"It's a start," Tony muttered, staring at the holographic map of the Himalayas. "It's obscure, but it's a lead."
He tapped the screen. "Jarvis, contact the heads of the Anthropology and Archaeology departments at every Ivy League university. Tell them I'm establishing a grant. Fifty million dollars. The 'Stark Initiative for Ancient History.' The mandate is simple: organize an expedition to Nepal. Find any reference to 'Kamar-Taj' or 'The Ancient One.'"
"Fifty million dollars for a myth hunt, Sir?"
"It's pocket change," Tony dismissed. "These professors are used to fighting over scraps for carbon dating studies. Throw real money at them, and they'll dig up Atlantis if I ask them to."
It was the power of capital. Pure and simple.
Tony leaned back, satisfied. He had his contingency plans in motion. Project Iron Man. Project Hulkbuster. Project Ancient One. He was covering all the bases.
But the diary had more to say. And this time, it wasn't about magic or monsters. It was about him.
June 11 (Update)
You know, Tony Stark has a mouth on him. He's toxic. He's arrogant. But you have to respect the man.
He only becomes a true hero after he crawls out of hell. He sees his own weapons—the missiles he built to protect the good guys—being used by warlords and terrorists to slaughter innocents.
He watches his friend Yinsen die just to buy him time to power up the suit.
That's the moment the Playboy dies and the Hero is born. He realizes his legacy is blood. And he spends the rest of his life trying to wipe it clean.
It's tragic, really. The happy-go-lucky Tony Stark ends there. The weight of the world crushes him.
Tony read the words, and his breath hitched.
The first part—the insult about his "toxic mouth"—didn't even register. What froze him was the description of his weapons.
Warlords. Terrorists. Slaughtering innocents.
Tony Stark was a merchant of death, yes. But he sold to the United States military. He sold to allies. He sold to the "Good Guys." He had strict protocols. End-user certificates. Embargo lists. He slept at night because he believed he was providing the shield, not the sword.
"My weapons..." Tony whispered, his voice trembling with a rage that was colder than ice. "My weapons are being sold to terrorists?"
"Sir," Jarvis began cautiously. "Your export controls are rigorous. Every missile is accounted for."
"Are they?" Tony slammed his fist onto the desk, cracking the glass surface. "Read it, Jarvis! 'Used by warlords.' 'Slaughtering innocents.' Lucas knows the future! He knows the truth!"
"If my weapons are in the hands of the Ten Rings... then someone is selling them under the table."
"It could be secondary market sales, Sir. The military loses equipment..."
"No!" Tony roared. "You don't 'lose' a Jericho missile! You don't 'misplace' a crate of high-tech repulsor tech! This is systematic. This is internal."
He paced the room like a caged tiger.
"There is a traitor. Someone inside Stark Industries. Someone with clearance. Someone who can sign the manifests and cook the books."
His mind raced through the hierarchy of his company. It was a short list. Himself. Pepper. The Board of Directors.
And...
"Jarvis," Tony said, his voice dangerously calm. "Initiate a forensic audit. Deep dive. I want to see the personal finances of every executive board member. I want to see every shell company, every offshore account, every unexplained deposit."
"Including Obadiah Stane, Sir?" Jarvis asked the question that hung in the air like a guillotine.
Tony stopped.
Obadiah. Obi. The man who had picked him up from the funeral when Howard and Maria died. The man who had taught him how to tie a tie, how to fire a board member, how to run an empire. Obadiah was family.
"He's my godfather," Tony whispered. "He's the only family I have left."
But the diary had been right about everything else. It was right about the kidnapping. It was right about the danger.
And it said he had a "flawed mentor."
Tony closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
"Yes," Tony said, the word tasting like ash. "Include Obadiah. Check everything. If he bought a pack of gum in 1985, I want to know about it."
"And check the manufacturing plants," Tony added, his eyes snapping open. "I want to track every ounce of raw material. If there is a leak... I'm going to plug it. And then I'm going to burn the leak to the ground."
He looked at the diary again.
"He realizes his legacy is blood."
"Not yet," Tony vowed. "My legacy isn't written yet. If there's blood on my hands, I'm going to wash it off. But first... I'm going to find the bastard who put it there."