Free Web NovelChapter 19: Ch 19: Confession Train On Bridge I
3 AM Friday
Eleven days since the Daily Bugle incident. One week after Alex’s dorm visit.
Luke stood in the middle of the abandoned garage on the city’s outskirts,
This dusty place on the city’s outskirts had served him well as a hideout and training ground. But now? Ineffective as a training ground.
His Quirk mastery had hit 79%.
At this level, his raw power matched pre-awakened Bakugo during that insane final battle against All For One and Shigaraki.
Luke had unlocked some crazy new moves thanks to better control.
The problem? If he practiced them here at full strength, the garage would become a smoking crater. So he’d been forced to practice those moves with such tiny intensity that his new attacks looked like sad little party sparklers.
Well, he had been holding back while practising [Howitzer Impact] when his mastery was still at 50%, so it was nothing new.
He really, really needed a real hideout. Somewhere big, secure, and far away from people. Something with reinforced walls. Or maybe a private island.
But he had no muscle to help build one, no shady connections to hire someone, and his wallet and bank account had as much empty space as KSI’s forehead.
"Maybe I’ll just steal someone else’s base," Luke muttered, tossing the thought to the back of his mind.
He pulled out his phone to check his inventory.
Yes, some items could be stored in the app’s inventory.
Over the last week, he had spent a decent chunk of his hard-earned TP on gear for his next mission.
[Item: Expressive Jester Mask] – 20 TP
Features: Unbreakable, 10% facial damage reduction. Auto-equips and stores in inventory.
It was unbreakable, but as the fine print warned: It’s a mask, not a face shield. Do not use it to tank hits. The mask won’t break, but your jaw might.
[Item: Black Three-Piece Suit Set] – 15 TP
Features: Fireproof, bulletproof, stab-resistant, self-cleaning, self-repairing, 5% damage reduction. Auto-equips and stores in inventory.
Luke once again checked the mission details.
[Quest: Live Terror Stream]
Objective: Conduct a live-streamed terror operation within any commercial or public facility.
Conditions:
—25+ minutes duration
—15+ hostages
Reward: Terror Shop Discount Voucher( 75% off ) + 120 Terror Points
Bonus Condition:
—Engage in battle with a superpowered individual.
—Bonus Reward: +100 Terror Points (Extra points awarded depending on enemy strength.)
At 3:30 AM, donning a standard surgical mask and a plain gray hoodie, Luke slipped out into the night. The anti-surveillance was fully active like always.
By 4:45 AM, he arrived at his staking spot: an empty, under-construction mall in Astoria.
Next six hours... he was just sitting there, dozing on and off, munching a granola bar he’d grabbed from a store.
At 10:50 AM, it was finally showtime.
He opened the app inventory with a tap. Two icons pulsed: the mask and the suit. He pressed both at once.
In a blink, the hoodie, jeans, and shoes vanished into the inventory, replaced by the sleek black three-piece suit, black formal shoes, and the expressive jester mask.
His Terror Outfit.
"Man, this feature alone is worth the TP," he muttered. It was incredibly convenient. No more burning off his own clothes after changing.
The Jester Mask was pure white, with a single aesthetic bullet crack on the right side of the forehead. Smoke-colored tears trailed from his eye holes down to pitch-black lips that curved with cruel delight.
The suit was pure black, with a black tie and a crisp white shirt underneath.
He pulled out his phone, flipped to the front camera, and snapped a quick selfie.
[Image]
He looked like a wedding guest from a nightmare.
"Okay... time to head out."
BOOOOOOMMMM!
A massive explosion erupted from his palms, launching him into the bright blue sky.
It was a beautiful, cloudless day. Truly, the perfect day for a terror attack. The perfect day to let the Explosion Quirk shine.
From above, New York looked like a toy set. Luke soared in a controlled arc, using small bursts to steer.
Below, a luxury passenger train slid along the tracks like a silver snake. Semi-vintage design, rich cream and gold paint, separate carriages linked by heavy-duty couplers.
The kind of train rich people booked for scenic tours.
And in the eighth carriage, Luke knew, sat a church father, his staff, and about twenty nuns. A whole flock of hostages in one convenient location. God really did provide.
Luke angled his descent. The train was barreling toward the river bridge. Perfect.
He landed on the roof of the ninth carriage with a soft thud, knees bending to absorb the impact.
He needed to separate the back carriages. Luke coasted forward along the roof, using tiny explosions from his palm to keep balance. At the junction between the eighth and ninth carriages, he dropped into a crouch, extended one palm, and aimed.
With increased mastery, AP-Shot didn’t require him to curl his other hand in front of the shooting palm.
’AP-Shot.’
A thin blast of concentrated explosive force shot from his palm. It hit the heavy coupler mechanism and melted right through it with a screech of tearing metal.
Sparks showered.
The ninth carriage, now severed from the rest, immediately began to slow. Without the locomotive pulling it, momentum bled away fast.
Screams pierced the air.
"AAAahhh!!"
"Eeekk!"
Passengers tumbled. Luggage crashed. And Luke didn’t have time to care.
BOooom!
He blasted himself forward, flying over the roof of the 8th carriage, and landed on the front coupler connecting it to the 7th. Another quick AP-Shot reduced the steel joint to molten goo.
Now the eighth carriage was a lone island of metal, isolated on the tracks.
But momentum was still a problem. The carriage was hurtling forward at high speed, running on its own. It would cross the bridge and keep going for a long time. Luke needed it right in the middle of the bridge.
"Alright, here comes the hardest part!"
He jumped off the roof, twisted in the air, and slammed his back against the front face of the carriage. His palms pointed straight front along the tracks. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓
"Sorry, folks! Sudden change of direction!" he yelled, voice swallowed by wind.
Then he let loose.
"Haaa!!!!"
A continuous, deafening stream of explosions erupted from his palms. The sheer concussive force acted like a jet engine but in reverse.
The carriage shuddered violently. Its forward speed slowed, then stopped, then reversed. The whole eighth carriage started sliding backward along the tracks, pushed by a man in a jester mask.
Inside, passengers screamed again. A nun tumbled into an aisle. The church father clutched his cross and started a prayer so fast it might have broken Eminem’s record.
Luggage toppled, windows rattled, someone’s hat flew out an open pane and spiraled down into the East River like a confused dove.
The carriage slowed to a crawl just as it reached the exact middle point of the bridge.
Luke sighed, ’Show time.’
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Father Patrick Sein was a man of God, and a very important one at that. He presided over the largest church in New Jersey, a position that came with respect and power.
Today, he was on his way to Boston for a grand religious tour. A celebration of faith.
He was accompanied by his chief staff—three trusted deacons who handled everything from scheduling to sermon notes—and a select group of twenty nuns from the main church. The nuns had been chosen for their dedication and, frankly, their ability to sing hymns.
The journey had been nothing short of delightful. Father Patrick had looked out at the passing scenery and thought, ’Truly, the Lord has blessed this day.’
Until the Lord apparently changed His mind.
The first jolt had been alarming. The second had sent Sister Agatha’s rosary flying into Deacon Paul’s tea. And then came the sound, a terrible screeching of metal, followed by the feeling of the whole carriage moving in a direction it absolutely should not have been moving.
"We’re going backward," Sister Mary had screamed, face pressed to the window. "We’re going backward on the bridge."
Then the chaos stopped.
But just then...
BANG.
The side door at the front of the carriage blasted inward.
A tall man stepped through, dressed in a pitch-black suit. A cracked white mask hid his face, black lips frozen in an eerie smile as ember-like orange light glowed from his gloved palms. Behind him, a phone hovered in mid-air.
The figure tilted his head, mask shifting from a smile to something closer to polite curiosity.
"Good morning, everyone. Sorry for the bumpy ride. I’m still learning the whole ’train conductor’ thing."
Father Patrick stepped forward before his brain could tell his legs to stop.
"Who are you?" he demanded, voice ringing with righteous anger. "Is this your doing?!"
The Jester placed a hand on his chest in mock offense.
"Father Patrick Sein," he said, and the mask’s expression shifted to one of delight. "What an honor. I’ve heard your sermons online. Very passionate. Very... loud."
He took a step forward, shoes clicking on the carriage floor. The nuns shrank back. The deacons stood frozen, uncertain whether to fight or pray.
"To answer your questions," the Jester continued, voice smooth and unhurried, "I am but a simple man who has taken a sudden, burning interest in God and religion." He paused, letting his palm glow, "And yes, Father, this is entirely my doing."
"As you see, from this moment on, you are all my hostages. The nuns, the deacons, and you, Father. Every last one of you has to obey my words like they’re inscribed in your Bible."
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