Chapter 141: Chapter 141

The night was pitch black, the empty streets filled only with the roar of burning car wreckage.

Clint gripped his bow, carefully aiming at every corner, focusing intently on the sounds around him.

The streetlights buzzed, their dim yellow glow flickering, casting an eerie atmosphere into the air.

*Tap, tap, tap…*

Footsteps echoed from three different directions.

Clint’s heart raced, a sheen of cold sweat forming on his forehead. This feeling of dread had been haunting him for too damn long.

From the shadowy alleys on either side of the road, three figures emerged.

Clint knew the key members of the Joker Organization by sight. He instantly recognized them: Franklin, David, and John.

Seeing John, a pang of sorrow hit Clint.

If John was here, it meant the bartender was likely dead.

Fucking Joker Organization!

Fucking Jason!

Recalling her bold words before she left, Clint’s heart burned with rage.

Without waiting for John to get closer, he spun and fired an arrow at him.

The arrow flew fast, but John’s gunfire was just as quick.

*Bang!*

A gunshot rang out.

A bullet shot from the barrel, striking the arrowhead with precision, sending the arrow crashing to the ground.

Clint was pissed. He pressed a finger to the button on his war bow, smirking inwardly as he watched John slowly approach the broken arrow.

The arrowhead was packed with two hundred grams of TNT, more explosive than a fucking M67, enough to blow this piece of shit to bloody bits.

Clint counted silently.

Three!

Two!

One!

Time’s up. He slammed the button.

A second later, the high-explosive arrowhead at John’s feet didn’t detonate.

Clint frowned, hitting the button again. Still no fucking explosion.

From the other side of the road, Franklin mocked, “Don’t bother, that shit’s never gonna blow.”

Clint turned to face him, snarling, “The car earlier—that was you fucking with it too?”

Franklin grinned, nodding, unable to resist bragging. “My superpower’s ’Tech Control.’ Anything electronic, I own. Like…”

Franklin pointed into the void, and Clint’s comms device in his back pocket started blaring.

“Not bad,” Clint said, his gaze hardening. “You’re cocky enough to tell me your power. Guess you’re sure you’ve got me fucked.”

Franklin shrugged. “Unless you can escape three superpowered assholes surrounding you.”

With that, the three stopped, keeping about thirty meters from Clint to avoid his arrows.

Clint, holding just a bow, was boxed in by three enemies from all sides.

Even with his countless dangerous missions, he felt fucking overwhelmed.

This was bad. He might actually die today.

After a tense standoff, Franklin spoke up. “Three superpowered pricks ganging up on a normie? That’d disgrace the Joker Organization’s rep.”

“I say we let you have two rock-paper-scissors. The winner gets to fight him one-on-one. Win, we’re done. Lose, the next guy steps up. Sounds good?”

David nodded. “I’m in. Makes the game more fun.”

John nodded too. “Fine, but why just us two? Are you sitting this out?”

Franklin threw up his hands. “I’d love to, but I know I’d get my ass kicked.”

A Level 7 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and these three fuckers were treating him like a goddamn toy. Clint’s rage boiled.

But this was his shot to escape.

These dumbasses would regret underestimating him.

Seconds later, David won the rock-paper-scissors.

The other two stepped back to watch the show, leaving the stage clear.

Clint turned to face the man before him.

David—real name unknown, parents unknown, a street rat who joined a gang and became Jason’s lapdog.

Years later, he left the States for the Middle East as a mercenary. A goddamn sharpshooter.

His confirmed kill count was over a thousand.

Clint glanced at the twin pistols in David’s hands, strategizing how to win this fight.

“No use thinking. You’re fucked,” David said, stepping forward, oozing confidence.

Clint suddenly remembered the black guy saying all three were superpowered.

What the hell was David’s power?

Clint drew his bowstring taut, firing an arrow like a meteor at David’s face.

David, a sharpshooter with freakish dynamic vision, smirked and tilted his head, the arrow whistling past his ear.

Clint fired again, a triple shot this time.

Three arrows screamed toward three angles, Clint predicting David’s movements. No way he could dodge this.

Can’t dodge? Then shoot the fuckers down.

David whipped out his pistols, firing three precise shots, blasting all three arrows out of the air.

He spread his hands, taunting, “Level 7 S.H.I.E.L.D. badass, and this is all you got?”

Clint’s brow furrowed. This was bad. David’s shooting was too damn fast, maybe even better than John’s.

What now?

What the fuck now?

As Clint racked his brain for a way out, David lost patience. He’d expected a thrilling fight, not this one-sided curb-stomp.

“Boring. I’m done. Time ups.”

The moment he spoke, John and Franklin instantly covered their ears.

David opened his mouth, unleashing a sonic scream.

“Ahhh~~~ Ahhh~~~”

The piercing wail hit, and Clint’s body locked up, his mind blanking.

The sound was like a banshee’s song, every note a soul-crushing torment, like ants devouring his heart.

Seconds later, David closed his mouth.

Clint collapsed to his knees, clutching his pounding chest, gasping for air.

David shook his head. “Game over. Take him to the boss.”

The two spectators stepped forward to grab Clint.

Suddenly, Clint yanked an arrow from his quiver and threw it to the ground.

As the three froze in confusion, he hit the button on his bow.

“Fuck! He’s gonna take us all out!”

The three dove to the ground in panic.

*Boom!*

A muffled blast echoed, and thick white smoke poured from the arrowhead, engulfing Clint’s figure.

“Shit! Motherfucker!”

The three clutched their eyes and noses, scrambling to clearer air.

“David, where the hell is he?”

David opened his mouth again, using his sonic power to track Clint’s position.

Seconds later, he smirked. “He’s gone where he belongs.”

…

Under the cover of the smoke, Clint bolted into an alley, hitting the emergency button on his comms to call S.H.I.E.L.D.’s New York branch for backup.

Then, he switched his arrowhead to a grappling hook, firing it at a nearby building.

The arrow’s tail extended into a rope, and Clint climbed it like a madman.

When he finally hauled himself onto the rooftop, ready to wait for rescue, a dark figure stood at the edge of the roof. Jason had been waiting.

Clint tensed, drawing his bow. “Who the fuck are you?!”

As Jason slowly turned, Clint’s eyes widened, his body nearly collapsing as a wave of despair flooded him.

Years as an agent had forged his will into steel, though, and he quickly regained his fire.

Even if this was a suicide mission, he’d go down swinging.

He released an arrow, whistling toward Jason.

Jason calmly raised a hand, catching the arrow mid-flight.

Perfect!

Clint grinned, slamming the button.

*Boom!*

The high-explosive arrowhead detonated, erupting into a fireball.

But the fireball barely formed before it shrank, then vanished completely.

Clint stood dumbfounded.

What the hell?

Jason shouldn’t be able to absorb that much energy.

Did S.H.I.E.L.D.’s techs fuck up the math?

Jason tossed the arrow aside and walked toward him.

Seeing Clint’s stunned face, Jason sneered. “What, S.H.I.E.L.D. only teaches you basic fucking math?”

Clint demanded, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jason replied, “Numbers are dead. People aren’t.”

For the past month and a half, Jason had been training his superpower.

His trick? Absorb energy and release it simultaneously.

Energy coating his body blocked damage while sucking in external energy to replenish what was used.

This doubled his combat strength, making him immune to a standard explosive’s kill shot.

After weeks of grueling practice, Jason had mastered it.

Now, killing him instantly required over 400 kilos of TNT-level energy. Anything less just fueled him.

Clint blinked, and Jason, who’d been meters away, was suddenly in his face.

Jason didn’t attack immediately. He paused for a second, studying Clint’s expression.

Clint’s face shifted from confusion to wide-eyed shock, then raw terror.

The transformation was fucking amusing.

Before Clint could react, Jason grabbed his throat.

Lifting him high, Jason mused, “You’re this weak, this stupid. Why the hell did Nick Fury send you undercover?”

Clint’s face turned purple, choking, unable to speak.

Jason didn’t care for an answer.

He leapt off the rooftop, using his power to head for the biker gang’s new hideout.

In a dim basement, the walls were lined with all sorts of torture tools.

Billy sat in a chair, his gut churning with fear.

Clint was a mole, and it had fucked him over.

He only hoped Jason would spare him for his “special skills.”

The basement door swung open. Jason strode in, dragging Clint.

“Billy, here’s your chance to make up for your fuck-up.”

He threw Clint to the floor. “Use every damn trick you know on him.”

Billy’s face lit up, nodding eagerly. “Don’t worry, boss. I’ll make this bastard wish he was never born!”

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