Over the course of the three months Tony Stark was imprisoned, Leander Hayes, or Leo, had tirelessly used the common metals from the scrap warehouse to fuel his cultivation. His Steel Bars enhancement had increased by a noticeable 34%.
This increased density brought a physical consequence: his body weight was climbing rapidly. Despite being only 1.27 meters tall, he now weighed nearly 40 kilograms—the density of his internal structure was beginning to surpass that of pure steel.
Even more startling was the change in his digestive system. He was keenly aware that his stomach had transformed from a typical organic boiler into a high-capacity smelting furnace.
All food was processed at an alarming rate, converted into raw energy to maintain the high metabolic demands of his internal cultivation. To keep up, Leo now consumed an entire box of high-calorie snacks daily, simply to stave off exhaustion.
He glanced at the calendar. "It should be about time," he muttered. The timelines were aligning.
Tony Stark emerged from the cave mouth, encased in the monstrous, crude shell of the Mark I armor. A large contingent of terrorists had anticipated his move; over a dozen rifles were already aimed at the entrance.
The moment the massive steel figure appeared, it was engulfed in a storm of hundreds of bullets. The kinetic impact slammed against the armor, momentarily paralyzing Tony.
When the volley ceased, the armor was dented but intact. Tony raised his massive gauntlets. "My turn," he growled.
Two enormous pillars of fire erupted from the arms. The flames, fueled by the salvaged rocket propellant, incinerated everything in their path—the frantically howling militants and, crucially, the enormous cache of Stark Industries weapons surrounding the cave entrance.
The temperature soared. The area instantly became a sea of fire, reducing the immediate attackers to ash.
The fighting was not over. Two hundred meters away, a heavy machine gun opened fire, the huge, armor-piercing rounds hammering the Mark I. The constant, brutal impact made movement excruciating. Worse, a direct hit to his lower leg destroyed the exposed gear-driven conveyor belt, seizing his right leg.
The heat intensified. Munitions began to explode nearby. Tony knew the small missiles scattered around the perimeter were becoming unstable.
Time to go.
Tony activated his final escape mechanism: a modified jet and engine salvaged from a small rocket, rigged for a rapid ejection flight.
Just as the Mark I blasted upward out of the valley, a colossal secondary explosion ripped through the mountain, detonating the entire ammunition depot. The sheer force of the shockwave provided a final, powerful push, rocketing the Mark I further into the desert sky.
Having exhausted its primitive fuel, the armor lost power and plummeted into the desolate Afghan sand.
Tony's body was half-buried. The Mark I, its mission gloriously accomplished, was a smoldering wreck.
He struggled, removing the ruined mask. His mouth was bloody, his neck lacerated. He stared up at the clear, vast sky—the sun he hadn't seen for two months. "Not bad," he muttered, a grim acceptance in his voice.
He forced himself out of the wreckage, assessed his injuries, and began walking.
Four agonizing hours followed. The nearly 40-degree Celsius desert heat was relentless. Tony's dehydration was severe. His right arm, injured in the landing, was bleeding heavily.
Exhausted, Tony kept running, driven solely by Ethan's final words: "Cherish life. Don't waste it." With every kilometre, his understanding of war and peace, the real cost of his business, was brutally rewritten.
As the sun began to set, staining the sand deep orange, Tony staggered over a dune.
Two helicopters suddenly roared overhead.
"Hey!" He weakly waved his left arm, screaming against the roar of the engines.
They were military helicopters—Rhodes's rescue team.
Tony's legs buckled beneath him. He sank to his knees in the yellow sand, his left hand raising two fingers high in a tired, desperate gesture.
It was the same pose he had struck in the military jeep, joking with the soldier who later died protecting him. "Peace. If there's peace, I lose my job!" he had joked then.
Now, a genuine, profound wish rose from his soul: "I love peace."
Colonel Rhodes, who had flown the same grid pattern daily for three months, rushed out and embraced Tony. "Next time, you will ride in the same car with me," Rhodes promised, holding his friend tightly.
Tony fell into Rhodes's arms, laughing weakly, the ordeal finally over.
Pepper Potts also received the news. She covered her mouth, a sudden, overwhelming sob escaping her lips as she collapsed onto her desk, tears of pure relief flooding her vision. No one knew the pressure she had carried, the fear she had suppressed. Tony was coming home.
On May 4, 2008, a military transport plane landed at a U.S. military base.
Pepper and Happy Hogan waited anxiously.
The hatch opened. Pepper stared at the figure being helped down the ramp by Rhodes, her already swollen eyes reddening again. Tony, favoring his injured right arm, was walking slowly.
Pepper smiled through her tears. She had never missed anyone so intensely.
Tony's face was still bruised, but his eyes were locked on Pepper. "Your eyes are red. Missed your boss, did you?"
"I'm happy," Pepper retorted, her voice thick. "It saves me the trouble of looking for a new job."
"Yeah, the vacation is over." Tony got into the awaiting car with Happy.
"Where to, sir?" Happy asked.
"Hospital! Happy!" Pepper interjected immediately.
"Absolutely not going to the hospital," Tony said, meeting Pepper's gaze. "I refuse all medical intervention. I've been locked up for three months. I only want to do three things: first, eat a cheeseburger, and second..."
Pepper quickly averted her eyes, a blush creeping up her neck. "You're still the same lecherous idiot!"
"It's not what you think. Second, I want to hold a press conference."
Pepper looked puzzled. "A press conference? Why, Tony? Your health—"
"Three things, Pepper. The third: find that kid from Asia. Happy's met him. Now, Happy, drive. Cheeseburgers first."
The car started moving. Pepper looked completely confused. "Hogan, what child? Where did that child come from?"
Happy, gripping the steering wheel, swallowed hard. "Uh... the really short one, Miss Potts. The one who gave the boss that weird little metal thing."
It was a perfectly comfortable weekend in New York. Jenny was working overtime, Uncle George was busy in the garage, and even Peter Parker, Leander's favorite playmate, was at the amusement park with Aunt May.
Leander's phone chimed. It was an instant message from his local gaming and model-making group chat.
"Leo, how did you know Tony Stark was back? I just saw on the news they're setting up a massive press conference right now!"
Leander smiled. Perfect timing.
He quickly typed a reply. "Okay, send me the exact location. I promise I'll make you that custom model first."
Leander slung his familiar, slightly denser backpack over his shoulder. The silver mask was already in place, melted seamlessly into the lining.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk and hailed a passing taxi.
"To this address," he said, sliding a folded note across the partition. "Quickly, please. It's urgent."
The taxi pulled away, rushing the small, 40-kilogram boy toward the place where the world was about to change: the highly anticipated, impromptu press conference of the returned Tony Stark.