Chapter 27
The broadcast ended, but the chat window beside the video lived a life of its own, spewing hundreds of messages per second. The public reaction was predictably explosive, polarized, and in some places, outright bizarre. Scrolling up through the feed, a few characteristic opinions stood out.
Wanda_Simp_69: "Listen, when she said 'don't make her angry' and looked into the camera like that... am I the only one who felt a strange urge to obey? Is it normal that I actually liked it?"
Spidey: "LMAO! Get 'em! J. Jonah Jameson is finally shutting his trap. Best moment of the stream!"
The_Fridge: "You're all idiots. Do you even grasp the scale of the threat? This Scarlet Witch can create matter. It's nothing for her to whip up some Californium-252. It costs 27 million a gram, but the price isn't the problem. It's radioactive as hell, damn it, and has a critical mass the size of a tennis ball. If this girl has a bad day, we won't just die—we'll be glowing in the dark for the next ten thousand years."
The laptop lid snapped shut, cutting off the flow of digital hysteria.
"Well... big changes are coming."
My gaze fell upon the bed, where the night's trophies lay: a crumpled sheet of paper covered in names and an ancient scroll obtained from Stick.
The list of Hydra agents needed to be moved, and soon. Fury was the ideal buyer. It didn't matter who he really was; what mattered was that he had the resources to deal with it and the motivation.
Now for the interesting part—the payment for the inhaler.
My hand reached for the scroll. The material felt like neither paper nor leather. As I unfurled it, the symbols inscribed with something unknown flared with a soft, golden light.
The text wasn't written in hieroglyphs but in a strange script that seemed to seep directly into the brain, bypassing the eyes. More disturbingly, the lines began to fade and vanish once read. It was clear this was a one-time manual. Stick knew how to keep his secrets. I had to focus, absorbing every word and image before they dissolved into nothingness.
"Celestial Forge Hammer Technique: Forced Meridian Restructuring."
"Step 1: Mentally isolate the primary energy node in the solar plexus. Since the natural flow of energy in the body is too stable and integrated into the metabolism, it is imperceptible to the host, much like a fish does not feel the water. To find it, you must create turbulence."
"Step 1.1: Assume the Utkatasana pose. Exhale completely, forcing all residual air from the lungs using the diaphragm. Hold your breath. Do not inhale. Your goal is to induce a state of controlled panic in the body."
"Step 1.2: At the 30-second mark of hypoxia, your heart rate will accelerate. Ignore it. Blood will rush in your ears. Ignore it. The burning in your lungs is a false signal. Look for what is NOT biological. At the moment the diaphragm begins to spasm, demanding air, you will feel a cold, static weight in the spot just above the stomach. It does not pulse with the heart. This is the Node."
"Step 1.3: Upon discovering the 'cold weight,' do not inhale. Instead, mentally compress this area. Imagine it is a solid sphere, and you are trying to crush it with your abdominal muscles and your will. The pressure must mount until you feel a reciprocal vibration—coming not from the flesh, but from space itself within you."
"Step 2: The accumulated charge must be directed not through the muscles, but through the bone marrow of the spine. Since there is no natural conductivity there, the charge must burn its own path. The sensation will be identical to pouring molten lead into your spinal column."
"Step 2.1: While maintaining pressure on the 'Node,' shift the energy's center of gravity down to the base of the sacrum. Bone tissue is a dielectric for Qi. You will feel resistance. At this moment, you must use a sharp mental impulse to puncture the outer shell of the tailbone. The sensation will be comparable to a sledgehammer blow to the lower back. Do not release the mental vice. If the energy dissipates into the soft tissues of the pelvis, it will lead to necrosis of the internal organs."
"Step 2.2: Once inside the bone canal, the energy will seek an exit. There must be no exit. Force it upward through the spongy substance of the vertebrae. The bone marrow will begin to 'boil.' This is not a metaphor; the tissue temperature will actually rise. Your task is to drive this wave of heat upward, vertebra by vertebra, never letting it stagnate. Stopping for even a second will cause the charge to burn through the bone and strike the spinal cord. Result: instant paralysis below the point of breach."
"Step 2.3: When the 'lead' reaches the first cervical vertebra (the Atlas), stop. Beyond lies the brainstem. Any leak there results in a lobotomy or death. Hold the charge at the base of the skull until the heat begins to subside, absorbing into the bone and altering its structure."
"Step 3: Repeat the cycle of compression and breach until the micro-traumas of the energy channels scar over, forming a denser, 'calloused' structure capable of withstanding a flow of Qi tens of times greater than the body's biological limit."
"Step 3.1: When the bone marrow temperature peaks, abruptly release the mental pressure. Deprived of the 'vice,' the energy will rapidly dissipate, causing an endothermic reaction—a sudden absorption of heat. Subjective sensation: the spine, which was just white-hot, instantly turns into an icy rod. Nerve endings will send signals of thermal burns and frostbite simultaneously. Task: prevent the 'cracking' of the channel from temperature shock by retaining residual heat in the intervertebral discs."
"Step 3.2: At the site of the tissue micro-tears caused by the charge, an energy scar will form. This is not ordinary healing; you must mentally guide the regeneration process, forcing new cells to align not chaotically, but along the vector of the flow. Sensation: an unbearable, maddening itch deep within the bones that cannot be scratched. Any attempt to move will disrupt the scar structure, creating an 'energy clot' that will explode under the next load."
"Step 3.3: Without waiting for full healing, drive a maximum power impulse through the fresh, 'raw' channels. This is necessary for the new meridian walls to harden in an expanded state. Pain will signal the limit of durability. Ignore it. Stop only when you taste copper in your mouth and hear ringing in your ears—signs of a micro-stroke. This is your new operational limit."
The text faded completely.
"What absolute madness..." I exhaled.
If not for the fact that Stick himself had handed me this scroll, I would have thought I was holding a sophisticated suicide manual. Not only does every stage threaten disability or death, but it also requires the total suppression of natural survival instincts. The body will scream in pain, demand air, beg you to stop, and you must keep breaking yourself. Performing this seemed simply impossible.
An unpleasant thought crept into my head. That old crook knew 100% that I wouldn't be able to do this. That's why he gave up this "priceless" technique so easily. Deal of the century, damn him.
With a disappointed sigh, the empty scroll flew onto the bed.
Fine, if performing the technique is suicide, maybe I can sell or trade it? I went to the desk, picked up a pen and a clean sheet of paper. I decided to transcribe the technique to test a hypothesis.
But as soon as I tried to write the first word of the technique's name, my hand froze. The muscles simply refused to obey. I tried to say the name out loud:
"The Technique of..." — and my throat seized in a spasm.
Everything clicked. The text was imprinted in my memory with 100% accuracy—every word, every comma. In the absence of a photographic memory, the conclusion was obvious: those weren't just ink marks; it was a mental program. The words had bypassed my barriers because I had let them in by reading, and they had left a block on information dissemination in my brain.
What a letdown. I had a unique cultivation manual in my hands, but it was useless. Not only could I not show it to anyone, but it was essentially impossible to execute. The requirements for pain control and instinct suppression were such that only someone truly out of their mind could attempt to bring it to life. A madman who utterly didn't care about the preservation of his own body or sanity.
However... my lips curled into a smirk. I wonder who tricked whom. I already had an idea of how to pull this off.
But first, I needed to visit Tony.
---
In the penthouse of Stark Tower, lounging on a designer sofa in my suit, I had to wait for the world's top spy.
"You know, I watched the whole fight. I was ready to send in the bots, but it wasn't necessary," Stark broke the silence, filling a glass with whiskey. "By the way, is there something you want to give me?"
Tony meaningfully extended his hand.
A synthesized snort came from the helmet.
"Do I owe you something?"
"You kind of broke our agreement and gave the inhaler to a third party," Stark didn't lower his hand, insistently demanding his due.
"I'd like to see you in that situation," I countered. "He was insanely strong, and I doubt I could have resisted a monster like that. It was brutal. And I can't give you the technique—not because I don't want to, but because I literally can't. My hand refuses to write, my throat closes up like a vice. Besides, it's not for people like us. At this stage, I won't be 'cultivating' it... God, what a weird word."
Stark lowered his hand, his interest piqued.
"Not for people like us?"
"Rational ones," I explained. "Those who prefer doing what they want instead of suffering and putting their lives at risk for potential power. But even if you do everything the technique says, without some trick or loophole, we'd likely die. I think Stick didn't give me the 'Level 0' of the technique, which would explain how to..."
My speech was abruptly cut off; my throat spasmed, and my tongue went numb. I had to pause, gasping for air.
"Dammit, I wasn't even trying to say it, just hinting indirectly."
Stark gave me a strange look.
"Alright, forget it. What do you think about the Ancient One?"
"I don't know, but it feels like she isn't quite the 'positive character' in the grand scheme of things that we've been led to believe."
"Noticed that too," Tony nodded, taking a sip. "Despite her existence, plenty of horrific events in human history still happened: the Vietnam War, the Nanking Massacre, Rwanda..."
"Sir, your guests have arrived," Jarvis's smooth voice interrupted our thoughts.
A minute later, the elevator doors slid open. Two men entered the living room: a tall Black man with an eyepatch in a leather trench coat, and Clint Barton, hanging slightly back.
Fury swept a heavy gaze over those present.
"Why is he here, and why did you call me under absolute secrecy?"
Stark grinned widely.
"Actually, he asked me to call you, and I found his request reasonable. Besides, I get a percentage out of this."
Fury turned an inquisitive look toward me. There was no point in stalling.
"I have the names of Hydra members. At least all the major players."
Pausing, I added with a touch of irony:
"Interested?"
Before answering, the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. caught a glimpse of his own hand. The ring on his finger glowed a steady, calm green, meaning there was no immediate threat to his life.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Asking for money from the head of such an organization seemed foolish—it's far more profitable to keep such a player in your debt. A favor for a favor. But Fury's reliability as a debtor was questionable. One got the feeling this man would easily step over any obligation for his goals. So, better to take a symbolic payment now. Not that I needed the money, but I didn't want to just give the info away for free.
"Money. Let's start with 20 million."
Stark, standing by the bar, suddenly coughed, masking the word:
"Low."
"I mean, 50 million."
Stark broke into another coughing fit.
"100 million."
This time, Tony calmly took a sip from his glass, his entire demeanor suggesting the price was fair.
Fury shot the billionaire a blistering look, then turned back.
"You want money? Hydra is an organization that has sunk its teeth into humanity. You have a duty to provide this information. It's your debt as a member of society—to act for the common good."
The attempt at shaming didn't work; it only annoyed me.
"200 million," I stated. "You know, it's funny hearing that I owe you anything."
Hawkeye tensed, his body becoming a coiled spring ready for an attack.
"To me, Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. are the same thing," I continued, standing up. "Organizations that stand above governments and do whatever they please. You answer to no one; no one controls you. All I know about S.H.I.E.L.D. through words is that it protects Earth from extraordinary threats. But what do I know in reality? It's an organization founded after WWII, and one of its key figures was Alexander Pierce, the current head of Hydra. So it turns out that, essentially, after the war, Hydra just did a rebranding and renamed itself. Only the fact that they were somehow wary of you makes me have this conversation."
Fury remained silent for several seconds.
"I see. I'm ready to pay, but where are the guarantees that these names are real? Where did you even get them?"
"I think Stark can be the guarantor of this deal."
Tony confirmed:
"He got this information from the leader of the Hand, so all the agent names are genuine."
Fury shot a look at Barton. This hadn't been in the report, as Clint had left the battlefield before the interrogation began. The data gap was irritating, but now wasn't the time for an inquest.
The Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. sighed heavily.
"Fine. It seems we started off on the wrong foot... Diego."
The name hung in the silence.
Inside my helmet, I turned toward Stark. He simply shook his head, signaling he hadn't said a word.
I had to take off the mask.
"I don't believe you just said a random name and hit the bullseye. So, you really know who I am. Not that it changes much, but purely out of curiosity: how did you find out?"
"Ever since the event at the port, we started an investigation and found video footage from Harlem where the Abomination attacked you," Fury replied in an even tone.
A disappointed sigh escaped me.
"Fine, whatever. But why tell me? You lost an excellent potential leverage point. It wouldn't have worked on me, but still?"
"It was a step back on my part," Fury replied. "Each of us does what we think is necessary, and right now our goals align. It's stupid to fight over some money."
Thinking for a second, I nodded.
"The price is back to 100 million."
"I'll transfer the funds to the Stark Foundation."
I pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him.
Before accepting it, Fury glanced at the ring on his finger. It didn't change color, remaining green. That meant there was no poison or anything dangerous on the paper.
He unfolded the list and scanned the lines. Some names matched those in his own notebook, but there were far more here. It made Fury tense up. There were names of people he had worked with for decades.
The Director's face darkened. Without another word, he turned and headed for the exit.
When the door closed behind them, Tony offered his opinion:
"Well, that was an interesting meeting. Are you upset that he knows who you are?"
"I have a feeling everyone already knows who I am. So what's the use in worrying? I wasn't exactly clinging to a secret identity."