106. Martial Saint, Help! Martial Saint: I'm busy right now. (Over ten thousand words posted late at night—please subscribe!)

Without Spider-Man appearing or any attempt to dissuade them, would the New York police, having taken a loss, simply fire a few shots and call it a day? Absolutely not!

They would shoot regardless of the outcome, and if they suffered a setback, they certainly wouldn’t rest until the opponent was dead.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Gunfire erupted continuously, countless bullets striking Max Dillon’s body, sparks flying everywhere.

Instinctively, Max dodged the incoming bullets, covering his head and closing his eyes, waving his arms as if trying to block the bullets.

Then, to his astonishment, he realized the bullets were actually being stopped.

As the desire in his heart to block the bullets grew stronger, tiny arcs of electricity began to crackle from his fingertips. The bullets, upon touching these arcs, were instantly shattered by the electric charge.

More and more bullets flew toward him, but Max’s composure gradually steadied.

He straightened up, tilted his head, and looked at the shattered bullets in front of him, a thousand questions swirling in his mind as he wore a perplexed expression.

Why was this happening?

Even as a former electrical engineer, Max Dillon couldn’t comprehend what was going on.

But understanding the mechanism wasn’t important. What mattered was that with this power, he no longer feared the bullets—and perhaps he could do even more.

Facing the dense barrage of bullets, Max extended one hand, and immediately a crackling electric net appeared around him, blocking all the bullets.

Then he raised his other hand, which also crackled with electric arcs.

This miraculous scene immediately drew the attention of the surrounding crowd, eliciting gasps of surprise—this time without anyone needing to lead them.

“Wow! Is this how electricity works inside the body? Amazing!”

“If you can control electricity, does that make you invincible? I want to be like this, so I won’t be afraid of being mugged when walking at night.”

“This special effect deserves full marks! This is what effects should look like. Our country is at least ten years behind!”

“Unbelievable!”

Viewers worldwide watching the footage online followed suit.

“American special effects lead our country by at least twenty years!”

“Americans just do effects better; we could never catch up!”

“Our country’s effects are garbage, and so are our sci-fi movies!”

Such comments flooded forums across various nations.

Amidst the commotion, Max Dillon made his move.

With a swing of his arm, a bolt of electricity surged forth, striking an armored car used as cover. The vehicle was hurled forward, crashing into police officers behind it and flying over ten meters, landing right before the crowd.

Dust billowed from the impact, and a faint burnt smell of scorched metal reached the onlookers, finally convincing them this wasn’t just a special effect.

A nearby bystander touched his chest, nearly weakening from the shock.

“This is not an effect! It’s real!”

Just as he shouted, another vehicle was blasted away—this one flying farther and crashing into the crowd, knocking down several people.

“Ah!”

The crowd erupted in panic.

“It’s real, not an effect!”

“Run! Someone’s going to get killed!”

“What’s happening up ahead? Don’t push!”

Some fled in fear, while others, driven by curiosity, pressed forward despite the danger, turning the scene chaotic and crowded.

Shouts and screams filled the air.

At that moment, a hidden sniper opened fire. The Barrett, nicknamed "the cannon," thundered, firing a large-caliber bullet capable of snapping a leg clean off, aimed directly at Max Dillon.

But Max dodged.

The sniper rifle failed to hit him, yet the attack only fueled Max’s fury.

Electricity surged out again, striking before the sniper could react, instantly turning the marksman into a charred corpse.

Enraged, Max lost control of his destructive urge, unleashing electricity wildly.

With a wave of his hand, police cars flew through the air; with another, officers fell lifeless; then a wall collapsed, burying several spectators beneath the rubble.

In mere moments, Times Square had become a scene of utter devastation.

“Who the hell said this was just a 3D projection?”

“Run! No more talk—get out of the way!”

“Don’t push! Don’t push!”

The crowd was enormous and chaotic; once disorder set in, it became nearly impossible to restore order.

“Reinforcements! Requesting reinforcements!”

Surviving officers scrambled to contact headquarters, which promptly dispatched messages to nearby police forces and actively sought external support.

Before long, aboard a yacht at sea, Su Ye’s phone rang. The caller ID showed Sharon Carter.

The moment Su Ye answered, Sharon’s anxious voice came through.

“Boss, where are you? There’s chaos in Times Square—seems like a supervillain is causing trouble. The police are requesting backup.”

Su Ye looked around at the dark surroundings and shook his head. “I don’t even know where I am—just water all around. But if they want backup, why not call Coulson? Why me?”

“Agent Coulson has already led a team out. He asked me to contact you. Besides, our Red Shield branch is supposed to handle emergencies, supervillains and the like,” Sharon urged.

“Heh,” Su Ye chuckled, “Red Shield? Has the paperwork been approved? SHIELD hasn’t paid me a dime, but they sure know how to use me when it suits them.”

There was a pause on the other end, then Phil Coulson’s voice came through.

“Mr. Su, the Red Shield authorization is in process, but there’s quite a bit of opposition, so it’ll take some time. Can you…”

“Who’s opposing?” Su Ye scoffed. “Put them on the line. I want to talk to them!”

Coulson replied awkwardly, “I’ll press the director to speed things up, but the process has to be followed.”

Su Ye scoffed again. “You’re right—the process must be followed. This boat won’t turn around and get back here in less than two or three hours, so I really can’t help.”

With that, Su Ye hung up.

On the other end, Coulson sighed and dialed Nick Fury’s number.

Chaos in Times Square continued unabated. Su Ye’s duplicate had left the scene with the crowd, while the real Su Ye on the yacht watched the live feed via satellite.

More than ten minutes had passed since Max Dillon had begun his rampage.

During those minutes, Times Square had erupted like a festival.

Cars, neon lights, billboards, giant screens—all exploded like fireworks. Staircases crumbled in large sections, and the roads were torn apart, making passage impossible for vehicles or pedestrians.

Countless police officers lay dead or wounded. Agents on the perimeter exchanged worried glances. Facing an electric man who could transform into electricity itself, their weapons had lost all effect—they were at a loss.

Coulson felt as if he were facing a live wire, having just dispatched a thunder-wielding god recently, and now confronted by another electric being.

But the problem was that the thunder god had been taken care of by the Wusheng—what about this electric man?

Ordinary people charging in were simply cannon fodder. This was a job for a superhero. The city had plenty—Spider-Man, Batman, Green Lantern, and others.

So why, amidst such chaos, had none of these heroes shown up?

Coulson knew Green Lantern had gone out to sea with Su Ye, unable to return for hours. But where were Spider-Man and Batman?

Especially Batman—just a few days ago, he had eagerly delivered a shield to Wusheng. Today, he couldn’t even be bothered to check in?

As Coulson pondered, a convoy of tanks and armored vehicles rolled in, with helicopters buzzing overhead.

“Agent Coulson, you can withdraw. The military is taking over here now,” came General Ross’s voice over Coulson’s earpiece. The old man’s tone was far from friendly—he was clearly displeased with SHIELD due to previous grievances.

Hulk had been “killed,” Abomination taken into custody, and the damage to Harlem’s buildings and civilians was counted as military responsibility. Why should they bear that?

This time, General Ross was pulling out all the stops. Since the military would have to bear the cost of rebuilding anyway, he wasn’t holding back—tanks, armored vehicles, vehicle-mounted howitzers, and even the multiple rocket launcher system known as the battlefield Thor.

Ross swore to himself that even if it meant razing Times Square to the ground, he would take down this troublemaker and restore the military’s prestige, silencing the politicians who constantly criticized their spending.

Hearing the general’s words and seeing his heavy equipment, Coulson wasted no time, ordered a retreat, and led his men out of Times Square.

Staying any longer risked friendly fire casualties with no benefit.

Soon, the wreckage-strewn Times Square was left with only a single streak of electric light, still hovering in the air.

Max Dillon was ecstatic. In over forty years of living, he had never felt so alive.

He was on television. He was the center of attention. All eyes worldwide were on him, shining brighter than any celebrity.

Even brighter than his idol, Batman.

No mistake—Batman, in a world full of superheroes, was Max’s hero. Not Spider-Man, the devoted New York savior of lonely women, but the crime-fighting legend who had even bested Iron Man.

That black combat suit, the helmet, the cape—it all suited Max’s skin tone perfectly.

Now, Max reveled in a glory Batman had never known, intoxicated by the feeling.

When General Ross’s troops rolled in, Max saw them too. Using his electric powers to manipulate magnetic fields, he floated midair, looking down from above with far better vision than Coulson.

Though not a military buff, Max recognized tanks and the massive multiple rocket launcher, resembling rows of gigantic incense sticks.

These were formidable weapons.

His body could withstand bullets, but could it withstand artillery shells?

Max had been an electrical engineer—not a slacker who wasted his brain but a high-IQ talent with real skills.

He didn’t know if he could resist shells, but he was certain he didn’t need to.

Only a foolish villain would boast so arrogantly that they ended up destroying themselves.

Max believed he could become a dark hero like Batman, never to fail so easily here.

From afar, as General Ross’s tank convoy took control of the battlefield but before they could form combat formations, a streak of electric light shot toward them.