"So, there I was, in a dimly lit, sweltering kitchen, facing this man who was wielding what looked less like a cooking utensil and more like a prop from an ancient martial arts film," Zhou Yi recounted, sitting effortlessly at the head of the immense mahogany dining table. He raised his wine glass, the rich red liquid catching the soft overhead light, and offered a wry smile to the assembled group.
"I'm looking at this giant, curved chopper—a da dao in his hands—and he's got a full, freshly dressed Peking Duck carcass in front of him. I was thinking, 'My friend, you can't be serious about trying to process that delicate bird with a miniature executioner's sword.'"
"And then?" Ororo Munroe asked, her tone still measured and reserved, yet politely engaged. She maintained a composed, almost distant posture, carefully navigating a small, delicate sea bass dumpling from the chicken broth with her fork.
The contrast between her elegant, restrained manner and the psychic tension still lingering in the air of the villa was palpable.
"Then, in a motion that still defies all logic, he didn't just chop the bones; he sheared them, using only a tiny, precise edge of that behemoth blade, removing the entire skeletal structure in under forty seconds without touching the meat. He looked at my stunned face, wiped the blade on his stained apron, and said, in the most profoundly broken English, 'You see? No hard. Very easy. Is only confidence.'"
Zhou Yi mimicked the chef's accent with a theatrical flourish, earning a round of appreciative chuckles.
Jean Grey, seated directly across from him, gave an immediate, effusive response that felt slightly overdone—an attempt to compensate for her earlier flight from the kitchen.
"But that's exactly your problem, Zhou Yi! You have the kinetic control; the skill is simply a matter of practice! You could clearly master that in an afternoon if you truly applied yourself. Your culinary prowess tonight is proof of that potential mastery."
Her endorsement was quick and too loud, a clear indicator to Zhou Yi that she was operating entirely on a superficial, social level, avoiding any genuine eye contact. Her gaze kept darting from the sumptuous golden-brown hazelnut-crusted lobster tails on her plate to the geometric perfection of the pan-fried beef dumplings.
"Of course not!" Zhou Yi countered, accepting the misdirected praise with feigned awkwardness.
"I immediately ordered two whole, frozen geese for delivery, found the chef, and sheepishly admitted, 'Sir, I'm afraid I have precisely zero confidence. Would you perhaps consider demonstrating that impossibly difficult feat just one more time?'"
"A true manipulator, my brother," Sharice quipped, currently wrestling a generous portion of the lobster meat from its shell.
"That poor chef, another victim of your charming persistence, much like Mr. Franklin. But you're right, I'll take the lesson. Mr. Franklin—the only gentleman in a sea of mediocrity—is worth a hundred of those historical figures you always quote. Securing his favor is a masterstroke."
"Exactly, my dear sister. You are finally learning," Zhou Yi said, effortlessly deflecting her tease, his eyes twinkling. Sharice, as usual, quickly conceded the conversational battle and refocused her energy on the array of complex Chinese delicacies spread across the table.
The rest of the conversation proceeded in a similar vein: light, rapid-fire banter punctuated by the sounds of satisfied eating. Katie, Sharice's best friend, was visibly enamored with the perfectly constructed steamed shrimp dumplings, mumbling appreciative comments to Vivien Leigh as she savored them.
Even Pete, the quiet, muscular young man, betrayed his reserved nature with an almost reverent silence as he sampled the food, clearly understanding the level of craftsmanship involved. The dinner was a spectacular success, a delightful cultural exchange that momentarily smoothed over all interpersonal friction.
The meal finally ended, and the time for departure arrived. There were classes the next morning, and both Ororo and Jean, in their capacity as chaperones, were firm believers in maintaining the X-Mansion's strict curfew.
Zhou Yi walked the group to the massive front doors. His farewell to the students was jovial and warm. When it came to the two powerful women, the farewell was charged.
Jean Grey was the first to distance herself, offering a quick, formal "Thank you, Zhou Yi, the food was exquisite. We must go," before slipping quickly into the passenger seat of the luxury SUV. She avoided any prolonged proximity, confirming her absolute resolve to maintain the psychic and emotional firewall she had re-erected.
Ororo, however, paused. She met his gaze directly, a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps annoyance, perhaps confusion, certainly a calculated restraint—in her bright eyes.
Zhou Yi didn't speak, merely allowed his eyes to communicate a silent, lingering request for her to stay. She responded with a dismissive, eloquent roll of her eyes, a non-verbal message that screamed 'Not tonight, after the chaos you clearly caused.' She turned sharply and slid into the driver's seat.
As the large vehicle pulled away, its taillights receding down the long, private drive, a profound silence descended upon the vast villa.
Zhou Yi stood in the center of the echoing marble entrance hall, the scent of five-spice and hazelnut still clinging to the air, and felt the sudden, crushing weight of solitude. The brief, boisterous invasion had amplified the emptiness now left behind.
It was an isolation born not just of physical space, but of intense psychic exertion. The brief, frightening manifestation of the Phoenix power had drained him more than any physical combat could have, leaving him physically and mentally raw.
He walked back into the dining room, surveying the wreckage—dishes piled high, napkins discarded, the remnants of a feast that had required hours of focused, kinetic power. The mess was almost symbolic of his life: brief, brilliant moments of connection followed by the immediate, mundane necessity of cleaning up the aftermath alone.
He briefly entertained the idea of hiring a private staff—a dedicated butler, a few maids. The thought was instantly dismissed with a bitter taste of reality. People like Tony Stark or the old-money families of New York could hire staff whose loyalty was guaranteed by generations of family history, ensuring absolute secrecy.
Zhou Yi, a self-made man with secrets capable of causing geopolitical collapse, had no such foundation. He couldn't risk having any stranger privy to the complex workings of his home, his basement laboratory, or his true capabilities. The very idea of an outsider near his systems was an unacceptable security risk. In this dangerous new world, self-reliance was the only reliable form of security.
Sighing at the impracticality of domestic help, Zhou Yi abandoned the mess for the time being. He collapsed onto the deep, soft leather of a sofa in the sitting room, exhaustion finally catching up with him. He reached for a pair of sleek, black-framed glasses resting on the coffee table—an interface tool.
He slipped them on, the lenses instantly projecting a clean, holographic blue interface directly onto his retina. This was his secure, low-power interface to Medusa, the AI.
"Medusa, run a deep search on Adamantium alloy," Zhou Yi commanded, his voice barely above a tired murmur.
The AI's response was immediate and articulate, drawing only from the compartmentalized data he had previously uploaded.
"The original Adamantium alloy was developed by Dr. Myron MacLain in the early 1940s, commissioned by the U.S. government. Its primary constituents are a Vibranium (vibration-absorbing metal) base combined with an undisclosed, unique extraterrestrial metal element, historically referred to as 'Adamantium' metal. The most famed example of this composite is Captain America's shield. This unique composite exhibits kinetic energy absorption, enhancing its durability. Critically, the original formula for this composite alloy has been lost, and Dr. MacLain was unable to replicate it."
Zhou Yi absorbed the information, his mind processing the historical data, then pressed for the second, more dangerous variant.
"What about the subsequent attempt?"
"Dr. MacLain's later attempts to replicate the composite failed due to the scarcity of the Vibranium base. Instead, he developed a secondary alloy, now officially designated as Adamantium alloy, or True Adamantium. This composition is predominantly the extraterrestrial Adamantium metal, mixed with carbon, titanium, and iron. Its properties are defined by its near-indestructible hardness, which is unmeasurable by conventional means."
Medusa continued, quoting from the experimental records provided by Tony Stark: "Initial shaping of this True Adamantium alloy is only possible at an extremely high temperature, 1500 degrees Celsius. Once solidified, the alloy cannot be liquefied or reshaped even when subjected to temperatures exceeding 500,000 degrees Celsius. Subsequent manipulation requires specialized equipment, such as a molecular rearrangement device, which is extremely rare."
"Affirmative. We can theoretically replicate the alloy based on our production conditions, provided the primary material, the extraterrestrial Adamantium metal, is sourced. Be advised: the formula is classified as a top-tier military secret, inherited from the Stark family archives. Use of this knowledge requires extreme caution."
Zhou Yi pinched the bridge of his nose, the headache from the recent psychic duel intensifying. "Medusa, is it possible for my organization to procure a significant quantity of raw Adamantium metal?"
"Adamantium metal is primarily of meteoritic origin, with concentrated deposits noted in specific regions of Africa. Currently, all known reserves of the raw metal are designated as strategic military supplies, under the absolute control of global defense agencies. There is no commercial market access, regardless of financial capital."
The answer was concise, accurate, and deeply frustrating.
Zhou Yi knew why this metal was so crucial. It was one of the few things in the world that could pose a true physical threat to him. His enhanced abilities—his reflexes, strength, and kinetic defenses—made him virtually untouchable. But any weapon crafted from True Adamantium could bypass his kinetic shields and inflict a wound that would take time, and considerable power, to heal.
His mind flashed back to the tense confrontation with Jean Grey. The real problem was not Scott Summers—the man was predictable and largely non-threatening to Zhou Yi's aspirations. The problem was the inevitable rival, the future contender for Jean's affection who was encased in that very metal: Logan.
A mutant with an unbreakable skeleton and six retractable claws of True Adamantium, combined with a potent healing factor, was a nightmare opponent.
Zhou Yi's superhuman reflexes might allow him to predict the man's teleportation-like lunges, but a split-second miscalculation—a single deep gash from those Adamantium claws—would be a devastating wound, a permanent reminder of his vulnerability.
Zhou Yi had to admit the strategic threat posed by Logan was immense, not just romantically, but physically. He needed an equalizer. Adamantium armor was a theoretical, impractical solution, consuming too much time and resources away from his more critical nanomaterial projects.
The best, most immediate option was an Adamantium weapon. As a self-proclaimed master swordsman, having a blade of unbreachable material would equalize any engagement.
But the metal was simply unobtainable.
Frustrated and isolated, Zhou Yi decided to tap into his only reliable source for bypassing military red tape: Tony Stark. Tony, currently navigating the nexus of military contracts, technological innovation, and celebrity, was the only person with the necessary influence.
He initiated a direct channel. The call connected instantly, but the voice that answered was not the flippant, arrogant tone of his friend.
"This is Jarvis, Mr. Zhou Yi. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Zhou Yi glanced at the projected time: 9:40 PM. Too early for Tony to be asleep, too late for serious work. He immediately sensed the familiar distraction.
"Jarvis, where is Tony? I need to contact him immediately. This is not a social call."
"Mr. Stark is currently attending a private, closed-door engagement hosted by Universal Pictures in downtown Manhattan," Jarvis replied, his voice maddeningly polite.
"The evening is scheduled for 'discussing investment opportunities and casting the female lead for an upcoming director's project.' He has, by his own request, disabled all personal communication devices and blocked all calls. I can, however, contact Mr. Hogan to interrupt him, if the matter is deemed life-threatening or financially critical."
Zhou Yi allowed himself a quiet moment of internal criticism. Discussing investment and casting, right. He knew exactly what that meant: Tony was using the pretense of Hollywood business to impress a particularly desirable actress, which would inevitably lead to one of Tony's notorious "in-depth interviews."
Zhou Yi silently cursed Tony's priorities. Not only was his friend distracted by frivolous pursuits, but he had failed to invite his so-called 'best friend' to the party.
It was pointless to press the issue now.
"No, Jarvis. It's not critical, but it is time-sensitive," Zhou Yi conceded. "Leave him a simple, non-negotiable message. When he surfaces, tell him I need him to leverage his contacts and procure a usable quantity of raw Adamantium metal. I'm attempting to manufacture some… small tools, and the military lockdown is proving difficult to penetrate. Ask him how he can facilitate this acquisition. That is all."
"Understood, Mr. Zhou Yi. The message will be conveyed immediately upon Mr. Stark's return to a network-enabled location. Good evening, and goodbye."
Zhou Yi leaned his head back against the cool leather, the rum warm in his stomach. He raised his glass to the empty room.
"To the endless complexities of a dangerously simple life," he murmured, finishing the drink in a single, defiant gulp. Alone in his silent, secure, yet strangely empty fortress, the strategic search for the ultimate weapon had begun.