of bright red followed—one round punched clean through the trench-coat man's head.
"Uh…"
For a moment, the entire crew froze. Nobody expected the thug to fire that fast—and nobody expected a clean headshot.
"You guys are too slow. Why waste time talking to trash like that?"
"Just put one in his head and be done with it."
As everyone stood there stunned, a man in a black suit with a cigar in his mouth stepped out of the back room and barked at the thugs.
"B-boss!"
The gangsters snapped upright and bowed respectfully.
"Quit yapping. Get rid of the body."
The boss spoke with icy impatience.
"Yes, boss!"
They bowed again.
"Idiots… can't do anything clean."
Still cursing under his breath, the boss turned around—
"AAAAH!!"
A shriek exploded behind him.
"Tch—"
Already annoyed, the boss felt his temper flare. He spun back, furious.
"What the hell are you screaming for?!"
"Calm down, you—"
The words died in his throat.
His eyes went wide. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
The man he had just shot in the head was standing there completely unharmed—while several of the boss's own men lay on the floor with arms and legs hacked off.
"Hey! That one really hurt."
The trench-coat man wiped the blood off himself and flashed the boss a chilling grin.
"Damn monster!"
Sweat beaded on the boss's forehead, but his hands moved fast.
Pap! Pap! Pap!
He emptied rounds into the trench-coat man's body, bullets punching through flesh again and again.
"Heh…"
It didn't matter.
The trench-coat man simply tanked the shots and kept walking forward, step by step.
"Bastards! Get out here—help me!"
Seeing he couldn't win, the boss shouted for backup.
"We're here, boss!"
Men in black flooded out of the rooms, wielding batons, knives, and guns, swarming in and surrounding the trench-coat man.
"Hahaha…"
The boss finally exhaled, easing up a little.
"You're just one guy. Even if you can't die—how are you gonna fight twenty-plus of us?"
He wiped sweat from his brow, confidence creeping back into his voice.
"Twenty-plus, huh?"
The trench-coat man's expression didn't change. One hand gripped an axe, the other a blade, and he faced them head-on.
"Hehehe…"
"I'll give you some advice—give up. I used to be a B-Class hero. Now I'm a near A-Class criminal. You can't beat me."
Among the thugs, one man with throwing knives kept sliding his tongue along the metal, grinning with an ugly, cartoonish edge.
"Yeah, yeah!"
The others echoed him.
"Near A-Class criminal?"
The trench-coat man's face darkened, irritation flickering in his eyes.
"Hehehe—"
"Right! Now you finally get the difference between us!"
The knife-thrower laughed again, still licking his blade like he thought it made him scary.
"Difference…?"
The trench-coat man muttered, then launched forward into the mob.
In an instant, fresh cuts opened across his body—but he didn't care. He fought like a maniac, trading injury for injury, taking hits just to land worse ones.
"Psycho…"
The boss watched him slash and hack, fear creeping into his voice as he cursed under his breath.
It was brutal—and effective. Before long, someone went down.
The trench-coat man chopped a leg clean off.
"Ugh…"
Seeing the victim writhing on the floor, the rest of them recoiled. Hands slowed. Feet backed up.
Nobody wanted to be the next one crippled here. It wasn't worth dying for a few grand a month.
"Who's next?"
The trench-coat man's wounds knit shut again as he spoke coldly.
They stared at him—this thing that ignored death, that instantly returned to normal no matter what you did to it—and dread spread through the circle. For a few seconds, nobody dared step in.
Whoosh!
Several throwing knives sliced through the air and slammed into him.
Pff!
His body burst apart and collapsed to the floor.
"Look at you pathetic idiots," the knife-thrower sneered. "He's nothing but a useless piece of trash that won't stay dead."
"Instant kill!"
The thugs gaped at the sight—this "war god" of a man dropping like that—mouths hanging open, disbelief written all over their faces.
"That's why I'm different from you," the knife-thrower said, grinning wider. "Near A-Class means a whole other level."
"Man… that hurt like hell."
The body on the floor moved.
The trench-coat man rose again, pulling himself upright like nothing had happened.
"You…!"
The knife-thrower's pupils trembled. Something clicked in his mind.
"Don't tell me…"
"You're the Hero Association's S-Class hero—Zombieman?!"
He had thought this was just some nobody hero with a decent healing factor—until the repeated "deaths" stopped making any sense at all. This wasn't regeneration anymore. This was revival, over and over, with no rules.
"You finally figured it out?" Zombieman said, stepping forward with his weapons. "Too bad. You're late."
"AAAAH!!"
A moment later, screams began to fill the warehouse—one after another, echoing without end.
Four hours later, Zombieman stood amid the wreckage with everyone subdued.
"Hah…"
He let out a slow breath.
Another day of justice served.
Click—
Just as Zombieman moved to destroy the contraband, a camera flash caught his eye.
"Hm?"
He turned—and saw a white-clad man who hadn't been there a moment ago.
Zombieman frowned, confused.
"Yep, that's it. Smile a little more."
The white-clad man kept snapping photos.
"S-Class hero Zombieman—evidence of murdering superheroes and smuggling contraband. Got it."
After taking what he wanted, he calmly set the camera down.
"Wait—no, I—"
"You've got it wrong!"
Zombieman started explaining urgently.
Snap!
Before he could finish, the white-clad man appeared right in front of him and clamped a hand around his throat.
"There's no misunderstanding…"
"Since the evidence is airtight, as a fellow hero I can only carry out 'justice.'"
"Evil monster Zombieman—time to die."
He lifted Zombieman off the ground with one hand, holding him there like he weighed nothing.
"Tell me."
"Do you really not die?"
His grip tightened.
The next second, it was like a watermelon bursting—white and red pulp splattering across the floor in a horrific spray.
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