Tony's sudden burst of aura made every head in the space turn toward him.
"Interesting… very interesting," said Mr. E, eyes gleaming like he'd just found his favorite toy.
"Alex Ray, what's going on with Tony?" Strange asked in astonishment. "That energy… don't tell me…"
"You're exactly right," Alex replied, eyes fixed on Tony's silhouette in the distance. "Tony has already mastered the essence of technology. He's just one step away from becoming a god."
Strange was visibly shaken. "He hasn't already become one?"
As if sensing Strange's confusion, Alex responded calmly, "He's what we call a 'God Slayer' right now. His authority is incomplete. Let me help him with the final step."
With that, Alex Ray vanished, heading for the battlefield in deep space.
Meanwhile, over Manhattan…
The night sky, once peaceful and star-strewn, was violently torn apart. Jagged tears in space shimmered like the mouths of invisible beasts, devouring light, reason, and reality itself.
These rifts weren't still—they twitched and shuddered unnaturally, as if guided by a pattern too complex for mortal minds. From them emerged colossal warships, sleek and metallic, each one more ominous than the last. They formed a grim procession above the city, exuding overwhelming force.
It looked like an alien invasion—but bigger. More coordinated. More final.
People panicked.
Those who had survived previous attacks—Chitauri, Ultron, Thanos—were already halfway to mental collapse.
"Are… are the aliens attacking again?" someone stammered.
"It's over… Hell's Kitchen is under siege!"
"I saw it too! Fog, rain, energy pulses! That neighborhood's become a portal to hell!"
"My house! I just finished rebuilding it! Don't you dare destroy it again! I'm still paying the mortgage!"
"I told you, we should've left this cursed city years ago!"
"Screw the federal government! I want off this planet!"
"Why is it always our coast that gets obliterated?"
"What do our taxes even pay for—hair dye for those genderless weirdos in Congress?"
People demanded answers.
But the federal government had none.
At Illuminati Headquarters—formerly S.H.I.E.L.D.—chaos erupted.
Agents sprinted between terminals. Emergency lights flashed. Dozens of screens displayed footage of the incoming fleet.
From the command deck, Alexander Pierce watched it all with growing dread.
His usual calm was gone—replaced by something feral.
"Figure it out!" he barked. "Why the hell are there hundreds of warships hovering over Manhattan?! Who do they belong to? Is this Hell's Kitchen's fault? Did Alex Ray and his gang piss off another god?!"
No one could answer.
Pierce's fists slammed into the console.
"If we don't get a handle on this, I'll be the one the feds scapegoat. I'm not taking the fall for this cosmic clusterfuck!"
He spun toward his team. "Call Reed! Call everyone in the Illuminati!"
More bad news poured in.
"Reed Richards can't be located!"
"The energy spike is higher than the last invasion!"
"Fighter jets dispatched—no contact yet!"
"No trace of Alex Ray or any of the Hell's Kitchen entities!"
Pierce gritted his teeth.
"Useless. All of you."
Then came a scream from below.
"It's Kang! I see Kangs! Multiple Kangs!"
And then another cry: "Reed Richards is here too! No—dozens of him!"
Pierce froze mid-step.
"What the hell did you just say?" he hissed.
He turned slowly and stared at the main screen.
His breath caught.
The monitor showed hundreds—no, thousands—of figures descending from the warships.
Kangs. Infinite versions of the Time Conqueror. Clad in armor, faces obscured, armed with temporal weapons.
Opposite them… countless Reed Richards.
Some wore the classic blue of the Fantastic Four. Others bore grim, battle-hardened exosuits. Some looked more alien than human.
And they weren't here to talk.
They hovered midair above Manhattan, two mighty tides about to crash into each other.
A multiversal standoff.
The Council of Kangs had arrived.
So had the Reed Council.
And somewhere in the shadows of space, Alex Ray closed in on Tony Stark—ready to guide Earth's final defense.