Marvel Saiyans - Chapter 42

Tessa reluctantly woke from the soft bed, the smooth silk bedding too comfortable, making her wish she could lie there forever. She closed her eyes again, gathering strength for a while before resolutely getting up to wash and dress.

Rubbing her hair with a towel, she walked into the living room. The hotel staff had already delivered breakfast, consisting of delicate pastries and bread. Broly wasn’t interested in such food, so he added a bucket of baguettes to the mix, grabbed one in each hand, and stuffed them into his mouth.

Seeing a table full of desserts she’d only seen on TV, Tessa eagerly sat down, picked up a macaron, and bit into it with a blissful expression.

“These sweets taste like saccharin. What’s good about them?”

Broly couldn’t understand the appeal; he’d rather eat raw lizards.

Tessa didn’t dare to argue with Broly, quietly nibbling on her macaron like a hamster. In the end, most of the desserts on the table ended up in her stomach.

Because they had booked a royal suite, the Four Seasons Hotel provided transportation services. Broly chose a less conspicuous Bentley Flying Spur and first dropped Tessa off at Midtown High School.

Tessa wasn’t blinded by vanity. She asked the driver to let her out when they were about 300 meters from Midtown High. She knew she was still the poor daughter of a Texas farmer and that staying one night in a five-star hotel wouldn’t change anything.

Riding a Bentley to school might impress some unsuspecting girls for a while, but if found out, she’d likely have difficulty staying at Midtown High.

Only hard work in her studies could change her future.

“Go to the Continental Hotel.”

Broly gave the address of the Continental Hotel, a place not advertised and known to few.

The Bentley started smoothly, and due to rush hour, it took two hours to reach the Continental Hotel.

The Continental Hotel in New York City was located at a three-way junction, appearing from the outside as a very ordinary star-rated hotel. Tall Roman columns and somewhat dated granite exterior bricks adorned it.

“Stop here, you can go back now.”

Broly left a ten-dollar tip on the seat, opened the door, and stepped out.

Pushing open the hotel’s grand doors, he found the interior of the Continental Hotel was far from ordinary, even surpassing the Five-Star Four Seasons in opulence.

Luxurious crystal chandeliers, golden light reflecting off solid wood furniture, intricate gold reliefs, tall marble statues, and well-dressed waitstaff.

People here clearly knew each other well. As a newcomer, Broly walked in as clueless as a deer entering a lion’s den. Everyone in the lobby, subtly or blatantly, looked at him with varying degrees of scrutiny.

“Welcome to the Continental Hotel, sir. Our services are exclusive to members.”

The lobby manager, a well-spoken Black man, informed Broly.

“I am here to become a member.”

Broly said, pulling out a gold coin and placing it on the front desk.

“Charon is honored to serve you, sir.” Charon raised an eyebrow, took the coin, and tucked it into a drawer: “We haven’t had a new member in a long time.”

He said, picking up the phone and dialing a number.

“Please follow me, sir.”

Charon led Broly across the lobby and into an elevator.

The elevator quickly descended, revealing that the Continental Hotel was much larger than it appeared, its underground space hollowed out and even more expansive than the structure above.

The seventh basement level was a bar where numerous people sat, all dressed impeccably, looking more like gentlemen of high society rather than assassins.

“Mr. Winston,

does this gentleman wish to join us?” Charon led Broly to a table.

Seated at the table was an elderly man with a face full of wrinkles, sipping whiskey while listening to the pianist on stage.

“Sit down, young man, right here.”

Broly casually took a seat.

“Since you’ve come with a gold coin, I could simply assign you a task as a test without saying much. But as an old man, I prefer to talk more with the youth. What’s your name, friend?”

Winston snapped his fingers, signaling a waiter to bring a glass of brandy for Broly.

“Bruce Wayne.”

Broly picked up the brandy and downed it in one gulp. He banged on the table, signaling the waiter to bring three steaks. He had planned to act the gentleman, but having eaten little for breakfast, he couldn’t hold out any longer.

Winston’s mouth twitched; he was the first to see a newcomer who treated the Continental Hotel so casually. As a man of vast life experience, he had seen many assassins. Even the most untamed, arrogant, or murderous among them would restrain themselves upon entering the Continental, feeling as if on pins and needles.

At the Continental Hotel, newcomers encounter many of their kind, some weaker, some stronger, but all conveying that they aren’t anything special. Like a lion that hunts sheep freely, only to realize other lions share the same grassland.

This is also why the Continental Hotel thrives. There are no rules between lions and sheep, only among lions.

But the Bruce Wayne sitting opposite him felt different; he seemed like a dragon perched above the sky, overlooking the grassland. The skirmishes and hunting among lions appeared as mere ant games in his eyes.

“I hope you’re not just a simpleton, Mr. Wayne.”

Winston took a sip from his glass, thinking that the future high table would have a headache if not.

Broly first tried using the knife and fork, found them too cumbersome, and simply skewered the entire steak with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth. He had given up on any semblance of Batman’s style; filling his stomach was more important.

The steak tasted exceptional, and even Broly, usually indifferent to fine food, paused his chewing to savor the delicious juice exploding in his mouth.

“Bring ten more!” Having finished his steak and waiting for more to be served, Broly asked Winston: “Am I officially registered now?”

Winston raised a finger, and Charon, standing nearby, pulled a candy bar phone from his pocket and placed it on the table.

“Welcome to the Continental Hotel, Wayne. I hope you live to see your retirement.”

He said, standing up, ready to move to another table. Being old, he really couldn’t stand any greasiness.

“Hold on, don’t go yet. I want to take on missions. Do I have to wait for your text messages? And what about the test mission? Just tell me who to kill, and I’ll twist his head off.”

Winston gestured to Charon to deal with Broly. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he asked Broly:

“Mr. Wayne, do you like dogs?”

Broly immediately nodded solemnly.

“I like dog meat.”

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