After the three demons of earth, water, and wind departed, the small bar fell into silence once more.
Blackheart turned to leave—but suddenly stopped.
A cold, decayed, yet eerily familiar pressure pressed against his back, as if countless icy fingers were crawling up his spine.
Slowly, he turned his head. His pupils contracted sharply—
At some point, a figure had appeared in the shadows of the bar's corner.
It was an old man: gray-haired, gaunt, and tall, clad in a perfectly tailored black suit that lent him an air of elegance and nobility.
He leaned on a cane crowned with a crystal skull, his knuckles tapping lightly against its top, producing a soft tap… tap… tap.
Beneath the dim light, his face appeared gentle—almost kindly—as though he were a benevolent elder offering comfort.
Yet the one who stood before Blackheart was none other than Mephisto, Lord of Hell.
Blackheart's expression darkened instantly, his face ashen as iron.
Mephisto, still leaning on his cane, stepped forward slowly. His voice was low and refined, like that of a poet reciting an ancient verse:
"My child… you shouldn't be here."
Blackheart refused to be cowed. He stepped forward in turn, locking eyes with Mephisto and sneering:
"So? Are you here to drag me back? This is the human world—not your hell! What can you possibly do to me… Father?"
Mephisto merely shook his head and sighed.
"Alas… You remain as childish and foolish as ever, my demon prince. I've come only to offer you a chance. Return with me to Hell now, and I may forgive your… antics this time."
His tone was dismissive, as if Blackheart's rebellion were nothing more than a child's tantrum.
"Forgive?!"
Blackheart's voice surged, sharp and furious. The temperature in the bar plummeted. The remaining glasses on the wine cabinet shattered with a sharp crack.
"Spare me your condescension. I don't need your forgiveness! Once I claim the power of the thousand evil spirits bound in the San Venganza Contract, we'll see who begs for mercy—you or me!"
A flicker of pity—and something colder—passed through Mephisto's eyes. He advanced slowly, his polished leather shoes crunching over the broken glass.
"It seems you still fail to grasp your place," he said softly. "You are merely an ornament—one easily replaced. What I grant you is yours. But you cannot take what I do not give.
And the human world… is no place for you to meddle in."
Blackheart let out a bitter laugh, his eyes blazing with undisguised ambition.
"Even if I have meddled—what then? Tell me, Mephisto! If you dared descend into the mortal realm in your true form, perhaps I'd fear you.
But do you dare? Do you dare manifest your true self within the Supreme Mage's domain?!"
Mephisto's smile faded, replaced by an unsettling stillness.
He raised his cane slightly and tapped its tip against the floor.
Bang!
A wave of unnatural energy erupted outward. The entire bar shuddered violently, as though struck by an earthquake.
The walls were cracked; dust fell from the ceiling, and the shriveled corpses on the ground began to writhe, as if trying to rise again.
Boom—!
Blackheart refused to be outdone. His black robe fluttered in the wind as dark mist poured from his body. Within the mist, countless distorted faces could be faintly seen, wailing in agony.
Two invisible forces collided and violently compressed the narrow space, causing the bar to collapse. The wine cabinet and nearby tables and chairs were crushed into powder.
The air between the two figures twisted and warped, as though it might tear space itself apart at any moment.
Yet just as the conflict threatened to escalate, Mephisto abruptly held back his power and said, grudgingly:
"In the human world, I truly can't do anything to you—but my knights might."
Blackheart likewise restrained his aura, wary of drawing the attention of the Supreme Mage.
At Mephisto's threat to summon his knights, the Blackheart Demon's expression darkened. He sneered bitterly:
"Ghost Rider? That pathetic creation forged from the dregs of Hellfire's power?
Go ahead—send him! I'll bury him with my own hands… and then I'll bury you!"
Mephisto merely stared at him in silence, then turned and walked into the shadows, his form gradually fading away.
Blackheart glared at the spot where he'd vanished, his fists clenched until they creaked. Through gritted teeth, he muttered:
"We'll see, Mephisto…"
The bar fell silent once more, the wreckage on the floor the only evidence of the confrontation.
————
Meanwhile, in the underground laboratory beneath the Long Island villa in Manhattan, New York, a blue-and-white holographic projection hovered in the darkness.
Tony Stark stood before the workbench, his fingers dancing across the virtual interface as the Iron Man suit's structure continuously reconfigured and optimized beneath his touch.
"Sir, the identities of the two young men you requested have been compiled," JARVIS announced, his tone calm and precise.
Tony paused, then waved a hand to dismiss the hologram. He turned toward the main console and said, "Alright. Let's pull them up and take a look."
Two files appeared on the central screen. On the left was Damian's profile:
A young man with a handsome face—serious in expression but possessing a strangely naive demeanor. His background was spotless, almost boring: an international student with excellent grades, no criminal record… and reportedly a virgin?
Tony glanced at it, then looked away with mild disinterest. He arched an eyebrow and remarked, "I expected something more… compelling."
The file on the right belonged to Peter Parker. Tony's eyes settled on the photo.
This was the same young man who'd flipped a car with one hand—yet in his ID photo, he wore only a shy, ordinary smile.
"Midtown High School student. 4.0 GPA. Two-time science fair champion. Both parents deceased. Lives with his aunt and uncle. Financial situation—tight."
Tony murmured the details aloud, swiping his finger across the screen. His brow furrowed slightly as he read the family background section.
The records contained no indication that Peter Parker possessed any special abilities—not even above-average athletic performance.
Tony narrowed his eyes and tapped his fingers lightly against the table.
"JARVIS, are you sure you didn't miss anything?"
"No, sir. All public records and accessible private databases have been thoroughly searched. Peter Parker's file shows no evidence of unusual physical or supernatural capabilities."
JARVIS's response was unequivocal—and Tony trusted his AI's capabilities implicitly.
He stood, walked over to the coffee machine, poured himself a cup, and stared thoughtfully into the dark brown liquid.
After a slow sip, he spoke in a casual tone that carried unmistakable gravity:
"Keep monitoring both of them—especially the boy named Peter Parker. I want real-time tracking and alerts for any anomalies that don't fit his profile."
"Shall I activate satellite surveillance, sir?"
Tony shook his head. "Not yet. Start with social media, campus security feeds, and street-level cameras."
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