Marvel x Genshin: Mavuika, The Sun Goddess Rules Asgard — Chapter 153

Chapter 153: I Am Not a God; I Am the God of Thunder

The man who stepped out of the alley’s shadows wore a simple black tracksuit, but his presence was anything but ordinary. He stood well over six feet tall, a mountain of muscle and bone that dwarfed the street thug before him. He looked down at the shorter man, his expression devoid of anger. Instead, his face held a peculiar look of disappointment, the kind a parent might give an unruly child who ought to know better.

“Hey,” the blond powerhouse said, his voice a low rumble. “Picking on an old man? There’s no honor in that.”

Viktor, the thug, froze for a heartbeat before the words registered. “Who the hell are you?” he snarled, trying to wrench his arm free. “Let go of me!”

He struggled with all his might, but the hand clamped around his wrist was like a manacle of iron. It didn’t budge an inch.

Seeing their boss in trouble, two of his lackeys rushed forward.

One of them, wielding a heavy wooden baseball bat, swung it with full force at the blond man’s broad back.

CRACK!

The sound was sickeningly loud, but it wasn’t the sound of bone breaking. The baseball bat snapped cleanly in two.

The blond man, completely unfazed, glanced over his shoulder at the stunned attacker. The lackey’s eyes went wide with disbelief and terror. The splintered half of the bat slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the grimy pavement.

The other goon, who had been advancing with a folding knife, froze mid-stride, the blade glinting uselessly in his hand. He stared, suddenly uncertain whether attacking was a good way to remain healthy.

The blond man turned his attention back to Viktor.

A cold sweat began to bead on Viktor’s forehead, trickling down his temples. A primal instinct screamed at him that he had just made a catastrophic mistake.

With a casual, almost gentle shove, Thor sent him flying. Viktor stumbled backward a dozen steps, his balance completely shattered, before his legs gave out. He hit the ground hard and rolled several times, ending in a heap of bruised limbs and wounded pride. He scrambled back to his feet, his gaze falling to his wrist. Five distinct red marks were already swelling, rapidly darkening to a deep, angry purple.

His two lackeys hurried over to help him up. “Boss, are you okay?”

Viktor violently shook them off, his glare fixed on the blond stranger. “Do you have any idea who we work for?” His voice trembled, but he desperately clung to the last shreds of his bravado. “Kingpin! The entire New York underworld belongs to Mr. Kingpin! You dare meddle in our business? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

The blond man simply tilted his head, a look of genuine confusion on his face. “Kingpin? Who is that?”

Viktor’s face contorted in a mask of apoplectic rage. In all his years on the streets, he had never encountered anyone who dared to challenge the authority of the Kingpin. Even the NYPD gave them a wide berth. Yet this blond oaf, who had appeared from nowhere, had the audacity to ask, “Who is Kingpin?”

“You—” Viktor pointed a trembling finger, too furious to form a coherent sentence.

The blond man ignored him, his gaze softening as he looked down at the middle-aged couple huddled against the wall. The man was supporting his wife; both were trembling, their eyes a battlefield of fear and a fragile, burgeoning hope.

“They owe you money?” Thor asked, his voice losing its earlier lightness.

Viktor gritted his teeth, finding his footing on familiar ground. “Debts must be paid! It’s the law of the street! They borrowed fifty thousand from us. Now, with principal and interest, they owe one hundred and fifty thousand! We’re just here to collect. What’s the problem?”

Thor looked to the man.

The man flinched, lowering his head as his voice shook. “We… we did borrow money… but the interest, it’s too high. We really can’t afford to pay it back…”

Thor’s brow furrowed. He didn’t understand the complex financial traps of this world, but he understood one thing with perfect clarity: these men were preying on the weak.

And that was enough.

He turned back, his blue eyes locking onto Viktor. “From now on, they owe you nothing.”

Viktor stared, dumbfounded. “What?”

Thor’s voice was calm, but it connected with an absolute, unquestionable authority. “I said, their debt is cleared. They don’t owe you anything anymore.”

Viktor trembled, this time with pure, unadulterated rage. “Who the hell do you think you are? God?”

Thor actually seemed to consider the question for a moment. “Not a god,” he finally replied, a faint smile touching his lips. “I am the God of Thunder.”

Viktor was now certain the man was dangerously insane.

He didn’t have time to process the thought. Spurred by some misplaced loyalty or sheer stupidity, his two lackeys lunged. The one with the knife thrust it toward Thor’s abdomen, while the other swung the jagged remnant of the broken bat at his head.

Thor moved with a grace that defied his size, sidestepping the clumsy attacks with contemptuous ease. He reached out, plucked the knife from the first lackey’s hand as if taking a toy from a child, and tossed it clattering into a corner.

Then, he raised his hands.

Smack! Smack!

The two thugs were launched backward as if hit by a battering ram, their bodies flying like ragdolls. They slammed hard against the brick wall of the alley, sliding down into unconscious heaps. The entire exchange had taken less than three seconds.

Viktor’s legs turned to jelly. He stumbled backward, his bravado completely shattered. With a choked gasp, he turned and bolted, running for his life.

Thor let him go.

The middle-aged couple stared at the scene, their minds struggling to catch up with the impossible events they had just witnessed.

The woman was the first to find her voice. “Th-thank you…” she rasped, fresh tears streaming down her face. “Thank you, sir…”

Thor’s intimidating aura vanished, replaced by a wide, friendly grin. “Don’t mention it.”

The man helped his wife forward, and they both bowed deeply. “Sir, you saved our family… I—I don’t know how we can ever thank you…”

Thor scratched the back of his head, looking slightly embarrassed by the display of gratitude. “It was nothing. I just can’t stand to see bullies get their way.”

It was only then that Mavuika and Loki emerged from the mouth of the alley, having observed the entire affair from a distance.

Mavuika’s gaze fell upon the shaken couple, her expression gentle. “Why were they harassing you?” she asked softly.

The man, whose name was Antonio, let out a long, weary sigh and began to explain. He was a Mexican immigrant who ran a small, struggling restaurant in Brooklyn. A year ago, his daughter had been struck by a severe illness, requiring a massive sum for life-saving surgery. With no insurance and unable to borrow enough from friends and family, he had made a desperate choice and turned to loan sharks.

“They said we could borrow fifty thousand and pay it back in a year with low interest…” Antonio’s voice was laced with the bitter taste of regret. “It was a lie. The interest compounded faster than we could ever imagine. The more we paid, the more we owed. It was a hole we could never climb out of…”

His wife began to sob beside him. “We came today to beg them, just for a few more days. They said they would consider it… but only if we brought our daughter to them… My little girl is only fifteen…”

The implication hung in the air, sickening and vile.

Thor’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white. “These people are truly despicable,” he growled.

Mavuika remained silent for a few moments, her expression unreadable. Then, she reached into her purse, pulled out a thick wad of cash, and held it out to Antonio. “Find a place to hide for a few days. People like that won’t let this go so easily.”

Antonio immediately waved his hands in refusal. “No, no, ma’am, we can’t take this… You’ve already done too much.”

Mavuika simply stepped forward and pressed the money firmly into his hand, her touch gentle but insistent. “Take it. Do it for your daughter.”

Antonio stared down at the cash in his hand, his eyes turning red. He bowed deeply once more, his body shaking with emotion. “Thank you… thank you all so much…”

The couple supported each other as they walked away, their retreating figures looking exhausted and years older than they probably were, yet carrying a new, fragile sliver of hope.

Once they were gone, Mavuika led Thor and Loki into a nearby cafe.

“Those men,” she began as they settled into a booth, “they claimed to work for someone called Kingpin?”

Thor nodded, still simmering with righteous anger. “Yes. Is this Kingpin a powerful chieftain on Midgard?”

“Kingpin, real name Wilson Fisk,” Mavuika said, her voice calm as she picked up her coffee. “He is, for all intents and purposes, the emperor of the New York underworld.”

Having spent a significant amount of time in New York, Mavuika had made it her business to learn about the major players in both the light and the shadows.

“His influence is vast,” she continued. “He’s involved in drug trafficking, arms dealing, loan sharking, human trafficking… nearly every illegal enterprise you can imagine, he has a hand in it.”

Thor frowned, his sense of justice deeply offended. “Then why don’t the rulers of Midgard do something about him?”

Mavuika shook her head slowly. “It’s not that simple. On the surface, Wilson Fisk is a legitimate and respected businessman. He owns numerous companies and makes substantial charitable donations. He has politicians, police officers, and judges in his pocket—countless layers of protection. Proving his crimes and making charges stick is next to impossible.”

Thor scratched his head in frustration. “So we’re supposed to just let him continue to bully people like this?”

Mavuika glanced at him, a thoughtful look in her eyes, but didn’t answer immediately.

Loki, who had been silently scrolling through his phone during the conversation, suddenly looked up. A slow, intrigued smile spread across his face. “Interesting,” he murmured.

Thor leaned over. “What’s interesting?”

Loki turned the phone’s screen toward them.

Displayed on it was a photograph of an impossibly massive man. Dressed in a pristine white suit, he sat in an oversized leather chair that still seemed too small for his frame. He held a diamond-topped cane, and his face was a blank, emotionless mask as he stared directly into the camera. He radiated an aura of immense, controlled power.

“This,” Loki said, his voice laced with a connoisseur’s appreciation for ambition, “is Kingpin. Wilson Fisk. And his public record, at least, is quite extensive.”