Chapter 150 to Chapter 160

…

Outside one of the cells in SHIELD headquarters, Nick Fury peered through the one-way glass. Inside, a figure in a white prison uniform sat silently on the metal bed, staring off in a daze. His hair was disheveled, obscuring his face, but the aura he projected was unmistakable—worn, defeated.

Beside Fury, Agent Maria Hill observed with a trace of complexity in her expression. "Over the past two months, we've conducted numerous tests on him," she said quietly. "His muscle density is forty-eight times that of a typical person, and his bones are as strong as metal. Yet, his original abilities have either disappeared or deteriorated for reasons we can't determine."

She continued, "His genetic structure is remarkable—far more refined than that of an ordinary person. However, the sequence is impossible to replicate. And ever since his arrest, he's been like this: silent, uncommunicative, though he cooperates with every test and procedure we conduct."

Fury's eyes stayed fixed on the dejected Peter Parker, his expression unreadable. "He's being weighed down by his own conscience."

Hill nodded. "Yes. He's young, and he's lost himself in all of this. I think we need to guide him."

Hill knew precisely what Spider-Man had done. From SHIELD's standpoint, Spider-Man's decision to let the Green Goblin go—following his own impulsive principles—had led to catastrophic damage. There was no question: it was a grave mistake. Legally and morally, Spider-Man's arrest was justified.

Yet, after two months of regret and self-recrimination, he was still struggling to recover. It was a testament to his character, Hill thought. On a personal level, she sympathized with him. Many SHIELD agents had faced similar guilt after making tragic choices. However, from a practical perspective, she believed Peter Parker could be redeemed—but only if he was willing to change.

"I don't have time to wait around for him to come to his senses," Fury said coldly.

He hadn't detained Peter Parker simply because of a mistake; he saw potential in the young man, an opportunity to turn him into a valuable asset.

With a nod to Hill, Fury gestured to the metal platform in front of him. Hill tapped a command, and the metal door to the cell unlocked, sliding open.

Fury entered, dragging a bench and positioning it in front of Peter. He sat down, studying the fallen hero in silence.

Peter kept his head lowered, motionless.

Fury began, almost to himself. "Do you know how many SHIELD agents die each year? According to the data, about 7,300. And many of those deaths aren't even complete; some agents end up in pieces or are simply missing."

He paused, his voice taking on a steely edge. "Some die fighting monsters that humanity can't know about—creatures that see us as nothing more than food. Then, there are the truly vile ones, people more dangerous than those monsters, who thrive on chaos and destruction."

Fury's tone shifted, almost reflective. "Others die in accidents, while some survivors are forced to retire, unable to continue. One wrong decision leading to the loss of an entire team can drive a person to the edge. Some of them break, haunted by nightmares or driven to madness."

Peter's body gave a slight tremor, as if Fury's words had struck a chord. But he stayed silent.

Fury didn't let up. He knew Peter needed more than sympathy. "This world is full of things beyond our understanding—strange forces, abilities, people, and even monsters."

"You're an enhanced individual, Peter, but you're different from others who suddenly gain power. You have a moral compass, a bottom line. Others with power exploit it, feeding their own dark desires. They see themselves as the center of the universe, the 'protagonists' of their own story, and they'll do whatever it takes to stay in control. There are plenty of people like that out there."

His voice grew sharper, more direct. "You want to be a superhero, but you think you can do it with a naïve, self-righteous mindset? You're young, reckless, and you don't see the bigger picture, Peter."

Fury's words became a brutal crescendo, cutting through the silence like a blade. "You were given power and wanted to help others. That's admirable, but being a well-intentioned vigilante isn't enough. You lack the discipline, the control, and because of that, dozens of families are suffering."

He fixed Peter with an intense stare. "Do you really plan to just sit here, wallowing in your guilt, thinking that it's enough to make up for what you've done? Your remorse, your self-blame—none of it means anything to the families who lost their loved ones because of you."

At last, Peter lifted his head. His once-youthful face looked haggard, his eyes bloodshot and dull, aged beyond his years. Fury's words had hit their mark, and all that could be seen in Peter's face was raw regret and despair.

Fury was unmoved, his face an unyielding mask. "Do you know what New York—and even the whole country—thinks of you? They want you caught, tried, and sentenced. Congratulations, Peter Parker. You're famous."

"They're right. I deserve it." Peter's voice was rough, barely above a whisper. His eyes were hollow, his spirit broken.

"Death is the easy way out. Do you think dying will redeem you? No—that's a coward's choice," Fury said coldly.

"Don't forget, you still have an aunt. Do you want her to live with the stigma of being family to a so-called 'sinner'?"

Peter's body trembled, and his eyes filled with tears. After a long pause, he finally spoke. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to redeem yourself," Fury replied, his gaze unwavering. "Use your life to save more people in this world."

With that, Fury handed Peter a tablet. On the screen was the image of a massive green monster.

…

In the spacious SHIELD training room, Peter stood, now clean-shaven but still hesitant without his Spider-Man suit. Dressed in a simple gray checkered jacket with a stand-up collar and black sweatpants, he tried using his abilities—shooting webs, clinging to surfaces, his spider-sense—but each attempt failed, his powers seemingly vanished.

As he sparred with a highly skilled agent, Peter struggled. Without his spider-sense, he was unable to anticipate the agent's attacks, and he looked like a helpless novice in combat. His instincts were dulled, and the physical abilities he had once relied on—his superhuman strength, coordination, agility, speed, and reflexes—were all noticeably weakened.

Outside the training room, Fury and Hill watched through the glass.

"It's strange," Hill remarked. "According to his blood tests and physicals, his baseline strength should be off the charts. Why is he so weak?"

Fury's single eye narrowed thoughtfully. "The moment he started doubting himself, his confidence and belief wavered. He's not the Spider-Man he used to be."

Fury continued, "Mind, spirit, and body are connected. When someone's mental strength is strong, it can unlock extraordinary physical potential. But when self-doubt and denial creep in, it's like a car with a rusty engine—slow and unable to start. That's exactly what's happening to Peter Parker. His self-doubt is stopping him from fully accessing his abilities."

Hill nodded thoughtfully. Fury added, "Even though his body is still strong, he needs a jumpstart."

"How?" Hill asked.

Fury turned to her, a cold smile forming. "It's your turn, Ms. Mary. I think you'll enjoy this."

The door to the training room opened, and Typhoid Mary entered, dressed in a gray tank top and tight jeans, her face hardened with a murderous intent. She looked directly at Peter, who turned to meet her gaze, confusion and wariness in his eyes.

Mary's lips curled into a smirk. "Hey, did you miss me?"

A tavern in Texas, built in the retro style of the American West from the 1990s, stood alone, surrounded by desert, with only a distant road winding past it. At night, it was the sole bright spot in the area. Around the tavern, motorcycles, muscle cars, and big rigs were parked, adding to the gritty atmosphere. Inside, patrons sported gold chains, black jackets, tattoos, tank tops, and cowboy hats, embodying a rough-and-tumble crowd. The sounds of classic '90s music filled the air.

The tavern was alive with eclectic energy—Eastern Europeans playing accordions, Black patrons beating tambourines in rhythm, while white men and Black women shared drinks and flirted. Prostitutes boldly approached single, drunken men, offering their services, and groups of workers in jeans sat around the bar with cheap whiskey, discussing politics, democracy, and a famously beautiful woman nearby.

In this cramped, smoky room, music, alcohol, cheers, shouting, exaggerated laughter, and foul-mouthed curses blended with the clinking of glasses. Everything seemed in chaotic harmony until a roaring engine broke through the noise outside, and a young man walked in.

He was strikingly handsome and looked out of place, wearing a red jacket with white trim, jeans, and white sneakers. As he moved through the crowd, a prostitute blew him a kiss, to which he nodded with a gentle smile before heading to the bar.

The bartender, an old man in a cowboy hat, eyed the newcomer with casual indifference, as if he figured the young man was just passing through. He picked a bottle from the shelf, poured a glass, and placed it in front of him.

"Nice car out there, kid. Hope you brought a gun, or it might not stay yours for long," the old man remarked.

The young man took the glass, giving a faint smirk before taking a sip. "You could hear it too, huh?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Believe me, my hearing's the best in here. I've seen guys down that much whiskey without flinching."

"Maybe I'm just pretending not to care," the young man replied, shrugging.

The bartender snorted. "Usually, folks who say that have something to back it up. But a word of advice—get out of here before eleven. This place turns into hell on earth."

"Wow, that sounds exciting. I'm looking forward to the show," the young man replied, unfazed. As if remembering something, he added, "By the way, could I get another glass? This stuff's great."

The bartender glanced at him, noting the still half-full glass in his hand, and raised an eyebrow. "So, you got a girl with you or something?"

"Don't tell me she went to the bathroom. I hate when people do their business too close to the pub. It's a pain to clean up," the bartender grumbled with a smirk.

The young man smiled, letting the joke pass. Seeing this, the old bartender chuckled and offered a fist bump, which the young man returned. Then, grabbing another large glass, the bartender poured another drink and set it down on the bar.

"These two are on the house, Mike," the bartender said.

"It's Leon."

"Then Leon, if your car needs gas, just a heads-up—it isn't cheap around here."

"Seems like your place is a bit of everything," Leon remarked.

"Of course! I sell it all here," Old Mike replied proudly. "This place is right between two city roads on a long stretch of highway. With no gas stations nearby, I figured a tavern would be perfect. It's a spot for travelers, tourists, and truck drivers alike to rest up—and it brings in a good income. Plus, I've made plenty of friends along the way."

…

Leon leaned back and placed his hands on the bar, taking in the lively scene before him. A playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Old Mike, a familiar face in the tavern, was talking to him. He rambled on about the tavern's history, stories from the past, nearby cities, and even some local culture. This old cowboy was tough as nails, the kind of man who kept a loaded shotgun under the bar—just in case a brown bear ever showed up. But beneath that gruff exterior, Old Mike had a kind heart. He often shared advice with Leon, warning him about things a young man should be cautious of.

Leon listened attentively, chatting with Old Mike until they noticed a striking figure walking through the door. The beautiful woman captured the attention of nearly everyone in the bar—patrons, waitstaff, even a few envious glances from others. Seeing her, Leon reached into his pocket and pulled out a finely carved gold coin, placing it on the bar without looking back.

Under Old Mike's astonished gaze, Leon said, "Old Mike, this coin is to keep you calm. Don't reach for the big guy under the bar."

"Wait, what?" Old Mike looked puzzled.

But the next moment made Old Mike realize what Leon meant. The woman, blonde with a striking sweater jacket, stepped further into the tavern and snapped her fingers.

Snap!

The sound was sharp, cutting through the noise of the bar like thunder in everyone's mind. Instinctively, patrons covered their ears, shocked by the force of the sound, and turned to stare at the girl in surprise. But one man—a scruffy figure with messy hair, a sinister look, and a far-off gaze—remained still, drinking alone in a dark corner.

"Sorry, folks, the party's over," she said with a polite smile. "You can leave now."

Some patrons, drunk and irritable, scowled at her words. A few reached for the guns holstered at their waists and took a step forward, ready to put her in her place. But as they did, the girl fixed them with a piercing look. Her bright eyes turned red, exuding an overwhelming aura of power. It radiated through the tavern like a physical force, pressing down on everyone.

The troublemakers halted, frozen in their tracks, instantly sobering up under her terrifying, almost tangible presence.

His body shook involuntarily, and panic was etched across his face.

The girl tilted her head slightly and stepped aside to the left. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen."

With that single look, everyone in the tavern understood one thing: it was time to leave. She seemed like a beast ready to tear them apart at any moment. Without another word, everyone rushed for the exit. Passing by her, each person shivered.

Boom!

The sound of engines revving filled the air as car after car sped away, tires skidding on the sand. Even the waitresses and prostitutes either hitched rides with the men or drove off themselves.

In no time, only four people remained in the tavern: the tavern owner, Old Mike; Leon; the girl named Wanda; and the man with disheveled hair sitting silently in the corner.

Old Mike had seen his fair share of strange things, but he understood this situation was different. He licked his lips and clutched the shotgun under the bar, a small gesture that made him feel a little more secure.

"Leon, don't tell me this is your girl?" he asked, his Texan pride showing as he fought to keep his voice steady.

Leon didn't look back, his eyes fixed on Wanda with admiration. "Isn't she beautiful? Her name's Wanda."

"She's one of those things that make life worth living."

Wanda must have overheard, as she cast him a sweet—but slightly dangerous—smile.

Old Mike understood that look all too well. Leaning closer, he whispered in Leon's ear, "Son, next time you say something like that, leave out the word 'one.' Then maybe she'll be more inclined to fall for you."

"Maybe," Leon replied with a grin, "but I don't think she's that petty."

Leon's gaze softened as Wanda approached him. She leaned in and planted a light kiss on his cheek before grabbing the glass of wine Old Mike had poured.

"For me?" she asked, her eyes glinting with amusement.

"Of course. Only for a beautiful princess like yourself, ma'am," Old Mike replied with a smile.

"Thank you, Old Mike."

Wanda took a sip, nodding approvingly at the taste, before turning and walking toward the man in the corner. Her confident stride left a lasting impression.

Old Mike chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a lucky man, Leon. She's gorgeous, with a spirit as wild as Texas itself. She'd make one hell of a cowboy."

"I think so too. Maybe I should take him riding in the prairie pasture someday."

Old Mike nodded. "Well, if you're interested, you're welcome at our ranch. We've got over 10,000 acres of pasture to roam."

"That's an offer I can't refuse."

After chatting with Leon, Old Mike felt his uneasiness begin to ease. He could sense that something unusual might happen tonight, but he trusted Leon's judgment, strength, and intuition.

Bang!

Wanda walked over to the corner table, set down an oversized beer mug with a heavy thud, and took a long sip before slamming it onto the table. On the small wooden table sat two wine glasses and an ancient-looking black book. The text in the book wasn't in English or any language known on Earth, and the cover bore mysterious symbols that hinted at something powerful.

Wanda looked directly at the man and spoke without hesitation. "Well, sir, there's an aura about you that I find… unpleasant. So, care to tell me what you've gotten from this book?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "Knowledge. Knowledge beyond what I ever dreamed of… knowledge this world cannot fathom."

…

The man's tone brimmed with fanaticism, and a hint of darkness flickered in his eyes. Suddenly, the lights in the tavern began to flicker, as if affected by some unseen force. Light and shadow danced across the room, casting eerie shapes over the patrons.

The man looked at Wanda with a strange intensity, sensing the power she held. "Join me," he said, his voice filled with a seductive, almost hypnotic tone. "I can teach you the knowledge from the Dark Book. You could have anything you desire. Anything."

But Wanda remained unfazed. "Did it fulfill your wishes?" she asked coolly.

"Of course," he replied, a proud smile spreading across his face. "Do you have any idea what I was like before I got the Book of Darkness?"

Wanda gave him a knowing nod. "Russell Crowe, thirty-two years old. Born in the small town of Forks, Texas. Eight years ago, you were a truck driver, but you lost a leg and an arm in an accident."

Russell's face went pale as Wanda continued, recounting his life as if reading from a script. "Your family couldn't afford the medical bills, so your wife, Rani, divorced you. Your daughter went with her. You lost your job, and the accident compensation barely covered anything. Homeless and hopeless, you nearly committed suicide but couldn't bring yourself to go through with it."

"Two months ago, you found the Book of Darkness at a construction site. Its power restored your health and taught you black magic. Since then, you've killed a total of 311 people, mostly gang members."

Russell's face contorted in shock. "How… how do you know all this?"

"You have no secrets from me," Wanda said, her sweet, delicate features now resembling something more devilish.

Russell's hand gripped the Dark Book tightly, drawing strength from it as he glanced warily at Leon, who was still chatting with Old Mike at the bar. "I don't know who you are, but I don't want any trouble," he said, his tone turning defensive.

Wanda shook her head. "Listen, I'm not here as some hero. I don't care who you've been dealing with. The Book of Darkness gave you back your limbs, and you used its power to kill gang members and amass a small fortune. All of it could be enough to secure your daughter's future."

She paused, her eyes hardening. "But the Book of Darkness is slowly corrupting your soul. It'll turn you into a monster—a walking corpse."

Russell's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "So you're here to take the Book of Darkness from me?"

Like a beast deprived of its prey, Russell looked stricken. Wanda sighed, "Well, it seems I'm not very good at persuading people."

"So~~" Boom!

Her gaze sharpened, and a terrifying wave of energy burst from her. The aura, intense and almost tangible, crashed into Russell, overwhelming him. Despite having the Dark Book's magic, his willpower alone couldn't withstand Wanda's power. The force shattered his resolve, and the chair beneath him crumbled.

"You…" Russell gasped, feeling as though he'd been plunged into the depths of the ocean, his body and mind under crushing pressure. His heart pounded, but he couldn't focus; his thoughts grew hazy, and his black magic slipped from his grasp.

Wanda's voice cut through his dazed mind. "I'm sorry, Mr. Crowe, but I have to take the Dark Book. In return, I'll remove the dark force that's corroding your soul."

As her words faded, Russell lost consciousness. The last thing he saw was Wanda reaching toward him, crimson energy blooming from her hand like a sinister flower.

Plop!

His head slumped onto the table as Wanda took the Book of Darkness. Her chaos magic seeped into Russell, purging the dark energy from his soul. Wisps of black vapor—darkness and malice—rose from him, dissipating into the air as the corruption left his mind.

When she finished, Wanda picked up the book, stood, and headed toward Leon, lifting the book with a smile as she greeted Old Mike. "Hey, Old Mike."

"Hey there, pretty lady," he replied, grinning. "You're not planning to erase my memory, are you?"

Wanda chuckled, playing along. "Hmm, now that you mention it, maybe I should."

Old Mike laughed, shaking his head. "Today's been one heck of an eye-opener."

"Is he going to be alright?" he asked, glancing at Russell.

"He'll probably need some painkillers for the next couple of days," Wanda replied with a smirk.

"Well, he's lucky. He's healthy now, and he's a rich man," Old Mike said with a knowing nod. Though Russell had lost the Book of Darkness, he'd been freed from its corrupting grip. Old Mike understood well that greed never leads anywhere good, and losing the dark magic might just have been Russell's gain.

After finishing their drinks, Leon, Wanda, and Old Mike said their goodbyes and left the tavern. For a moment, silence settled over the place. Old Mike glanced over at Russell, now sleeping peacefully in the corner, looking as harmless as a baby, and felt a wave of relief.

Clutching the unrefined gold coin Leon had given him, Old Mike couldn't help but feel tonight had been profitable—and he could close up early. Meanwhile, Leon and Wanda, in no rush to head back to New York, wandered along the empty road, walking side by side. The lonely stretch was surrounded by desolate landscapes, with not a single car passing by.

As they walked, Wanda examined the Dark Book carefully. Faint whispers echoed around her, tempting her to open it. But her will was strong, fortified by the white magic she had been learning. Her strength was growing daily, and she was unfazed by the dark allure of the book.

"Ancient dark magic… it's intriguing," she murmured.

"You could open it now," Leon replied, glancing at her. "But just know, this book is tied to the ancient god Hades. If you start using its black magic, he'll take notice."

"Ha, that's even more interesting. I can feel that there's something in this book that could be… useful to me."

Standing in the middle of the road, Wanda paused, facing Leon, and opened the Book of Darkness. the Darkhold.

…

At night, a thick, dark cloud formed, obscuring the moonlight. Between heaven and earth, darkness reigned. In this oppressive gloom, the creatures around the highway seemed to sense imminent danger and fled the area one after another.

On the side of the road, Wanda opened the Darkhold, an ancient artifact left behind by the gods of old. Her eyes glowed with a crimson light as the Darkhold hovered in the air before her, seemingly defying gravity.

Between the sky and the earth, murmurs and whispers echoed in her ears, incomprehensible yet invasive. Unprecedented spells of black magic flooded into Wanda's mind, their sinister power etched into her very soul.

Under Leon's watchful gaze, Wanda stared at the Darkhold. She was transformed—her demeanor colder, her eyes filled with an eerie indifference and ruthlessness. Black lines began to form around her eye sockets, snaking outward like tendrils of shadow.

The ground trembled faintly beneath them. The wind, stirred by unseen forces, whipped the air into a frenzy, scattering sand across the sky.

Wanda seemed no longer herself. Her gaze remained fixed on the Darkhold until, at last, she turned to Leon. Her voice, now hollow and chilling, broke the tense silence.

"The light shall be consumed by darkness. I despise the light—"

Before she could finish, Leon abruptly interrupted her dramatic proclamation with a sharp knock to her forehead. The blow was infused with armed Haki, making it firm enough to deliver a lesson but not truly harm her. Wanda staggered slightly, clutching her head in pain, tears streaming down her face.

"Your acting is way over-the-top compared to Natasha's," Leon said, exasperated. "Next time, get some pointers from her. Did you really think you could scare me with that performance?"

Wanda pouted, rubbing the sore spot on her forehead while glaring at him through her tears. Leon chuckled, shaking his head.

"Honestly, only your idiot brother Pietro might have fallen for that."

Despite her display, Leon knew the truth: the Darkhold held little sway over Wanda. Her mastery of chaos magic, a force inherently superior to black magic, made her nearly immune to its corrupting influence. Even the lingering consciousness of Chthon, ancient and malevolent, was powerless against her.

Moreover, Sky Blade had been monitoring both the Darkhold and Wanda's soul from the very start. If anything ever went awry, Sky Blade could immediately sever the connection between Wanda and the Darkhold, neutralizing any threat.

In Wanda's hands, the Darkhold wasn't a weapon of corruption but a tool for growth—a resource to strengthen her formidable abilities.

Wanda clutched her forehead, tears welling in her eyes, as she glared unhappily at Leon. "Are my acting skills really that bad?"

"Exaggerated. Way too exaggerated. And how could that thing affect you so quickly?" Leon replied bluntly, crossing his arms.

Wanda opened her mouth to argue but quickly realized she didn't have a strong retort. Instead, she glared at the ominous Darkhold in frustration.

"There's a lot of interesting black magic in here, and it's incredibly destructive," she muttered, flipping through the pages with her slender fingers.

"Tsk, tsk. Abyss magic, confinement magic, corrosion magic, soul magic... darkness coming from nowhere," Wanda listed, her voice tinged with curiosity. As she turned the pages, her eyes lit up with fascination, as if she had discovered an entirely new world. The raw power described in the Darkhold was breathtaking.

For Wanda, it was an eye-opener. Compared to black magic, white magic seemed tame—less harmful, less lethal. Black magic, by its very nature, was pure darkness, potent but riddled with serious side effects. Yet, despite its dangers, the allure of its overwhelming power made Wanda's eyes shine with excitement.

Ba~

Wanda snapped the Darkhold shut, waved her hand, and casually stored it in her personal magical space.

"This thing is too evil. The Ancient One must never find out about it—especially Master Mordo," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Master Mordo?" Leon asked, raising an eyebrow as they walked side by side down the lonely road.

Wanda nodded, speaking quietly. "The sorcerers of Kamar-Taj have a deep aversion to dark magic. Master Mordo, in particular, despises it. He's extremely rigid in his beliefs and fervently advocates for the light."

Her tone turned more serious. "If Master Mordo finds out I have the Darkhold and plan to study its black magic, he wouldn't hesitate to attack me. He'd demand I destroy it and might even rally all of Kamar-Taj against me."

Although she was still young, Wanda had a keen sense of people's personalities. She understood the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj well enough to predict how they'd react. Years of observing others, combined with Leon's influence, had shaped her into someone practical and far from dogmatic.

For Wanda, magic—whether light or dark—was merely a tool. If it served her and she could control it, she would use it without hesitation. The only reason she didn't openly share the Darkhold's secrets was the risk it posed to Pietro, Sergei, and others close to her. If not for that, she might have invited them to study its pages together.

"Then you'll have to hide it more carefully," Leon advised.

"Of course. Even though Master Mordo doesn't look particularly sharp, he's much more perceptive than Pietro," Wanda said with a smirk, referring to her brother, who was only ten minutes older but far less observant.

As the two continued chatting, their conversation lightened, and the loneliness of the long road seemed to fade. Their bond grew closer with every step.

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After a while, they both stopped abruptly, their attention drawn forward.

In the distance, brilliant sparks of light bloomed out of thin air, forming a fiery portal. A figure emerged from the center of the glowing ring—a man clad in a dark red suit with an unnaturally pale face.

"Wow, is this the human world? Such an uncomfortable atmosphere," the man remarked.

A few dozen meters away, he closed his eyes slightly and tilted his face upward, wearing an expression of intoxication, as if savoring something unseen.

"What a powerful and exciting soul. Did I interrupt your date, ladies and gentlemen?" he asked, his smile sharp and filled with malice as he looked at Leon and Wanda.

Leon smirked but remained silent. Wanda, however, was furious—very furious. She could feel the subtle shift in the atmosphere between herself and Leon just moments ago, as if she was on the verge of gathering the courage to step into his arms.

But this intruder had ruined everything.

An angry woman is a force to be reckoned with, and an angry Wanda is terrifying. At this moment, her fury was palpable.

Just as the man opened his mouth to speak again, a sudden and oppressive aura radiated from Wanda. Without hesitation, she raised her palm and pointed it directly at him.

Boom!

In an instant, a surge of majestic chaos magic erupted from her hand, coalescing into a massive, glowing hand of pure magical energy. It shot forward, aiming to grab the man with an unstoppable force.

…

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

The man, trapped in the giant hand of chaotic energy, was slammed into the ground repeatedly, like a ragdoll. Each impact left a deep dent in the earth.

By the time the onslaught subsided, he lay in a crater, battered and bloodied, his body torn and mangled. Yet, despite his horrific injuries, he appeared to possess a remarkable self-healing ability. Wisps of black aura surrounded him, twisting his broken limbs back into place. The gashes and wounds across his body began closing on their own, as though time itself rewound his injuries.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, his movements oddly composed, even elegant. He gazed at Wanda with an expression of mild confusion etched across his pale face.

"Are all human women this irritable?" he asked dryly.

"As a soulless demon, you wouldn't understand the significance of your untimely interruption," Wanda shot back, her tone sharp and laced with irritation.

She hesitated for a moment, her thoughts drifting to an old nemesis, before adding with disdain, "Another disgusting demon like Zero Zero Seven."

The man chuckled, straightening his tie with an air of nonchalance. "Ah, it seems my dear father has left a bad impression on you."

"So, you're Mephisto's son?" Wanda asked, narrowing her eyes.

"You can call me Blackheart, ma'am," he replied smoothly.

Wanda glanced over at Leon, who met her gaze with an expression that said, "Leave this one to you."

Leon was far from surprised by Blackheart's sudden appearance. In fact, the moment Blackheart materialized, Sky Blade had already begun analyzing him. From Leon's perception, honed by observation Haki, and from Sky Blade's precise calculations, it was clear that Blackheart was a formidable opponent.

He wasn't just strong—he was significantly more powerful than the soul projection of Mephisto himself. According to Sky Blade's assessment, Blackheart ranked just one level below pseudo-god status, making him a far greater threat than expected.

Wanda, too, could sense the profound darkness and raw power emanating from Blackheart. It was deep, evil, and menacing, but she remained calm and unshaken.

"Your appearance isn't just a coincidence," she stated confidently.

Blackheart smiled, his pale lips curving with amusement. "Indeed, it's no coincidence. In Hell, I heard that my father suffered a humiliating defeat. The source of that failure? You. Naturally, I was curious."

Wanda smirked, her tone turning ironic. "It seems you and your father have a very… close relationship."

Her words dripped with sarcasm, making it clear she meant the opposite of what she said.

Blackheart understood the weight of the moment, calmly tilting his head to glance at the sky. At some point, the dark clouds that had obscured the moonlight dissipated. Now, the moon shone brightly, casting an eerie and exclusive light on the land, a glow both serene and ominous.

"My birth was an accident," he began, his voice steady. "Mephisto created me out of accumulated mistakes. I was meant to be human, living under the sun."

He paused, his tone shifting to something darker. "But I never longed for such a life. Under his teachings, I explored the very essence of evil. Yet, perhaps because of my uniqueness—or maybe because I observed humans—I chose to rebel. I sought new forms of evil, ones beyond his understanding."

Blackheart's lips curled slightly in disdain. "He didn't take my disobedience lightly. In his wrath, he weakened me, stripping me of my power. I still yearn to overthrow his rule, to defy his very nature. But without strength, I had to make a choice. And that choice… is you. You are my chosen allies."

Leon raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. Blackheart spoke as though he were conferring some grand honor upon them, placing himself high above. The demon's words carried an arrogance that positioned Leon and Wanda as tools, passively selected and lesser.

Yet Leon wasn't angry. Instead, he observed silently, his sharp eyes watching every movement, every expression.

Wanda, however, caught the tone and couldn't help but respond. "You're confident—borderline arrogant," she said flatly.

Blackheart nodded, unapologetic. "With my status, I have every reason to be conceited. That arrogance is etched into my very being." Then, surprisingly, he softened his tone slightly. "But in your presence, I won't allow myself the folly of being overly conceited or reckless."

He studied them both, his dark eyes narrowing. "You and he are strong… special. But you don't realize the extent of my father's cunning and power."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly. "He's already watching you."

Wanda's expression remained cold. "I don't care what you or your father want. So long as it doesn't interfere with our lives, it doesn't matter."

Blackheart turned his focus fully to Wanda, his gaze penetrating. His dark pupils seemed to glimmer with curiosity. "You're not ordinary mortals. Your aura betrays you. Within you lies the essence of white magic… and black magic."

He smiled, his tone turning persuasive. "You're like me—someone with extraordinary ambition. Together, we could forge an alliance, bring our visions to life. Help me overthrow my father, and the rewards will be unimaginable. The gifts a ruler of Hell can bestow are beyond comprehension."

With a flourish, he spread his arms wide, his confidence radiating like a shadowy beacon.

But Wanda's response was swift and cold.

"I'm not interested," she said sharply. Her crimson eyes began to glow ominously as she locked her gaze onto Blackheart's. "But next time I see you, I will destroy you."

Blackheart froze, startled by the transformation before him. Wanda's glowing eyes burned with a power he hadn't fully grasped. Her gaze held not just magic, but an undeniable authority—majestic, absolute, and almost divine.

For the first time, Blackheart realized his mistake, a grave one. What he saw in the eyes of the young woman before him wasn't fear, nor even contempt—it was something far more chilling. It was the look of someone who viewed his ambitions as trivial, insignificant, and beneath notice.

Her indifference cut deep. It wasn't just rejection; it was dismissal.

Blackheart felt a flicker of anger, but beneath that simmering rage was something unexpected—fascination. He'd never encountered anyone like this girl before. Her sheer power, her ruthless demeanor, and her unshakable confidence intrigued him in a way no one else ever had.

And that, for him, was both maddening… and irresistible.

However, Blackheart's thoughts did not escape Leon's notice.

Whoosh!

Leon's figure vanished in an instant, leaving a gust of air in his wake. In the blink of an eye, he reappeared directly in front of Blackheart, moving so fast that the demon didn't even have time to react.

Standing face to face, they were of similar height, yet Blackheart inexplicably felt as though he was looking up at Leon, as if the man's presence alone placed him on a higher plane.

"Your ideas are dangerous," Leon said calmly, his voice steady but chillingly cold.

A wave of tension swept through Blackheart. He felt a powerful, suffocating aura emanating from Leon, a dangerous energy that was impossible to ignore. Leon's normally gentle eyes now glinted with an icy detachment, as though he were staring at a lifeless corpse.

Blackheart, though arrogant, was no fool. He quickly understood that his momentary interest in the girl had crossed a line—a line that Leon had clearly drawn in blood.

"I always thought she was the stronger one," Blackheart admitted, his tone laced with grudging respect. "But I was wrong. You are the strongest—the one who defeated my father."

Leon didn't reply. His silence carried more weight than any words.

Raising a single finger, he pointed it directly at the center of Blackheart's forehead. A golden, radiant light began to shimmer at the tip, forming a glowing cross-shaped star that radiated heat, brilliance, and a sense of divine sanctity.

Sizzle…

The light burned as it touched Blackheart's skin. The area between his brows began to darken, turning an inky black as if the light itself was driving out the very essence of his being.

…

As a soulless demon, Blackheart had no sense of pain.

Yet, he could smell death.

The golden energy radiating from his opponent was indeed sacred, searingly hot, and designed to restrain a demon's body. But it wasn't enough to kill him outright. However, an inexplicable feeling gripped him—a deep, sudden realization that if the human male before him truly desired to end his existence, he would die.

This sense of impending doom was both profound and unnerving.

Blackheart immediately understood that this man possessed a power capable of destroying him. His confidence and pride began to waver.

"This encounter has made me realize my mistake," Blackheart said coldly. "I'll be watching, curious to see the kind of trouble you'll bring to him. But mark my words—don't ever appear before me again, or you will die."

Boom!

As his words echoed, a dazzling golden light burst forth from the man's index finger. Waves of energy rippled outward, flinging dust and debris in all directions. His hair and clothes whipped wildly in the violent gale, while the golden, liquid-like energy surrounded Blackheart. This sacred energy flowed with a divine brilliance, annihilating the demon's body and reducing it to wisps of inky black smoke.

Blackheart's tortured screams filled the air as a jagged crack tore through space before him. The golden liquid entwined with the black smoke and was drawn into the rift. From the other side came a cacophony of hoarse roars and anguished wails, as if countless undead and demons were writhing in torment.

Moments later, the crack—radiating hellfire and dark, crimson light—sealed itself, restoring the space to its original state. The chaotic air currents subsided, leaving an eerie calm.

Leon had expelled Blackheart back to Hell, but he had not killed him.

The reason for his restraint, however, was not curiosity about how much trouble Blackheart might cause for Mephisto. Leon had a greater purpose in mind: fishing.

From the moment Leon and even Sky Blade sensed Blackheart's unique power and strength, it became clear that Blackheart was no ordinary demon. He would inevitably cause turmoil in Hell, a dimension vast and teeming with powerful entities.

Though Sky Blade, a Celestial Computer, could detect Hell's coordinates, it lacked the computational capacity to scan an entire dimension as vast as Hell, which rivaled the main universe in scale. This lack of information about Hell made Blackheart an invaluable source.

Leon understood the storm Blackheart would unleash in Hell—and he intended to use it to his advantage.

Leon had plans to build a kingdom of his own in the future. However, instead of using Sky Blade to search for a new dimension to establish his base, his ambitions were set on something far grander: Heaven.

The dimension of Heaven was unique—profoundly so. It could be traced back to a terrible yet awe-inspiring entity: God. This God was the supreme existence of the universe, surpassing even the Five Creation Gods—an existence incomparable and unfathomable.

No one knew where this supreme being had gone, but it was clear that He was no longer present in Heaven. In contrast to this true God, the so-called "God" residing in Heaven was nothing more than an ant—a despicable pretender cloaked in divinity.

Nevertheless, Heaven's dimension held a mystique that even Sky Blade couldn't penetrate. Its coordinates remained elusive. Leon understood that if he wanted to locate Heaven, he needed to do so as a spectator, avoiding any action that might alert the dimension to his presence.

For all its hypocrisy and corruption, Heaven was undeniably powerful. Leon recognized he wasn't yet ready to contend with it directly. Thus, the prudent choice was to act from the shadows.

Blackheart, it turned out, was the perfect bait.

Heaven and Hell, often seen as opposites of light and dark, were in truth intertwined—two sides of the same coin. Where there was Heaven, there was Hell, and vice versa. Leon saw in Blackheart a tool to help him uncover the door to Heaven without exposing himself.

These thoughts flitted briefly through Leon's mind, but to Wanda, his behavior told a different story. To her, it looked like plain, unvarnished jealousy, and it delighted her.

With a playful grin, Wanda walked up behind Leon, mustering the courage to wrap her arms around him. Pressing her soft cheek against his broad back, she teased him.

"Are you jealous, Leon?" she asked impishly, clearly eager to provoke a reaction.

But Leon didn't give her the satisfaction.

"He shouldn't have any thoughts about you—not at all," Leon replied calmly, his tone steady yet possessive.

Wanda pouted at his unexpected response, but Leon's mind wandered for a moment. When she had been younger, his protective feelings for her had been entirely pure. But as Wanda matured, her charm, her sweet yet fiery personality, and her growing affection for him began to stir something deeper.

Leon's instincts as a man—his possessiveness—had awakened. From the very beginning, he had considered Wanda to be his, though he was careful to remain patient. He would wait for the right moment to claim her, letting her blossom fully before making his move.

The mere idea of Blackheart harboring intentions toward Wanda had unleashed murderous intent in Leon. Were it not for his self-restraint, Blackheart would have been annihilated on the spot. Yet Leon allowed the demon to live—for now.

Blackheart's survival came at a cost, though. His future would be marked by Leon's presence at every turn. Whatever storms Blackheart sought to create, Leon would be the shadow manipulating the chaos.

For Leon, death was not the most painful punishment.

Instead, Blackheart would serve as his pawn, an unwitting agent carrying out Leon's plans. In the end, Blackheart would become the best worker his "boss" could ask for—and Leon intended to make him earn every moment of it.

Boom!

A brilliant golden light suddenly pierced the gloom, slamming into the ground with devastating force. The impact carved out a massive crater, sending terrifying shockwaves rippling outward. The collapsed ruins and remnants of buildings surrounding the site were obliterated, consumed in an eruption of debris, dust, and smoke.

Amid the chaos, a figure emerged from the swirling haze. It was Blackheart. Despite his disheveled surroundings, he retained an air of elegance. Brushing off dust from his coat, he surveyed the scorched landscape around him.

He realized instantly where he was: Hell.

But Blackheart was neither enraged nor despondent at being cast back to this infernal dimension. Instead, he wore a contemplative expression, his mind churning with thoughts.

He recalled the final moments of his confrontation in the human world, the icy indifference and utter disdain in Leon's eyes. That memory etched itself deeply into Blackheart's mind, a wound more cutting than the golden energy that had sent him back to this forsaken realm.

"Father," Blackheart murmured to himself, his voice low and reflective. "I now understand why he was able to defeat you."

…

In the manor's cozy living room, Wanda lounged on the sofa, dressed casually in a T-shirt and shorts, her slender legs resting lazily against the cushions. She flipped through a dark, ancient tome with a bored expression.

Outside, the sound of childish laughter echoed from the garden, a stark contrast to the eerie presence of the book in her hands.

From the staircase, Natasha descended into the living room, wearing a sweatshirt, shorts, and sandals. She carried two steaming cups of coffee, placing one on the table in front of Wanda and keeping the other for herself as she took a seat on the sofa.

Her sharp gaze fell on the ominous book Wanda was reading. "What are you reading?" Natasha asked, her tone tinged with curiosity and suspicion. "There's something... unsettling about it. I feel like it's radiating strange energy, disturbing my senses."

In truth, Natasha's instincts were screaming. Her well-honed perception—something akin to heightened observation and intuition—detected a foul, malicious power emanating from the tome. It wasn't just unsettling; it was downright evil.

She hesitated before speaking further. Wanda's supposed to be learning white magic from Kamar-Taj, training to be the next Sorcerer Supreme. So why is she reading something that reeks of dark magic? Is this... rebellion?

"This?" Wanda lazily held up the book, a mischievous grin on her lips. "It's the Darkhold—Leon and I found it last night."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "The Darkhold?"

"Yup," Wanda replied nonchalantly. "It's a book of ancient black magic, written by some primordial dark god. It's powerful, sure, but it's also a troublemaker. Loves to corrupt its readers. So, Natasha, don't even think about opening it."

Wanda's tone was playful, but her warning carried weight. She knew Natasha well enough to anticipate her curiosity.

The reason Wanda could handle the Darkhold without succumbing to its influence was twofold: her unparalleled mental fortitude and the Chaos Magic that coursed through her. Chaos Magic existed on a higher tier than the dark magic within the book. A lesser power simply couldn't override or corrupt a greater one.

Natasha nodded, understanding the seriousness of the warning. If Wanda, of all people, was cautioning her, then it wasn't worth the risk. Curiosity often led to disaster, and Natasha wasn't about to test that theory.

Taking a sip of her coffee, Natasha leaned back and turned on the TV. She spoke casually, "You two came back pretty late last night. Something happen?"

The seemingly innocent question caught Wanda off guard. Her relaxed demeanor wavered for a moment as she chuckled nervously. "Uh, yeah, about that... We, uh, ran into someone. A demon from Hell, actually."

Natasha's hand paused on the remote. "A demon?"

"Yeah, said he was Mephisto's son. Calls himself Blackheart or something."

Natasha frowned. "Mephisto's son? Blackheart?"

"That's the one," Wanda confirmed. "Apparently, he's trying to overthrow Mephisto and become the new ruler of Hell. He even tried to recruit us. Leon wasn't impressed, though—he sent him packing back to Hell."

Wanda spoke calmly, but there was a spark of amusement in her tone, as if the memory of Leon handling Blackheart with ease was more entertaining than terrifying.

Natasha shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "You two never have a dull night, do you?"

"He's quite the loving father and a dutiful son," Natasha remarked with a smirk, leaning back gracefully on the sofa and crossing her legs. "Fits my image of Hell perfectly."

After that brief quip, the conversation dwindled into silence. Wanda resumed her relaxed position, flipping lazily through the Darkhold, while Natasha, ever the pragmatic spy, focused on a stream of media reports on her tablet. It was a habit of hers—to sift through the news, searching for nuggets of valuable intelligence.

Most days, the findings weren't groundbreaking.

But today was different.

"Breaking news," a live report blared from the TV. Natasha looked up.

"Just ten minutes ago, a large green monster suddenly appeared on the Brooklyn University campus. Military forces swiftly took over the area, engaging in an intense battle with the creature. Footage shows the green monster exhibiting inhuman strength."

The screen cut to shaky footage of the chaos. The monster—a towering, muscular figure over two meters tall with green skin—was rampaging across the university lawn. Soldiers surrounded it, unleashing a barrage of bullets that ricocheted harmlessly off its impenetrable body, sparking with every impact.

The news anchor's voiceover continued: "Neither conventional ammunition nor high-frequency sonic weapons have proven effective. Military casualties are mounting. This raises a critical question: what is this creature? Is it a mutant? A human experiment gone wrong? Or a military weapon turned rogue?"

The broadcast footage showed soldiers firing relentlessly while the green giant roared, each growl echoing with unbridled fury. Natasha noticed something others might miss: with every roar, the creature's muscles seemed to swell, its strength growing more ferocious.

"This is getting interesting," Wanda murmured, her eyes drifting lazily to the screen. She casually slipped the Darkhold back into a pocket of her magic space, her curiosity piqued.

Natasha nodded thoughtfully. "He's... unusual. There's definitely more to him."

Wanda's lips curled into a mischievous grin. "He's kind of cute, don't you think? Maybe I'll turn him into a puppet."

Natasha shot her a sharp look, rolling her eyes. "Has that cursed book scrambled your brain? How do you say stuff like that with a straight face?"

Wanda giggled, sticking out her tongue playfully. "Relax, I'm just kidding."

"Next time you say something like that, I'm letting Leon deal with you," Natasha warned, her tone dripping with mock severity.

"Oh, please. He wouldn't dare."

"Then I will."

Wanda laughed nervously, catching the dangerous glint in Natasha's eyes. Quickly, she pivoted the conversation. "Anyway, this big guy isn't ordinary. The military wouldn't be chasing him so aggressively, especially in broad daylight on a college campus, if he didn't have some serious secrets."

Natasha's gaze returned to the screen, her expression growing pensive. "You might be right," she said softly.

Both women watched the screen in silence, the air between them charged with curiosity—and the unmistakable scent of something far bigger brewing on the horizon.

Watching the video footage, Natasha analyzed the green monster's behavior and characteristics. Based on its performance, she formed a hypothesis: the creature's strength seemed to grow in direct response to pain or anger.

At the beginning of the confrontation, the monster was overwhelmed. Surrounded by soldiers, it endured a relentless barrage of gunfire and was momentarily staggered by high-frequency sonic weapons. But now, the situation had changed dramatically.

The monster no longer appeared fazed by the soldiers' attacks. Firearms and sonic weapons were useless, and the creature had begun a brutal counterassault, leaving devastation in its wake.

"Strengthening through anger..." Natasha mused. "It's not entirely unheard of, even for regular humans. Extreme emotions—like rage—can trigger a surge of adrenaline, temporarily enhancing physical strength. But this thing... it's on a whole different level."

The green monster's power was clearly no ordinary phenomenon. Whatever its origins, it was unlike anything Natasha had seen before.

…

In a short time, Natasha had keenly observed that the anger of this big monster seemed to amplify its strength. The power behind its blows grew significantly more destructive, and its explosive power, speed, and endurance seemed limitless. Adding to this was its incredible self-healing ability, making it a formidable opponent.

However, raw strength didn't concern Natasha. After all, her own strength, with one arm capable of lifting over three hundred tons, paired with her domineering aura, was more than enough to pummel this big guy into submission.

What truly intrigued her was the monster's unique characteristic. If there was no limit to it, the implications would be terrifying.

Setting her coffee cup on the table, Natasha's sharp eyes glinted, and a sly smile tugged at her red lips. Wanda, sitting nearby, noticed Natasha's expression and immediately understood that the ever-cunning Natasha had come up with a plan. Wanda silently prayed for the monster on the screen.

"Where's Leon?" Natasha asked, retracting her gaze. She pulled out her phone and earphones, deftly placing the buds into her ears while scrolling through her device.

"He didn't say where he was going—so secretive," Wanda replied, her tone tinged with mild irritation. Being young and in love, she longed to spend every moment with Leon. But he had left without explanation the day before, not even bothering to tell her where he went. Wanda silently fumed, calling him a scoundrel in her mind.

She decided that when Leon returned, she would demand he make it up to her. Perhaps they could ride the Ferris wheel at Empire Park and share their first kiss. Wanda also worried Natasha might steal a march on her. This thought made Wanda glance at Natasha, snickering to herself.

Natasha noticed Wanda's gaze but didn't care. Whatever this little girl was thinking wasn't her concern. Her focus remained on the big green monster.

"Alright, let's see," Natasha murmured, her fingers dancing over her phone screen. Hacking into the military database wasn't simple, but she managed to break through. Pulling up classified files, she began reading:

"Bruce Banner—military scientist, gamma radiation researcher, and holder of seven doctorates. Impressive. He was working on the Super Soldier Serum project when excessive exposure to gamma rays caused his body to mutate. Now, whenever he gets angry, he transforms into the Hulk, a creature with boundless destructive power."

Natasha continued, "They've labeled him a mutant and initiated a years-long hunt for him, led by General Thunderbolt Ross. It seems Ross has an odd fixation on this big guy."

Natasha's expression softened slightly as she reviewed the files. The story of the Hulk evoked a surprising amount of sympathy from her. The military's ruthless methods and their willingness to reduce Banner to a test subject made her uneasy. In a world striving for progress, Banner had become a victim of its darker underbelly.

The outcome seemed destined to end in desolation. After all, both Natasha and Leon had endured similar experiences, so it was natural for her to feel empathy for someone like Bruce Banner.

However, despite her sympathy, Natasha remained rational. Her interest in the Hulk wasn't born of sentiment but rather his unique traits. She was deeply curious about whether his abilities had any limits.

Moreover, she saw the potential value in him—both as the Hulk and as Bruce Banner, a man of exceptional intellect. Recruiting him would undoubtedly be advantageous. And, of course, drawing a tube of blood along the way wouldn't hurt either, right?

A soft chime in her headset interrupted her thoughts. Yelena's voice came through:

"What a cruel plan. What do you want us to do?"

"Keep an eye on them. Monitor his every move," Natasha replied calmly.

"Are you planning to…?"

"Yes. I want to observe him for a while and see what he's truly capable of. Hopefully, he'll exceed my expectations."

Yelena chuckled on the other end. "By the way, I've detected several groups also targeting the big guy. Looks like you've got some competition."

Natasha raised an elegant eyebrow, unsurprised. The Super Soldier Serum was an invaluable asset, and the Hulk's unparalleled combat power would naturally draw attention from all sides.

"Then we'll keep an eye on them too—and eliminate anyone who gets in our way," she said with icy resolve.

"No problem. Natasha, your murderous intent just keeps growing," Yelena teased before ending the call.

Natasha removed her headset and turned to Wanda. "Would you like to go have some fun?"

Wanda rolled her eyes. The offer was tempting, but she preferred waiting for Leon to return. Summoning her best Oscar-worthy acting skills, she replied nonchalantly, "It's boring. I'd rather read the Darkhold than waste time on that man. If you can't deal with him, just let me turn him into a puppet."

Her performance was flawless, but Natasha remained oblivious to Wanda's hidden thoughts. Shrugging, she decided to leave Wanda behind. She could handle things herself anyway.

Meanwhile, chaos erupted across New York City as the monster made its way onto a college campus, throwing the area into panic. The military quickly intervened, leading to a large-scale gunfight on campus grounds. The situation spiraled further when the monster, astonishingly, demonstrated the ability to operate heavy weaponry, causing devastating casualties among the soldiers.

General Ross was livid. Not only had the monster wreaked havoc and created a PR nightmare, but the loss of so many soldiers had brought significant consequences upon him. Worse, his years of concealing the Bruce Banner incident were finally catching up to him. With mounting pressure from military and government officials demanding accountability, Ross found himself cornered.

If not for the network of contacts Ross had and the exchange of interests that allowed him to suppress the fallout, he would likely have been removed from his position—or even court-martialed.

Yet, even with these safeguards, Ross could sense the undercurrents of discontent beneath the surface calm.

As a seasoned military veteran, Ross didn't need anyone to spell it out for him. He knew what it meant: other agencies were likely watching his every move as he pursued Bruce Banner.

To make matters worse, the Hulk had taken his daughter, Betty, during the chaos. This added an intense personal dimension to the professional pressure weighing on him.

Under such circumstances, Ross had no choice but to accelerate his efforts to locate Banner. Fortunately, his soldiers soon delivered good news: Bruce Banner had been found.

Wasting no time, Ross assembled a heavily armed task force on a stormy night. Soldiers were transported in armed vehicles, while Ross himself took an armed helicopter, determined to resolve the matter personally.

Before long, they arrived at their destination—an old and weathered neighborhood, its appearance suggesting years of neglect.

…

A squad of heavily armed soldiers stormed into an apartment under General Ross's command.

In one of the rooms, cluttered and resembling a makeshift laboratory, Ross's eyes first landed on Bruce Banner, who was gripping a metal workbench with a weary, pale expression. Then, he heard the distressed voice of his daughter, Betty.

"Father?"

Ross's gaze shifted to Betty, who was supporting Banner. His expression remained cold and unreadable as he spoke in a deep, commanding tone.

"Bruce, you've made the wrong choice. You've destroyed what was given to you. Take them with you and retreat. Everything else here—Blonsky, I want it all destroyed."

"Yes, General!"

Blonsky, the squad captain, snapped to attention. His eyes gleamed as he gestured to the soldiers, who surrounded Ross and escorted him out of the apartment. The heavy thrum of helicopter blades soon filled the air as Ross departed.

Blonsky lingered, surveying the scene. His attention turned to a man nervously fidgeting nearby—Mr. Blue, the scientist who had helped Banner suppress the Hulk's influence.

Approaching the table where blood samples were stored, Blonsky reached out and rapped his knuckles on the surface, cutting off Mr. Blue's feeble attempts at protest. He removed his communication headset, silencing any outside interference, then stepped closer to the uneasy scientist.

"Do you know," Blonsky began, his tone low but charged with intensity, "since I was seven years old, my father drilled into me the belief that I am the best in the world—the strongest, with the finest bloodline. He made me believe I had to be the best at everything I did.

"When I joined the army, I threw myself into it with madness and determination, becoming one of the strongest soldiers we had. But it wasn't enough. I was born strong, but I wanted to be the strongest. And then I learned the truth: there are beings in this world far beyond human strength—those with powers, mutants with abilities, even that playboy who built a suit of armor that transcends our time."

Blonsky's voice grew sharper. "But me? I'm just a so-called commando captain. No matter how hard I push myself, I can't break free of the limitations of human blood. That truth disappointed me—no, it infuriated me. But when Bruce Banner transformed from an ordinary man into a monster capable of wielding heavy weapons and shrugging off bullets, I saw something else: hope. A way to shatter those limitations."

His piercing eyes fixed on Mr. Blue. "So, do you understand what I'm saying?"

Mr. Blue hesitated, his face contorted with unease, but eventually nodded. "There's a blood sample of Bruce Banner here. But you need to understand—his green cells are highly destructive, unstable, and fragile. I can't predict what will happen if you inject his blood into yourself."

Blonsky's expression didn't waver. Calmly, he leaned over the metal workbench, drew a pistol from his thigh holster, and aimed it squarely at Mr. Blue. The scientist froze, his fear evident.

Reluctantly, Mr. Blue retrieved the vial of Banner's blood and prepared a syringe. With trembling hands, he injected the sample into Blonsky's arm, his face etched with dread for what might follow.

As soon as the injection was complete, a violent transformation began.

Blonsky's eyes flickered with green and yellow light, his body convulsing as he clutched his forehead. Thick veins bulged grotesquely along his arms and thighs, giving the horrifying appearance of varicose veins ready to burst.

His skin started to writhe unnaturally, surging and stretching. In the next moment, under Mr. Blue's incredulous gaze, Blonsky's skin began to swell and crack. Within seconds, his height shot up from about 1.8 meters to well over two meters, and his body expanded outward in massive proportions. His combat uniform strained against the eruption of his muscles, barely containing his growing form.

When the transformation was complete, Blonsky stood as a towering, monstrous figure, his grotesque form radiating raw power. He looked down at his hands, brimming with destructive energy, and felt the unstoppable force coursing through his body.

"This… this is the power I wanted. This is the power I deserve," he said, his voice a guttural growl of intoxication.

Blonsky grinned wickedly. "Blonsky is no more. From now on, I am Abomination, the strongest there is!"

His mind was consumed with a singular desire—to destroy the Hulk and prove his supremacy.

Boom!

Without another word, Abomination sprang into action. His massive legs propelled him forward with explosive force, smashing through walls like a living cannonball. He tore through the neighborhood, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Buildings trembled, and debris scattered as the monster rampaged.

Abomination reveled in the carnage, crushing anything in his path. His hatred boiled over, fueling his need to tear apart everything—and everyone—between him and the Hulk. He laughed maniacally, his voice echoing through the streets.

"Hahahaha! Hulk, come out and face me! I will tear you to pieces with my own hands!"

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The monstrous figure rampaged through the streets, his immense size and strength reducing vehicles to twisted metal with a single blow. He hurled a car hundreds of meters into the air, the impact triggering fiery explosions that lit up the night sky.

The chaos was immediate. Civilians fled in terror, screaming as they ran from the relentless destruction. Abomination's merciless rampage turned the once-busy neighborhood into a war zone. To him, human lives were fragile, insignificant. They were ants to be crushed beneath his feet.

The panic spread like wildfire, and police forces scrambled to respond. Units from the New York Police Department deployed rapidly, but their weapons, though formidable, were no match for the monster.

Abomination barreled forward like an unstoppable tank, plowing through barricades and police cars. Bullets ricocheted harmlessly off his thick, impenetrable skin, sparking against his hide but failing to slow him down.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

With every thunderous step, Abomination advanced, leaving behind devastation and despair. The monster's rage knew no bounds, and the night was destined to end in chaos and destruction.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Amidst his frenzied laughter, Abomination unleashed carnage like a tiger tearing through a defenseless flock of sheep. Fire and smoke filled the sky, painting a scene of utter devastation. The ground was littered with the remains of destroyed vehicles and the lifeless bodies of policemen, brutally torn apart by his relentless rage.

Watching it all unfold was Natasha.

She stood poised on the top floor of a nearby building, her silhouette outlined by the moonlight behind her. Dressed in a sleek black trench coat, her slightly curled burgundy hair danced in the wind along with the hem of her coat. Her piercing gaze fixed on the chaos below, unshaken by the destruction.

…

Looking down at the raging monster on the street below, Natasha's bright eyes narrowed, filled with restrained hatred. Yelena's voice broke the tense silence, cutting through the chaos.

"Wow," Yelena began, her tone laced with sarcasm, "according to the dynamic data analysis scan, this guy is six feet eight inches tall, weighs about 980 pounds, has single-arm strength clocking in at roughly 300 tons, and is covered in some kind of scale-like armor for defense."

She paused, then added with a grin, "His speed, jumping ability, and explosive power? Simply beyond my understanding. Well... except for you, of course."

"From the looks of it, this big guy is stronger than the green monster."

"Do you want to change your target?" Yelena asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No need," Natasha replied calmly, her voice like ice. "This thing is at best an inferior product. His mind is nothing but destruction and a desire for more destruction. Compared to Bruce Banner, he's more suited to be a sparring pet."

"Sparring pet?!" Yelena exclaimed incredulously. "That guy's one-arm strength is over 300 tons."

"And so is mine," Natasha said simply.

"Well," Yelena muttered under her breath, "I'm not quite there yet."

"That makes him perfect as a sparring partner," Natasha continued without missing a beat.

Yelena smirked. "Why don't you ask him if he's interested? I'm pretty sure he'll be furious."

"He should consider it the greatest stroke of luck that he's still breathing," Natasha replied coldly, her tone flat but dripping with menace.

Natasha wasn't sentimental about death; she'd seen too much of it, lived through too much to be moved by loss. Her heart had hardened over time, but she still carried a strong moral core. However, as she surveyed the carnage below—police officers and innocent bystanders alike lying lifeless in the wake of the monster's rampage—her anger flared.

In her mind, she had already sentenced the creature to death. But before delivering the execution, she would wring every ounce of usefulness from him. The thought was fleeting, but her resolve remained firm.

Below, the monster—"Hatred" as some called him—continued to roar and thrash wildly, demolishing everything in his path. Natasha tore her gaze away from the destruction and looked skyward.

Her sharp eyes caught sight of an armed helicopter and a Quinjet fighter cutting through the air. From what she saw and heard, she already pieced together who was aboard each aircraft. The helicopter likely carried Ross, Betty, and Bruce Banner. But what truly caught her attention were the figures on the Quinjet.

Natasha's eyes narrowed. Spider-Man, Peter Parker, was there—alongside Bloody Mary, who had been off the grid for the last two or three months. The unexpected reunion gave her pause, and she momentarily suppressed her initial plan to act.

Yelena broke the silence with a smirk. "What's the matter? Just gonna sit back and watch the fun?"

"The best way to recruit him is to make him feel safe."

"Um, you might want to be careful then. This street is a busy area. If you're caught, you'll definitely lose everything," Yelena teased with a smirk.

Natasha rolled her eyes but didn't respond. Instead, she frowned, her gaze fixed on the sky. Onboard the armed helicopter, Bruce Banner appeared frail and was engaged in a conversation with Ross. Meanwhile, the Quinjet's fighter bay doors opened, and two figures leaped out: Peter Parker and Bloody Mary.

Bloody Mary retained her signature look—blood-red hair, black leather armor with a white lining, and her jeans torn to reveal one leg clad in fishnet stockings. Peter, however, had abandoned his classic Spider-Man suit. Instead, he wore S.H.I.E.L.D.'s black Kevlar combat gear, giving him a starkly different demeanor.

The change in Peter was striking. His once energetic, cheerful persona—the Spider-Man who swung tirelessly above New York City—was replaced by a somber, weathered expression. His silent and distant gaze hinted at something buried deep within him.

In the past two months, Natasha hadn't paid much attention to Spider-Man's activities. Wanda had only mentioned him briefly before heading to Kamar-Taj to study white magic. Out of curiosity, Natasha had asked Yelena to investigate.

Thanks to artificial intelligence, the investigation progressed quickly. When Yelena reported her findings about the events two or three months prior, Natasha found herself deep in thought. Watching Spider-Man descend using a parachute, Natasha pieced things together.

"Because of self-denial, his abilities have deteriorated?" Natasha mused quietly. "Falling into self-doubt and self-blame… has S.H.I.E.L.D. exploited this? A despicable tactic, but it's exactly what I'd expect from them. They're all the same."

Natasha's eyes remained on Peter and Bloody Mary as they landed. Their arrival didn't draw the attention of Abomination, who was too engrossed in his rampage. Peter surveyed the carnage below, and anger flashed behind the hood that shadowed his face.

"Ms. Mary," Peter called sharply, not rushing forward but instead turning to his companion.

Bloody Mary didn't waste any time. Activating her powers, she shifted positions, and a powerful gravitational force engulfed the area around Abomination. The creature, caught mid-destruction, froze, unable to react as the crushing gravity bore down on him. Even Abomination, known for his immense strength, succumbed to the pain, collapsing to one knee, his chest heaving.

Peter seized the moment, pulling a syringe from his belt and sprinting toward Abomination at full speed. With Bloody Mary maintaining precise control over her gravitational field, Peter aimed to inject the S.H.I.E.L.D.-developed anesthetic into the monster's body.

However, just as Peter got close, Abomination—who had appeared incapacitated—suddenly raised his head. A menacing grin stretched across his face, and in Peter's disbelieving gaze, the beast defied the crushing gravity and stood upright.

With terrifying speed, Abomination swung a massive fist, aiming directly for Peter's head.

Bang!!

Peter was caught off guard and had no time to dodge. Reluctantly, he crossed his arms in front of him to brace for impact. The sheer, terrifying force of Abomination's punch sent Peter hurtling backward like a cannonball.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

He crashed through several cars along the way before finally slamming into a shopping mall.

Seeing this, Bloody Mary let out an angry shout, her voice echoing amidst the chaos. She immediately activated her ability again, attempting to suppress Abomination with her gravitational powers. However, the monster, having adapted to the crushing force, remained unfazed.

Instead, Abomination began advancing toward Mary, step by heavy step. Each footfall struck the ground with a deep, resonant "dong, dong" that seemed to echo in Mary's chest like a drumbeat of impending doom.

Mary's heart pounded violently. She could feel the gravity of the situation—literally and figuratively. She understood all too well that she had fallen into a grave crisis.

…

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