[Ding! Attribute points allocated successfully!]
[Level: 6 (2115/6000)]
[Strength: 43 → 48]
[Agility: 40 → 40]
[Endurance: 40 → 45]
[Intelligence: 40 → 40]
[Remaining Attribute Points: 0]
[Reputation: 411]
[Allies: Franklin Clinton, Norman Stanfield (Reputation required for next ally: 500)]
[Points: 43]
[Abilities: Combat Mastery (Level 6), Driving Mastery (Level 3), Firearms Mastery (Level 6), Melee Weapon Mastery (Level 2)]
[Shop: Click here]
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The system’s confirmation buzzed in Jason’s mind, his body surging with newfound power as the attribute points kicked in. His muscles swelled with strength, his stamina surging like a shot of pure adrenaline. He stretched his arms wide, savoring the rush, a low, primal groan escaping his lips. "Fuck, that’s good!"
Fisk’s face twisted with annoyance, his bald head gleaming under the flickering light of the burning wreckage. "Need a minute to stretch, princess?" He growled.
Jason flashed a cocky grin. "Nah, I’m ready to fuck you up now."
Without warning, he backpedaled, putting distance between them, and snapped his rifle to his shoulder, aiming square at Fisk’s shiny dome. ’Single combat? Fuck that noise.’ Why go fist-to-fist when a bullet could end this quick and clean? Only an idiot would play fair with a monster like Fisk.
"Shit!" Fisk roared, yanking his suit jacket over his head just as Jason opened fire.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The 7.62mm rounds slammed into the jacket, ricocheting harmlessly into the night. The fabric didn’t even tear. ’Motherfucker’s wearing a custom bulletproof suit,’ Jason realized, his jaw tightening. That thing probably cost millions—high-tech fibers woven to stop anything short of a rocket launcher. Even the goddamn Pentagon couldn’t afford to mass-produce that shit.
"You cheating bastard!" Jason snarled, adjusting his aim to Fisk’s legs. ’Let’s see if your fucking shoes are bulletproof.’
Fisk’s eyes blazed with fury, the accusation only pissing him off more. Using the jacket as a shield, he charged, his massive frame moving with terrifying speed. The ground cracked under his boots, the air whistling as he closed the ten-meter gap in a heartbeat. Jason barely had time to react before Fisk’s meaty hand clamped onto the rifle’s barrel, yanking it upward. A fist the size of a cinderblock swung at Jason’s chest, the same kind of punch that had once put him in a hospital bed for four months.
Instinct kicked in. Jason released the rifle, leaping backward just as the fist grazed his vest. He landed in a crouch, heart pounding, but Fisk didn’t press the attack. Instead, he stood there, looming like a goddamn mountain, his lips curled in disdain. The man’s size and speed were a grotesque contradiction—three hundred pounds of muscle moving like a fucking cheetah. This was Kingpin, the underworld’s apex predator.
"Pulling a gun in a one-on-one?" Fisk sneered, his massive hands twisting the rifle into a pretzel with a sickening crunch. "Still the same spineless, backstabbing piece of shit, huh, Jason?"
Jason smirked, unfazed. "Eat a dick, big guy."
[Ding! New mission triggered: "Combat Maniac." Reward: 10,000 villain points.]
[Mission Brief: Fisk is challenging you to a fight. As a true villain, you can’t back down. Drop your weapons and show him what "death" really means with your fists!]
’Ten thousand points?’ Jason’s eyes widened. The system was practically throwing rewards at him. No way he was passing up a score like that. He yanked the shotgun off his back and tossed it to the ground, followed by the pistol holstered at his waist. The weapons clattered against the asphalt, glinting in the firelight.
Fisk’s brow furrowed, suspicion in his eyes. "What’s this? Giving up already?"
Jason cracked his knuckles, his confidence surging. "Think you’re the only one who’s been training? I’ve gotten a little stronger since we last danced."
He lunged forward, eyes locked on Fisk’s face, his fist whistling through the air with a force that made the wind howl. The punch was faster, harder than anything he’d thrown in their old sparring days.
Fisk’s eyes gleamed with excitement. "Bring it!" He roared, planting his feet and swinging a counterpunch to meet Jason’s.
WHAM!
Their fists collided, the impact reverberating like a gunshot. Fisk’s face twisted in shock, his knuckles throbbing as if he’d punched a steel wall. ’This is Jason?’ In days, the man had gone from a tough but beatable sparring partner to a fucking juggernaut.
"Your strength..." Fisk started, but Jason wasn’t listening. He dropped low, his enhanced muscles coiling like springs, and unleashed a devastating uppercut from below. Fisk, caught off guard, took the full force to his chin. His head snapped back, his vision blurring as his brain rattled in his skull.
Jason didn’t let up. With Fisk dazed, he unleashed a barrage of punches—face, chest, gut, each blow landing like a sledgehammer. Blood sprayed from Fisk’s nose and mouth, his face turning into a crimson mess under the onslaught.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
Forty, fifty punches, each one fueled by Jason’s rage and enhanced strength. He only stopped when Fisk’s face was a swollen, bloody pulp, barely recognizable.
Panting, Jason stepped back, his fists aching, his chest heaving. "Fuck... you..."
Fisk spat a mouthful of blood, his eyes bloodshot but burning with defiance. ’He’s still conscious?’ Jason’s stomach dropped. Any normal man would be a corpse after that beating, skull caved in, brains leaking. But Fisk hadn’t even staggered.
"Not bad," Fisk rasped, his voice thick with blood. His grin was feral, terrifying despite his mangled face. "No ordinary training could make you this strong this fast. You’ve got some kind of edge, don’t you?"
Jason squared up, wary. "My edge, my business. Fuck off."
Fisk’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Don’t worry. Once I beat you to a pulp, I’ll take that secret for myself."
Jason snorted, gesturing at Fisk’s ruined face. "Look at you, pig-head. You’re still talking shit?"
Fisk pulled a silk handkerchief from his suit pocket, wiping the blood from his face with deliberate calm. "You know, when you and the others sparred with me, I held back. Never used more than half my strength—didn’t want to accidentally kill my own men. Guess it became a habit."
Jason laughed, mockingly. "Bullshit. I only used ten percent of my power."
"We’ll see," Fisk said, his smile turning predatory. He tossed the blood-soaked handkerchief aside, letting it flutter to the ground in the night breeze.
In an instant, Fisk’s massive frame vanished, the air exploding with a sonic crack. ’What the fuck?!’ Jason’s eyes widened, his heart lurching. Fisk had been holding back—way back.
Before he could react, Fisk was on him, a blur of muscle and rage. Jason threw a desperate punch, but Fisk’s fist met his with cataclysmic force. The impact was like a freight train, the shockwave traveling up Jason’s arm.
CRACK!
His elbow bent at a sickening angle, bone piercing through muscle and skin in a spray of blood.
"FUCK!" Jason’s scream echoed across the hills, raw and agonized.
Fisk’s eyes glinted with murder. "We’re not done yet."
His fist slammed into Jason’s gut, shattering three ribs with a wet snap. Jason doubled over, vomiting blood, his body curling like a shrimp. Fisk grabbed his shoulders, driving a knee into his chest with bone-crushing force, then hoisted him overhead and hurled him like a ragdoll. Jason crashed through the windshield of a nearby Cadillac, the glass exploding into a web of cracks under his weight.
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