African coast, ship dismantling yard.

At low tide, dozens of ruined ships were moored on the dry shore, and the red light of the setting sun shrouded the ships above, making them look like the dying Titans of mythology.

Most of these ships were freighters, in disrepair and unable to find a home to receive them, resulting in them having to face the fate of being dismantled.

Of course, among these ships, there is one that is special.

The Churchill giant freighter, which belongs to the United Kingdom, once had a very glorious history, it once carried steel through the Red Sea Strait, once crossed the coast of the Cape of Good Hope with oil drums, covered the sky and rain, thunderstorms, and rough waves, witnessing the vicissitudes of the Churchill for decades.

And now, even in its advanced age, moored at the shipbreaking yard, the Churchill is still alive and well.

Hundreds of black employees in dirty shirts were busy working inside the not-so-spacious ship.

Using mechanical booms or shirtless, they carried rows and rows of short-range missiles, military radar parts, fully automatic rifles, grenades, and bazookas, which they sealed in wooden boxes, riveted the outside of the boxes, and placed them in containers.

These containers of military goods will be sent to all parts of the world, from self-respecting guerrilla groups in South Asia to drug lords in South America, from warlords in the African region to mafia in Europe.

The smell of sweat fermented inside the Churchill's ship, and under the dim light, the sweaty African employees almost blended in with the environment, and if it weren't for the color of their second-hand shirts being too conspicuous, I am afraid that they would really cause production accidents because they could not see people.

Hundreds of thousands, millions, tens of millions, and even hundreds of millions of dollars worth of arms flowed from Churchill's ships to the rest of the world, but these were not even the most valuable assets on board the Churchill freighter.

On the second floor of the Churchill, in the safe surrounded by the door of a huge vault, some metal was placed.

Vibranium, also known as sound-absorbing steel and nirvana steel, is one of the most scarce and special metal materials on earth.

The reason why it is special is because of the special molecular structure of vibranium, which makes it have unparalleled strong properties, and can also directly absorb heat and kinetic energy, and store it in the metal structure.

Not only that, the vibranium that absorbs the energy is like a spring that is full of power, and it can bounce the energy out at any time - Captain America's shield is doped with a small amount of vibranium during the casting process.

These particularities have made vibranium an ideal special metal, which has attracted major organizations and made it sky-high on the black market.

And its scarcity is due to the fact that the annual output of vibranium is very small, even if it is a giant state machine at the level of the five permanent members, it can only be used by top laboratories for small-scale research, and it is impossible to use vibranium for the mass production of weapons.

The demand for vibranium generates enormous economic benefits, which, like bloody fresh meat, always arouse the wealth hounds who write "adventurers" read as "mercenaries".

Ulysses Crowe, such a mercenary, is more appropriate to call him a "hyena" than a hound of fortune.

In the face of the greed of wealth, the cruelty and brutality of the weak, and the cowardice and humility of the strong, the blood called "madness" is tumbling in his veins.

For Ulysses Crowe, the rainforest with bloodthirsty flies and insects flying endlessly and crocodiles lurking in the shadows is better than the presidential suite at a Hilton hotel; The pristine wilderness where lions and cheetahs roam and herds of giant elephants and wildebeest are better than the most expensive striptease clubs in New York City.

He is the owner of the Churchill, the owner of the vibranium in the vault.

"Do you know why arms dealers raised by the world's major powers, independent warlords in remote and backward areas, and ambitious multinational security companies like to work with me?"

Ulysses Crowe was sitting in a cramped workshop, holding a sharp Swiss Army knife, carving wood carvings in his hands, and at the same time lazily resting his feet in dirty military boots on his desk, talking to an Einstein-headed doll on the table.

He was not a tall and mighty middle-aged man, and Ulysses was shorter and thinner than the five big and three thick mercenaries under him.

He had a square face full of flesh, a pale grayish-black beard, untidy yellowed teeth, a dirty shirt, and old hideous scars on his forehead and cheeks, which looked particularly disgusting.

"Tell me, do you know why?"

Ulysses pointed the blade of his Swiss Army knife at Einstein's large-headed doll, who unconsciously continued to shake his head with a regular clicking sound.

The workshop is filled with an inexplicable strange smell, oil, sweat, and body odor mixed together, combined with the dull air and high temperature, the whole workshop is like a football player's greasy wet socks that have not been washed for three days.

"Because I am a qualified businessman, whoever bids high, I will serve him, fair, just, open, childlike, undeceived, and the benefits are really ......"

Ulysses muttered to himself, slammed the half-carved humanoid statue against the table, bounced off behind his desk, and with great speed, pulled out a pistol from under his ass and aimed it at the door of the workshop.

The clock ticked, ticked, ticked, and passed, and Ulysses moved backwards very slowly, out of the corner of his eye, trying to see through the crack in the door.

Thanks to the extremely thin thickness of the bulletproof glass in the workshop, Ulysses could hear the noise outside.

The noisy African vernacular, the murky, bizarre English, and the loud shouts all showed Ulysses that everything was normal inside the Churchill.

"There's... Something is wrong. ”

The mercenary scratched the back of his neck, his slightly flattened eyes rolling, his dirty shirt soaked in sweat.

The fear of the unknown gripped his heart – and it only made him even more excited.

Squeak......

The door to the workshop suddenly opened, and Ulysses subconsciously pointed his gun down, firing several shots at the door frame - no matter who was standing outside the door, the other party should have fallen to his knees at this point, holding the bulleted kneecap and screaming.

However, there were no screams, and the bullets that passed through the door panel were missing, leaving only three black holes.

"It's not a good habit to shoot as soon as we meet, Mr. Crowe."

Oloro Monroe, a female African-American mutant who was once part of the X-Men and codenamed "Stormgirl", was standing outside the door of the workshop, and before the bullet fired by Ulysses could reach her body, it was torn to pieces by the ubiquitous thunder net and fell to the iron floor with a crisp clanging sound.

"My boss wants to see you," Stormgirl glanced at Ulysses with a blank expression, the stench of the mercenary in front of her made her frown, "I suggest you better spray some perfume on yourself." ”

"Your boss—" Ulysses' eyes narrowed.

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