Chapter 3: Who Doesn’t Want to Be the Main Character?

The distance from New York to Los Angeles stretches over four thousand kilometers in a straight line—far more by road. Even driving, it takes several days, especially considering the need for rest along the way. Fortunately, both Old Wang and Skye had driver's licenses, so taking turns behind the wheel wouldn't be a problem.

The journey provided ample time for banter and idle chatter—though, for the most part, Old Wang was engrossed in his games. What else was he to do? Diligently practice and study? Hardly necessary. In his previous life, Old Wang had been a grand master of martial monks. Though he was the disciple of Old Chen, the renowned Drunken Panda, he had surpassed his master by far—his power exceeded even that of Shaohao, the last Pandaren Emperor. Neither Old Chen nor the blood-spitting sect leader could compare to him.

His experience and skills had already reached their zenith; now, the only thing he needed was to increase the true energy within him—a process that required time, unless fate intervened. In his past life, he had become the strongest martial monk in history not by chance, but by seeking out countless opportunities, guided by foresight. In this life, cultivation did not require full concentration—Old Wang had, in fact, been cultivating all along, whether lying down, sitting, or sprawled out; gaming was merely a pastime.

Until he regained his "golden finger," this was all he could do.

"Hey, someone else wants to buy the Heart of Azeroth besides you! They've already made contact. This guy's name is Robbie Reyes—a mechanic at a repair shop… Why would he want your crappy necklace?"

Before they set out, Skye had hacked into Peter of the Fifth Street Gang's phone and computer, monitoring his calls; and now, it was paying off. She had used her phone rather than her laptop, simply because Old Wang was gaming and refused to give it up. She had considered snatching it by force, but she knew she couldn't win.

"That's normal. Who wouldn't want a golden finger? Who doesn't want to be the protagonist?" Old Wang replied without looking up, still focused on his game, unworried.

The Heart of Azeroth was imbued with the powers of Azeroth, Aman'Thul, Norgannon, Aggramar, Argus—a host of gifts from the Titans, bound to his own soul. Only he could wield it; in the hands of others, it was just an ordinary necklace, incapable of making anyone a protagonist—at best, they could be spectators.

You think you're the main character? Sorry, you're just an extra.

Robbie Reyes? The name sounded familiar, as though he'd heard it somewhere before—in a movie, perhaps? Or a TV series?

"Robbie offered ten thousand dollars; Peter wants a hundred thousand. Robbie haggled… They settled at fifty thousand, with the deal set for two hours from now."

Skye grew anxious, glancing at Old Wang, her large, beautiful eyes blinking rapidly. "Wang, think of something! It'll take us at least a whole day before we reach Los Angeles!"

"That's hardly an issue. Ask for a hundred thousand, and arrange the deal for tomorrow night," Old Wang replied calmly.

"Okay." Skye hurried to make the call.

...

...

At a certain auto shop in Los Angeles, Robbie had just finished repairing a car when fire suddenly flared in his eyes.

The flames of vengeance burned red, clouding his heart.

The Fifth Street Gang had attacked him and his brother for no reason! If that motorcycle-riding spirit of vengeance hadn't appeared and passed on its power to him, he would have been dead by now.

His brother's legs were broken—now, a wheelchair was his only means of movement. He was so young, still in high school; what would become of him? For half a month, Robbie had gradually become familiar with the power of the Spirit of Vengeance, and now he was ready to seek retribution.

Peter from the Fifth Street Gang had the nerve to show off a beautiful necklace online? This was his chance.

"Only one hour left until the deal," Robbie said, starting up the Dodge Charger his uncle Eli had left him and driving to the meeting spot.

He waited for an hour.

No one came.

He waited another hour.

Still, no one.

He waited all night.

Where were they?

Robbie clenched his fists, twin flames blazing in his eyes.

"Peter, you dare trick me!"

"You can't escape—I'll find you!"

"No one in the Fifth Street Gang will survive!"

...

...

Los Angeles was still quite beautiful.

Though it was 2008, this was the Marvel Universe's Earth, not the Earth of his previous life. Technology had advanced far beyond what it was in 2018 in the other world—at the very least, an AI butler like JARVIS was something no one back there could have created even by 2018.

Towering buildings stood in orderly ranks, the city aglow with lights, never truly dark—a city that never slept. Yet beneath the brilliance, darkness thrived, like the Fifth Street Gang.

The largest gang in Los Angeles was actually the Chinese Triad; compared to them, Fifth Street was nothing, though they still numbered several dozen, every member armed. Their business ran from drugs and trafficking to contract killings—if the price was right, anything could be arranged.

Peter sat in his car, humming a little tune, as content as could be.

Half a month ago, he'd taken a contract—to kill a scientist named "Eli" for a full million dollars. No small sum, and the job seemed simple enough. He'd gathered his crew and waited in ambush.

With the boss in prison, who else but him should reap the big rewards?

That night, when Eli’s car emerged, his men gave chase and unleashed a hail of bullets. The car exploded.

He thought the million was his—but it turned out Eli had survived, and the ones in the car were his two nephews!

Still, that was nothing. Fifth Street always kept its word—if once wasn’t enough, they’d try again.

But before they could act, Eli himself landed in jail—same prison as the boss.

There was nothing to be done; a prison break was out of the question.

Still, they’d made the effort. If not the full million, at least a "hardship fee" of ten thousand… No, ninety-nine thousand, surely?

The Fifth Street Gang always collected what was owed—no, they always collected their debts!

Yet the client, Joseph, ended up hospitalized, his mind gone, as if in a vegetative state. There was no way to collect.

A week ago, in a fit of bad temper, Peter roughed up a small-time punk and unexpectedly came into possession of something good.

He glanced at the necklace around his neck, especially the golden pendant—the gem inside sparkled like the night sky, beautiful and enchanting. It was lovely, and, more importantly, valuable.

He’d posted pictures online to show it off. Yesterday, someone claimed it was a work of art and offered ten thousand dollars to buy it.

Did they take him for a fool? Peter had immediately countered with a price of a hundred thousand.

The buyer wasn’t an idiot either and haggled it down to fifty thousand.

Not bad.

But just after the negotiation, someone else contacted him, offering a hundred thousand.

Who to sell to? The answer was obvious.

He asked for a million. After an hour of bargaining, the other party brought it down to $122,223.

He’d never met such a tenacious haggler in his life!

“We’re here!” Peter pulled over, signaling to the second car in their convoy to park out of sight.

Something was off—a necklace that wasn’t gold or platinum, selling for such a fortune? The gemstone was stunning, but almost too perfect, more like an artificial creation than a natural one, and thus probably worthless.

Maybe it was a trap set by a rival, an ambush to take him out.

He wasn’t stupid—he’d brought a dozen men, some in his car, more in the van behind, all armed; they even had an RPG, bought at great expense. Even if the Chinese Triad showed up, they had nothing to fear.

“Boss, they’re here,” said the driver.

Peter looked up to see a battered, old van pull up nearby. He wouldn’t pay a thousand dollars for it, let alone a million.

Arriving in a wreck like that, did they really have $122,223 to hand over?

"Stay alert, everyone, eyes open!" Peter gripped his handgun, flicked off the safety, a cruel smile on his lips.

Something wasn’t right—definitely a setup.

But it didn’t matter. What was it his Triad rival always said? "Turn their plot against them."

Anyone who tried to double-cross the Fifth Street Gang ended up dead.