"Alright, buddy, looks like you don't want to hear this. Just hope you can still pick up a gun when the time comes."
Nick Fury glanced at the bullet hole in his leg, grimaced, and fell silent.
He grabbed a piece of toast from the table and stuffed it in his mouth.
"Get out. Don't ruin my family time."
Frank issued his eviction notice. Unwelcome guests didn't deserve much courtesy.
…
"What is this place? Why's there a mage?"
Tony eyed Bulkathos, unable to hold back his curiosity any longer.
Typically, Tony's questions got answers—only the timing varied.
Bulkathos grabbed a bottle of red wine from the shelf, snapped off the neck, and took a swig.
The sour, bitter taste made him wince. If he didn't hate wasting food, the wine would've gone down the toilet.
It was supposedly a thousand-year-old vintage from a monastery, courtesy of Ancient One.
Forget the age—it tasted like spoiled juice with a bitter edge.
"This is just a simple blacksmith shop. Want something? I can make it custom."
Bulkathos beckoned Assassin Monkey to perch on his shoulder. The monkey, adjusting to its new body, needed time. Keeping it close saved cleaning up later.
Its combat skills weren't something street thugs could handle.
"Where you headed?"
Tony slid off the skull-adorned hood of the truck, shouting after Bulkathos.
The vehicle wasn't like normal cars—its hood wouldn't budge easily, or at all, without serious strength.
Tony clearly lacked the muscle.
If he didn't satisfy his curiosity today, he'd be up all night. So he pressed for Bulkathos's destination.
"Strolling downtown."
Bulkathos answered casually, locking the shop door with a chain and heading toward the city center without looking back.
Since encountering Auriel's power, he felt the other archangels might've chosen their champions. A walk might yield surprises.
Archangels' ideals ensured they wouldn't stay silent in a strange world.
"Sell that truck?"
Tony yelled after the retreating Bulkathos, getting no reply.
Maybe his voice was too soft to carry.
But then his phone rang.
"Tony, there's a military weapons demo you need to attend personally. You won't let Uncle Obadiah down, will you?"
Obadiah's tone was teasing but tense.
He was planning to seize full control of Stark Industries, but first, he needed to deal with Tony, who "knew too much."
"Sure, these things always need me. The Jericho missile's one of my prouder creations."
Tony sensed no issue. The military was a big client; showing up in person boosted orders.
For a scientist, satisfaction came from research or widespread recognition of their work.
Especially for someone as vain as Tony—why not seize a chance to show off?
Big flexes only mattered in front of high-status crowds.
After a brief call, Tony hopped into his car and headed to the company.
Though often flippant, he reined in his attitude for important matters.
He didn't get his answers, but he often brushed off visitors the same way. He had no room to complain about disrespect.
Most people respected his money, not him.
As the two left the smithy one after another, a vagrant with a tattered wooden sign shuffled to the shop's door.
After scanning the surroundings, he sat on the bench outside, staring at the bloodstains on the truck, lost in thought.
His scruffy stubble and tangled blonde hair gave him a weary look. A long trench coat hung awkwardly on his slight frame.
Just a vagrant—odd clothing wasn't unusual.
Bulkathos walked on, unbothered by the stares he drew.
Over two meters tall, burly, with a monkey clinging to his head, he was the most conspicuous figure on the street.
Soon, he reached the city center. In the distance, a massive man stepped out of a sedan.
A tailored suit concealed his bulk, but his size was unmistakable.
"Eek! Eek!"
Assassin Monkey grew uneasy at the sight. Bulkathos caught a whiff of mingled foulness.
Wilson Fisk, aka Kingpin.
His sins were countless. As New York's underworld emperor, he controlled nearly eighty percent of the city's criminal channels.
But his days had been rough lately.
First, his partners were hit by the Punisher. Then, most of his men were tailed by agents.
His top enforcer, Bullseye, vanished after a job, making Fisk wonder if he'd been betrayed or killed.
Worst of all, he couldn't get answers.
The big shots who took his money dodged him. Even personal visits yielded nothing.
This deaf-like isolation piled on the pressure.
No surprise—after his gang's ties to Hydra, the "big shots" sparing him was already generous for the profits he'd funneled.
"I know he's no saint, but you want me to just take him out?"
Bulkathos muttered to Assassin Monkey, loud enough but not reaching Fisk.
Fisk's strength, though hidden by fine clothes, didn't escape Bulkathos's eye.
Stronger than Luke Cage, his power exceeded what this world's mortals expected.
Bulkathos stepped toward Fisk. The man's aura didn't lie.
Killing him wouldn't be unjust.
"Eek!"
Assassin Monkey yanked his hair, urging restraint.
Fisk deserved death, but not too abruptly.
He controlled the dark side's order.
"Dark order? Crush it all."
Bulkathos quickened his pace. Clearing out small fry was just a matter of time.
Vasily, the first Immortal King's brother, was the druid Nephalem's ancestor.
Barbarians could commune with animals. As the strongest by blood, Bulkathos could roughly understand beasts' intentions.
"Eek!"
Assassin Monkey screeched ahead, wary.
Ancient One appeared with her dimensional space.
The monkey's keen senses picked up environmental shifts.
"Ah, Odin's quite interested in that matter. He's looking forward to meeting you."
Ancient One waved her butcher knife in greeting, its tip still bloodied.
"You forgot to stow your weapon. That guy doesn't seem easy to talk to?"
Bulkathos frowned at the blood. Power lingering in it reminded him of demons he'd faced.
"Just showing necessary force. Odin's a stubborn old man—convincing him takes effort."
Ancient One tucked the knife into her sleeve, smiling.
In Asgard's palace, Odin sat on his throne, wincing as Frigga treated a wound on his armor.
One of his sons stood before him, awaiting a routine report.
"Tyr, what's urgent enough for you to come in person?"
Odin was more relaxed with Tyr than Thor. Tyr knew he had no shot at the throne and cared little for power.
As Odin's steadiest child, he'd taken on responsibilities.
Like overseeing the Asgardians guarding the Nine Realms.
Routine reports usually went through Heimdall.
"Father, Dormammu's gone silent. As for that mad Titan descendant searching for something—should we investigate further?"
Tyr eyed his father's wound but said nothing extra.
As the Asgardian war god, his strength was formidable but lagged behind his reckless brother, the next king.
Even wielding any weapon skillfully, he couldn't best his younger sibling.
Let alone rival his father.
If Odin couldn't handle it, neither could he. Bringing it up was asking for trouble.
"Dormammu's dead, not a trace left. As for Thanos, just keep an eye on him."
Odin's wound healed swiftly under Frigga's care.
Sitting upright, he looked at his son, hesitating.
"Tyr, no issues with your sister, right?"
Odin's single eye clouded, thoughts drifting.
Hela, his daughter, wasn't someone he could feel nothing for.
She'd fought beside him across the Nine Realms. Even if she'd grown mad, he still cared.
"Balder's watching her. No problems so far."
Tyr's lone arm rested on his sword hilt, his severed one at his side.
He wasn't the only victim of Loki's pranks—Thor wasn't alone. Tyr and Fenrir suffered too.
Loki's trick on Fenrir cost Tyr his arm, offered as a pledge.
Fenrir lost face; Tyr lost a limb.
If not for Odin's protection, plenty in Asgard would've beaten Loki senseless.
Loki loved annoying people and reveled in it.
Weirder still, Thor seemed addicted to his mischief, never truly punishing him.
"Alright, tell Balder to keep watching. Remind him not to taunt his sister with his immortality. Hela doesn't need mistletoe to kill him."
Balder, Asgard's god of light.
Tall, but not imposing.
His overly round frame made him look like dough.
Odin's furrowed brow eased. As Asgard's ruler, he spent much time in slumber to delay death, hoping to lead at Ragnarök.
Not perish before it.
Asgard, guardian of the Nine Realms for millennia, wasn't just its famous figures.
Odin's main worry was his chosen heir, Thor, lacking his siblings' support—a pressing issue.
Thor's succession couldn't wait. Odin's immense power was starting to pain him. Without slumber, his time was ticking down.
"Is Vidar still watching Midgard?"
Frigga asked after Odin finished.
Vidar, god of forests, born of Odin and a giantess, wasn't Frigga's but she loved him dearly.
Only slightly less than Loki—the troublemaker always drew more attention.
"You know Midgard's the Supreme Mage's domain. Vidar's just idling in the woods."
Tyr's severed arm swung as he spoke.
"Enough. That's it for the Nine Realms. Thor's succession is soon—help him out."
Odin waved Tyr off. Tired, he needed rest before meeting the powerhouse Ancient One mentioned.
Tyr obediently left the palace. Once gone, Frigga asked Odin:
"Is the Supreme Mage that strong now?"
Frigga and Ancient One were old acquaintances.
"Dormammu's Dark Dimension is hers now. She's tougher than I was in my prime."
Odin spoke plainly. At full power, risking life, he could win.
But he wouldn't sacrifice his life for a fight. Besides, the Supreme Mage's strength was good for the Nine Realms.
Asgard had taken hits for ages. If she took the top spot after his death, all the better.
"I hoped Loki could take that role. Seems he's far off."
Frigga sighed. Ancient One's growing power dimmed her son's chances.
In the last Supreme Mage contest, Frigga lost handily to Ancient One, who claimed the title with ease.
Her spells subdued every eligible mage, including Frigga.
So Frigga pinned her hopes on Loki.
But Loki, learning magic from her, was nowhere near ready to challenge Ancient One.
"Loki's not fit for responsibility. Too erratic."
Odin shook his head, leaving the throne. He needed a brief nap to prepare. No matter how unmatched Ancient One's champion was, he'd show Asgard's kingly might.
…
On the Sacred Mountain, Bruce Wayne chatted with Rumlow. New to the place, casual talk was the best way to learn.
People relaxed during chats, letting tidbits slip.
The mountain's ancestors felt less reliable than Rumlow.
Humans seemed more trustworthy than ghosts.
"So, barbarians fight for justice?"
Wayne flashed a bright smile at Rumlow.
After brief small talk, he started probing purposefully.
"Look, buddy, I know you've got questions. Pass your first trial, and it'll all make sense."
Rumlow lay on the stone bed, eyes closed.
As a former agent, he saw through Wayne's intent. Wayne wasn't hiding it well.
He was still mulling over the recent realm battle.
Expecting huge gains from one realm was wishful thinking—Rumlow was never that lucky.
Maybe his luck ran out meeting Tarik, leaving just the Ancestor Bracers on his wrist.
But gear wasn't the only path to strength. Experience mattered just as much.
"I'm still thinking about that barbarian, Cassius. That fight wasn't his full strength."
Wayne's mind lingered on Cassius's flurry of attacks, captivated.
The restrained strikes, avoiding vitals, showed control.
"Sounds like I missed a good show."
By the time Rumlow arrived, the ancestors' scuffle was over. He'd missed it.
"You're not even qualified to watch. Think you can handle tougher training after seeing the ancestors embarrassed? Not all are as shameless as Kolik."
Tarik and Kolik appeared in the stone room. Tarik's tone carried a warning.
Most ancestors weren't petty, but Olongus was an exception.
He'd nearly buried a demon in stones over an insult.
Maddock was off training Luke, newfound enthusiasm sparked after resolving some inner turmoil.
He seemed eager to make up for lost time.
Matt had just entered Reko's first trial realm, unsure what he'd gain.
Having passed Reko's five realms, her first battle shouldn't be too tough.
Yet Matt was struggling.
Reko's first fight wasn't just demons—it was a war against the Samo Blade tribe for her people's survival.
Though allies were programmed projections, the chaotic battlefield was real.
Reko's debut was far more complex than the three ancestors'.
Enemies weren't just demons but humans of different tribes.
Her mastery of large-scale battlefields made her a pinnacle barbarian.
The five legendary sets were born from endless battlefields.
Surviving complex wars, barbarians grew immensely if they didn't die.
Those without war experience, even the strongest, fell short of the "three stooges"—Cassius's level at best.
"Fine, what do I do now? Keep swinging weapons outside?"
Rumlow addressed Tarik, dismissing small talk. Wayne, a stranger yet to commit to a trial, didn't merit his attention.
Wayne studied the sudden ancestors, observing.
Judging character by appearance meant little with barbarians.
Their traits overlapped heavily.
Loud, fearless, battle-loving—shared by all.
Even Vydia, the merchant, trained occasionally.
"Keep fighting. You can try another realm."
Tarik eyed Rumlow, pleased.
Rumlow's leadership qualities outshone his past heirs.
Tarik had chosen many, but most reverted to old ways and were crushed by him or died in battle. Now, only Rumlow mattered.
"Wayne, go outside. That girl's fight is nearly done."
Kolik addressed Bruce Wayne.
He now understood why the mountain highlighted Wayne. In this short time, Wayne had checked Jessica's trial repeatedly.
Even Luke Cage hadn't watched so closely, perhaps unwilling to see her die.
Yesterday's promised extra update got delayed…
Today, I'll definitely add more!
(Chapter End)
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