Chapter Two: The Lich King Shows No Mercy [New Book—Please Add to Your Collection and Recommend!]

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Looking at these freelance gang members, Roald's face broke into a genial smile.

“I see that. So what?”

“???”

The group of gangsters froze.

Even the gang leader, who was unbuckling his belt, was taken aback.

The supposed victim also paused. Yet she did not panic; she subtly adjusted her expression, smoothed her clothes, and once again wore a look of terror.

How was one supposed to respond to that?

What was this about?

Could he not see what was going on?

This scantily clad lady was about to be broadcast live, like in one of those risqué magazine stories that made hearts race. Where was his American sense of humanitarianism? Was this not the time to shout, like some hot-blooded young hero blinded by justice, “Hey, pal, let go of the lady, or you’ll have to deal with me”?

But his response was entirely at odds with his attire and appearance, which made it clear he was no upstanding citizen.

“Go ahead, don’t mind me,” Roald said, then stepped aside, standing quietly as though to simply observe, just as he’d claimed.

Glancing at the Russian woman who seemed to be the victim, Roald found her entirely unappealing.

Who in their right mind would fancy a Natasha?

Roald considered himself a decent man.

Miss Natasha Romanoff was just not his type.

And even if he didn’t intervene, these small-time thugs were no match for Natasha, not in any sense of the word.

“Stop right there!” The gang leader could no longer stand Roald’s attitude. He crossed himself and shouted, “Buddy, for God’s sake, this is a robbery!”

“Aren’t you already robbing them? Did God not teach you to be content with what you have? If you’re short on cash, you could have this lady pay a ransom, exchange contact details, and keep the business going. Your current method is crude and lacks any sophistication!”

The gang leader paused.

Him? A gangster, who had chosen this path precisely because he hated studying, being lectured about “sophistication”?

If he’d done well in school, would he be doing this?

He felt belittled, insulted, and his anger surged as he drew his pistol and aimed it at Roald. “Damn it, I said, hand over your money.”

If you see cash, you have to take it!

That was the creed of a Manhattan gangster.

Never refrain from evil because it is small, never skip a robbery because the haul is meager—every bit of wealth is worth taking.

Life was hard for gangsters, especially for small-time crews eking out an existence in Hell’s Kitchen.

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“Sir! If you help me, you will be handsomely rewarded,” Natasha suddenly called out, seeing that Roald remained unmoved.

She had only planned to run a minor errand to break up her day, but she had stumbled upon something interesting.

The man before her seemed utterly unruffled, his demeanor and gestures radiating calm confidence. As a seasoned agent, her instincts awakened—a sense that Roald was anything but ordinary. This intuition had saved her life countless times and helped her complete many missions.

Natasha firmly trusted her gut.

Roald looked at her.

“How handsomely?”

The gangsters paused, as did Natasha, but she detected the implication in his tone and her expression turned cold.

When none replied, Roald shrugged and turned to Natasha, waiting for Zazaila to finish weaving her web unseen. He had no idea what sort of role-play Natasha was engaged in, but he had no desire to get involved with her.

“Do I look like I need money, madam? Why not gift your reward to these passionate freelancers instead, so they’ll let you go? Why worry about the means? Your money goes to them and, in a way, stays with you. Consider it a welfare payment for these independent workers: you do your business, I watch mine, how about it?”

“Boss, he’s got a point,” the gang members turned to their leader, then glanced at Natasha, their meaning clear.

Getting paid without killing anyone—nothing could be better.

Sure, they were criminals with no bottom line, but getting caught for murder was still a hassle.

The tattooed gang leader roared, “Damn it! I’m mad now! Tonight, I’m taking not just money, but something else! Even if we get paid, neither of you is leaving!” He even licked his pistol for effect.

The others took a step back.

“Now you’ve made me angry,” Roald said, his face utterly calm.

He stood there, the light seeming to drain toward him, the space behind him turning pitch black, as though something were clawing its way through a rent in the darkness.

“H-hey, pal, maybe I’ll do you a favor today, er, for God’s sake, and let you go?” The gang leader swallowed. He sensed something very wrong in the air around them.

It was the primal survival instinct of a small-timer.

“Zazaila, block all lines of sight. Watch for those cute little surveillance devices. And be polite to your prey—make their deaths a delight, let them fall in love with the experience even as they die.”

Roald’s words sounded strange to the group, and a chill instantly swept the alley, frosting it over.

“Of course, my master. Courtesy is always in fashion, elegance never goes out of style. The Spider Demon Zazaila is ever at your service.”

Sssss—

With a soft hiss, white mist and frost erupted. The alley was cocooned in spider webs, the air itself seemed sliced open, and pale frost spewed from the rift. The city’s clamor faded into silence.

A ghostly white haze shrouded the alley. As it cleared, the group glimpsed an enormous spider silhouette materializing behind Roald.

“Greetings, prey ensnared in the web!”

Zazaila’s voice was shrill, like a rasp across glass, making hearts tremble uncontrollably.

Natasha’s brows knitted together. She bit and crushed the signal transmitter hidden in her mouth, brushed her earring to activate a miniature camera, and stood on guard, searching for an escape route.

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Today’s events had indeed surpassed all her expectations.

Yet she still felt confident.

Before her stood a monstrous spider-humanoid, towering and formidable, eight razor-sharp legs gouging grooves into the concrete, purple energy surging between its hands. Even standing motionless, it emanated an overwhelming aura of power.

She had thought the creature might be a mutant or some sort of bio-experiment, but the violet energy swirling in its hands made her realize this spider was not of this world.

What sort of monster was this? Who was the man beside it? What did they want?

Was this an alien invasion?

Staring at the behemoth, Natasha was certainly nervous. She had come unarmed for this mission, and the trinkets she carried for self-defense seemed useless. Still, her signal had gone out—she trusted reinforcements would soon arrive.

As an elite agent, she kept her wits about her, analyzing the situation and brainstorming her next move. Having flirted with death so many times, this sort of crisis-management was ingrained in her.

The gangsters, meanwhile, gaped at the enormous figure looming through the mist, too stunned to breathe.

“Oh shit, what the hell is that thing?”

Before they could fire, a bone spike formed in Zazaila’s hand and shot out, piercing several hapless thugs. The wounds turned inside out, and some dropped to their knees, clutching their injuries:

“Ah! I’m done for! I’m dying!”

“I’m bleeding out! I’m going to meet my maker!”

“Mommy!”

The chaos ended abruptly under Zazaila’s violet magic. The gangsters’ shrieks and wails were the last echoes of their existence.

In the blink of an eye, five or six gangsters had their souls ripped out and converted into six points of energy—Roald had earned his first spoils off these small-timers.

Natasha had seen plenty in her time; the thugs’ screams didn’t faze her. She had timed her move perfectly, but as she vaulted the wall, Zazaila’s web yanked her back with no resistance, and a banshee’s wail stunned her into unconsciousness. Natasha’s eyes rolled back and she collapsed.

Roald had no intention of taking advantage—he had more important matters to attend to. Running into Natasha today was a pleasant surprise.

He glanced at his deck, then drew a card.

[Infection]

[Attribute: At the end of your turn, gain control of the target.]

[Description: What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is still mine. If the great Lich King gets angry, you’ll never have a good day—hmph!]

After reading the card, Roald unhesitatingly used [Infection] on Natasha.

She would be far more useful alive. He could now equip Frostmourne, but planting a spy in the enemy’s base seemed even more intriguing.

Nothing was as satisfying as having eyes inside the enemy’s stronghold.

Even better, Zazaila had promised that her webbing, trained at Icecrown Citadel, was nothing short of professional.

That pleased Roald very much.