novelnext Chapter 315 The Marvel Editorial Department in a Bloodbath
Chapter 315 The Marvel Editorial Department in a Bloodbath
"Oh dear, my poor original body—I hope you can hold on, otherwise I will have no choice but to take over your authority."
A certain special entity in the main universe was secretly smiling.
His body appeared in mid-air, like a leaf falling from a tree, silently landing on the roof of the burning hotel.
Flames leaped at his feet, and thick smoke billowed upwards, turning the night sky a dark red.
Below him, the entire Nine Realms were engulfed in flames.
With the war between the realms starting ahead of schedule, everything is proceeding steadily according to plan.
When Thor led his army of gods into the territory of the Light Elves, they were indeed ambushed by the Dark Elves.
The battle raged fiercely, with swords flashing and clashing in the starry sky, and divine blood spilling across the heavens like a crimson downpour.
Thor's hammer smashed through the enemy ranks, but the dark elves outnumbered them far more than expected, and each breach was immediately filled.
Meanwhile, both fire giants and frost giants have begun their invasion of Earth—
These two opposing forces, one of ice and one of fire, instantly crushed the heroic armies of Europe and North America with overwhelming power.
The banks of the Thames in London froze into glaciers, the Eiffel Tower in Paris twisted and deformed in flames, and Times Square in New York was scattered with ice shards and lava.
There is even a fire giant led by the Fire Queen—who is Surtur's eldest daughter—who has begun to invade East Asia.
Under the leadership of Li Feng and Sun Wukong, the Super Soldier Company launched a fierce counterattack.
They were followed by a large group of Korean heroes, Japanese heroes, and numerous heroes from South Asia, who began to defend the East Asian front to the death.
The weather witch's magic exploded into colorful fireworks in the sky, the Eight Immortals traversed the sea on auspicious clouds, and the members of the Twelve Zodiac Team leaped and darted through the ruins—almost the entire team came out.
The entire Earth was engulfed in flames.
The only good news was that they successfully held the line and pushed the enemy back onto the peninsula, where the two sides continued their struggle.
Ugh, poor South Korea.
Let us observe two seconds of silence for them.
Alright, enough chit-chat.
---
Let's guess—why are the Celestials gathered here?
Is it here to extend an invitation to our Cold Dew season?
of course not.
of course not.
Although they also wanted to do so, considering that the other party would most likely not accept it and would instead anger the creator pantheon, they chose to do nothing and just watch quietly.
If that were the case, it wouldn't be so bad, but the problem is—when a fellow member stationed in a certain "Marvel editorial department" sent a series of messages, the Celestials, who had been lurking in every corner of the universe, were all dumbfounded.
What does it mean to have a Deadpool wielding a giant knife and wreaking havoc in the editorial department?
Is it the editorial department they were thinking of?
In an instant, a profound sense of absurdity overwhelmed the Celestials—a race that could be considered among the elite in the entire Marvel universe—
The system crashed on the spot.
Without any hesitation, countless portals opened in the void, and the silver mechs swarmed in.
But as they poured into that special universe one by one, and because they entered the realm of "Marvel's Editorial Department," a universe with unique characteristics, almost all of them lost their divine powers.
Those arms that could once crush stars with a flick of their wrists now feel heavy and clumsy;
Those energy cores that once transcended dimensions are now as dim as a light bulb about to run out of power.
They all turned into ordinary mortals.
No—not an ordinary mortal.
Their bodies remained strong, their armor remained tough, but those powers that transcended the laws of physics meant nothing here.
They can only walk like humans, breathe like humans, and experience fear like humans.
This is not difficult to understand.
After all, in the Marvel editorial department's universe, the very existence of the editorial department naturally gives it an extremely exaggerated dominance over the multiverse.
If we compare the other multiverses to the various parts of the human body, then the main universe is undoubtedly the heart—it is the heart of the entire system.
The Marvel editorial department is undoubtedly the central brain of this system, responsible for issuing all orders.
For some reason, he successfully disguised himself as one of the Celestials in this universe, and in a way, he can be considered a member of the Celestials.
They can freely travel between reality and illusion, but here, in the core area of the editorial department, their divine power is suppressed to the lowest point.
They instantly transformed into elite human warriors or members of the armed police force—
They captured the madman jumping around in front of them in the simplest and most brutal way.
---
"Hahahaha—I'm coming in—!"
Deadpool's voice echoed through the editorial office lobby, sharp and arrogant, like a rusty saw tearing back and forth across an iron plate.
The two long knives in his hands gleamed coldly under the lamplight, their blades stained with fresh, still-dripping blood.
His red uniform was covered in black bullet holes and knife marks, but he was oblivious to them, continuing to spin, jump, and slash.
"Look at you bunch of scum—the Celestials! You'll see how I make you look like monkeys every day—and you call yourselves comic book characters?! I'll beat you to a pulp!"
He roared arrogantly, picking up one simple pistol after another from beside him—because here, he discovered that his healing factor had also failed.
The wound no longer heals automatically, the blood no longer stops flowing, and the pain is no longer blocked.
This feeling is strange, like a fish suddenly thrown into the desert, every cell screaming "Something's wrong".
But the question is—does he care?
Of course he didn't care.
He just kept killing. As long as he had fun killing. He wanted to vent all his pent-up frustration and anger into this real editorial universe—not the fake sandbox they had created for him.
That's right—I'm talking about you.
Deadpool even gave the middle finger to the man behind him who was lying in a pool of blood with a dart sticking out of his head.
On the man's draft paper—which was now submerged in his own blood—he was sketching a scene of "Deadpool traveling to the Marvel editorial department and going on a killing spree."
The drawing is quite lifelike; Deadpool's pose, the Celestials' expressions, and the explosion effect lines are all very well done.
Unfortunately, before he could finish drawing, he was stabbed to death by Deadpool.
In this peculiar world, all "settings" revert to the simplest law: to be killed is to die. Absolute death, with no room for reversal.
Fortunately, even though magic and magical power are banned in this universe, the premise of "Deadpool as a top-tier mercenary" still exists.
At least that's how it's written in the lore—Deadpool still managed to single-handedly face an entire heavily armed army while carrying only two pistols.
He retreated to the corner, leaning against the wall, knife in his left hand and gun in his right, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the hall.
His breathing was rapid and heavy, but his hands gripping the weapon were as steady as two rocks.
He could hear footsteps outside, the noise of walkie-talkies, and the crunching of tank tracks on the asphalt road.
Some members of the Celestials were even so enraged that they were ready to unleash their divine power at any cost—they had simply had enough of this madman.
But the team leader raised his hand to stop them.
"It's alright—" The captain's voice was as calm as ice, but something burned in his eyes. "He's just a madman. All we need to do now is take him out completely, and then we can restore everything here to its original state. Don't worry—he's just a madman."
Yes.
Deadpool is just a madman. He knows it himself.
He single-handedly held the door shut, continuously greeting the ancestors and family members of the Celestial Group outside—
Of course, does the Celestials even have such a thing? Who cares?
He just curses, the dirtier the curses, the happier he is, and the louder the curses, the more relieved he feels.
---
But the response was a well-organized army that began driving tanks all the way to the street outside the comic book editorial department.
The tanks' cannons cast long shadows under the streetlights, and the dark muzzles slowly turned toward Deadpool's location.
The tracks rolled over the asphalt, leaving deep ruts. The engine roared deep and powerfully, like the growl of a wild beast awakening.
Deadpool saw this scene through the reflection in the glass window.
His pupils contracted slightly.
"Feed, feed, feed—"
His voice was low, but the urgency seemed to be squeezed out of his throat, every word burning hot, "Can you hurry up? I feel like we're going to die."
He is communicating with someone.
Yes, Deadpool is a madman—but some people aren't.
---
As a fellow smuggler—
Hanlu had already grabbed the hand of a fallen Marvel editor and was holding his pen—an ordinary ballpoint pen with black ink that still retained body heat—as he wrote on the manuscript paper.
It's not about drawing comics or writing novels, but about writing about something deeper.
With each word that is written, the ink on the manuscript paper glows, and that light spreads along the paper as if it has been infused with life.
What is he modifying? What is he adding? What is he defining?
Nobody knows.
Only his black eyes shone brightly in the firelight and blood.
Nobody knows.
Only his black eyes shone brightly in the firelight and blood.
"Almost there, almost there—" His voice was deep and steady, as if he were coaxing a sulking child, "It'll be done soon."
---
The tank opened fire.
At that moment, the onlookers were incredulous at what they saw—they had no idea where the other person had gotten this thing from.
Can tanks really be driven into our own battlefield so quickly? And is it really necessary to do so when facing a "terrorist"?
But the tanks had already opened fire.
"boom--!!!"
That loud bang felt like the whole world had exploded in my eardrums.
Flames erupted from the cannon muzzle, the orange-red, scorching light, carrying metal fragments and the smell of gunpowder, instantly engulfing the entire editorial office door.
Glass shattered, walls collapsed, and light bulbs on the ceiling burst one after another, shards raining down.
Sparks and explosions engulfed everything in sight, reducing it to ashes.
Thick smoke billowed upwards, condensing into an ugly, grayish-black mushroom cloud in the night sky. The air was scorching hot; every breath felt like your lungs were on fire.
It's all over.
---
In the distance, the tank cannons were still emitting wisps of smoke on the street.
The onlookers remained silent.
The warriors of the Celestials remained silent.
All that remained was the crackling of the flames and the occasional dull thud of a piece of debris falling from a height and hitting the ground.