The hell gun screamed.
The reinforced alloy barrel heated instantly, metal expanding from the sudden thermal stress. Inside the muzzle, scorching light bloomed like a miniature sun.
A lance of incandescent energy erupted from the weapon—coherent light hot enough to punch through tank armor like wet paper.
Kingpin's eyes widened mid-leap, his expression transforming in a fraction of a second.
Pure terror replaced cold confidence on that distorted face.
He crossed his massive arms instinctively, trying to shield himself from what was coming.
It made no difference.
The body that the Underground King had spent decades perfecting—tempered by iron discipline, reinforced with occult rituals—lasted less than a tenth of a second.
The hell gun's beam carved through him effortlessly.
The stench of burning meat and vaporized blood filled the air immediately. Kingpin—tall as a giant, weighing over a hundred sixty kilograms—simply ceased to exist from the chest up.
His entire upper torso disintegrated into charred fragments and smoking viscera, scattered across expensive hardwood and Persian rugs.
Kingpin's lower half—legs, hips, and the gruesome remains of his abdominal cavity—crashed to the floor directly in front of Nolan. Internal organs spilled across polished wood, still steaming.
Nolan exhaled forcefully behind his gas mask, the filters rasping with the motion.
He stared down at the exposed lumbar spine jutting from the bisected corpse. The hell gun in his hands continued humming, its cooling systems working overtime to dissipate the heat.
A low mechanical whine emerged from the weapon's housing.
Nolan shook his head slightly, almost disappointed by how quickly it had ended. He reattached the hell gun to his battery pack with practiced efficiency.
Then he stepped carefully over the spreading pool of blood and viscera, boots squelching through the mess, and made his way to the chessboard.
He looked down at Bullseye Lester's corpse—skull crushed, face destroyed beyond recognition.
As he watched, something strange happened. With the host's death, some mechanism had triggered. The Mindshackle Scarab reactivated, consuming Lester's body from within.
The flesh carbonized rapidly, turning black and brittle. The corpse began disintegrating, crumbling like ash.
"Necrons are so wasteful. Single-use mind control devices..."
Nolan frowned, watching the technological marvel destroy itself.
He'd hoped to recover the scarab intact. Mind control technology that advanced would be invaluable, even if he couldn't fully understand its mechanisms.
But apparently the Necrons treated such wonders as disposable equipment. Use once, let it self-destruct. Typical xenos arrogance.
Nolan sighed and mentally added it to his salvage wishlist. Maybe the simulator would grant him one eventually.
He turned his attention to more immediate concerns and began systematically searching Kingpin's penthouse.
Ten minutes later, behind an expensive oil painting of some incomprehensible modern art piece, Nolan found what he was looking for.
A hidden safe, heavy-duty construction, completely embedded in the wall.
Nolan glanced at the reinforced metal door. Then he looked down at the chainsword hanging from his belt, still crusted with dried blood and tissue.
He shook his head and pulled out his phone instead, tapping the screen several times.
Then he simply stood beside the painting, apparently admiring the artwork while he waited.
Click, click, click.
The elevator in the penthouse suddenly whirred to life, mechanical sounds increasing in volume as it ascended.
A bell chimed. The doors slid open.
UR-025 emerged, optical sensors pulsing with pale blue light, metal arms swinging as it rushed forward at sprinting speed. It skidded to a halt behind Nolan and leaned forward respectfully.
"Omnissiah, your loyal servant has arrived. Do you require assistance?"
"What's the situation downstairs?" Nolan asked without turning around, still apparently studying the painting.
"Since you eliminated most of Kingpin's forces personally, Madam Gao's advance is proceeding smoothly. Some pockets of resistance remain, but they won't hold out much longer."
UR-025 mechanical voice carried satisfaction, as if proud of its master's accomplishments.
"Good. Open this for me." Nolan nodded toward the safe.
"A trivial matter. As you wish."
UR-025 straightened and turned its attention to the heavy safe. The blue lights in its optical sensors flickered and pulsed—scanning the internal structure, mapping the locking mechanisms, analyzing weak points.
Nolan finally turned away from the painting, curious to see how the AI would demonstrate its lock-picking capabilities.
He expected UR-025 to brute-force the combination through exhaustive password attempts. Or perhaps hijack the electronic components via wireless connection.
Instead, UR-025 simply stepped forward.
Its ten metal fingers plunged into the thick metal door like it was cardboard, punching through reinforced steel with casual ease.
Then it yanked.
The entire metal door tore free from its housing with a screech of tortured metal. Bolts snapped. Concrete crumbled. UR-025 held the door up like a trophy.
That's... technically a solution.
But how was this any different from Nolan just cutting it open with his chainsword?
Nolan's eyelids twitched behind his mask. He fell into pointed silence.
UR-025 seemed to notice his unspoken criticism. Still holding the door, it spoke in a slightly embarrassed tone.
"My lord, the safe's internal mechanisms are entirely mechanical. Since there's no self-destruct device, this method was actually the simplest and safest approach."
"I see. When in doubt, use overwhelming force." Nolan's tone was perfectly neutral.
He stepped forward and examined the safe's contents.
No massive stacks of cash. No jewelry or obvious valuables that most criminals would hoard.
Instead, the safe contained neatly organized stacks of documents—files sorted with meticulous care.
Nolan picked up one stack and flipped through it. The documents detailed the organizational structure of New York's criminal underworld. Names, positions, connections. Bank account numbers, offshore holdings, money laundering networks. Compromising evidence on key personnel.
The data was incredibly comprehensive. Detailed beyond anything law enforcement could have compiled.
If Nolan wanted, he could seize control of most major gangs in the city immediately. All the leverage, all the contacts, all the financial pressure points—right here in his hands.
From this moment forward, Nolan could become the uncrowned king of New York's underground.
He had absolutely no intention of doing so.
Nolan turned and tossed the documents to UR-025 without ceremony.
If he hadn't accidentally gained control of Madam Gao through the Mindshackle Scarab, and if he didn't currently need muscle to handle certain matters, he would simply burn it all.
When facing the Tyranid swarm, you don't negotiate with the hive fleet. You don't try to control it. You exterminate it completely, burn the biomass, and sterilize the planet.
Same principle here.
UR-025 caught the documents and scanned them quickly. "I will handle this matter appropriately. Rest assured, my lord."
Nolan waved dismissively and continued searching for anything actually useful.
Several minutes later, buried between stacks of blackmail material and organizational charts, Nolan discovered several bearer bonds worth over twenty million dollars total.
Completely untraceable. Anyone could walk into a bank and exchange them for cash, no questions asked.
Nolan adhered to the principle that one should never return from a hunt empty-handed. He stuffed the bonds into his coat pocket without hesitation.
"Gather all the documents. Prepare to withdraw." Nolan turned toward UR-025.
Before he finished speaking, UR-025 suddenly raised one finger and pointed toward the safe's interior.
"My lord, I believe there's something else you haven't noticed yet."
Nolan frowned and stepped aside, giving UR-025 room to work.
The AI moved forward quickly. A metal fingertip extended toward the top interior surface of the safe and sliced through the metal like butter, revealing a hidden compartment.
A black hard drive—one inch thick, palm-sized, made of some exotic material—fell into UR-025's waiting hand.