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Fury paced the bare patch of dirt where the RV had stood minutes before. Once. Twice. He scanned the ground like a bloodhound. No skid marks. No dust trail. The vehicle hadn't driven off or cloaked. It had simply vanished.
He wheeled on May. "You planted the tracker?"
May hunched over her receiver, expression cold. "Of course."
A beat later, she frowned and smacked the device against her palm. "That's… not right."
Fury leaned in. His eye narrowed at the blinking coordinates. "Afghanistan? Don't tell me Austin went from in front of us to Afghanistan."
May's jaw tightened. "All I can say, sir, is the tracker was there. Either the receiver's fried, or he really is in Afghanistan."
Off to the side, Coulson hesitated. "Sir, remember earlier? The bone-spur enhanced? Disappeared mid-transport. You don't think… that was Austin too?"
Fury exhaled hard, rubbing his temple. "Let's hope not. Otherwise, next time I'm not bringing peanuts and beer—I'm bringing armor-piercing rounds."
His other hand closed around the corroded drive in his pocket. "Get logistics here. Sweep the ground. I want to know how Austin pulled this off."
Coulson dialed ops, smirking faintly. "Looked a lot like a wormhole to me."
Fury's glare could've drilled through steel. Laugh it up, Phil. This is my migraine, not yours.
He pulled the ruined drive and shoved it into Coulson's hand. "Fix this. Nobody looks inside. Level Ten eyes only."
Coulson stiffened, then nodded gravely. "Yes, sir."
May glanced sidelong at the drive. The gift Austin had handed Fury. She wasn't buying the "Afghanistan" reading—not yet. Nobody jumped continents like that.
Afghanistan.
Li Feng sprawled across the roof of the RV, groaning under the desert sun. Half a day gone before he remembered—different time zone. Still morning here.
He drained the last of his beer and tossed the bottle into the sand. Inside, he unfolded a map. His finger tapped a city: Portland. Mild climate. Rivers. Coastline. Quiet.
Perfect place to train.
But first, paranoia. Fury had sat in this RV. That alone meant checks. Circling the chassis, Li Feng's senses swept the panels until—there. Tracker nestled against the undercarriage. He plucked it free, flicked it into the sand, and whistled as he climbed back in. A twist of the sling ring, portal flaring—seconds later, the RV barreled through. Destination: Portland.
The next day, a S.H.I.E.L.D. chopper cut across Afghan sky. Coulson dropped onto the sand, tracker pinging in his hand. Easy enough to recover. What caught his eye, though, was the empty bottle glinting nearby.
He crouched, sparking recognition. Same brand he'd bought with Fury. He slipped it into an evidence bag. If prints matched Austin's, then yes—he had leapt continents.
A man who could hypnotize with a snap and travel anywhere on Earth at will? Surveillance was one thing. Capture? Fantasy.
Portland, Oregon. Wind clawed across the rocky coast.
Li Feng parked the RV beneath scrubby trees, camouflaged with branches. Empty horizon. Good.
He hauled out scrolls of demon sorcery and the Ancient One's modified spells. Then he stepped into the woods and unfolded the Mirror Dimension.
The sealed scroll unfurled. In one hand he held the box—angel feather fragment still potent. With the other, he broke the wards.
The demon tore free, ragged and snarling, limbs ruined. He strained instinctively for Hell—but here, in the mirrored prison, the tether was severed.
Li Feng dangled the box lightly, smiling. "Easy, old man. No hotline home. Just you and me. So—talk."
The demon scanned the fractured horizon, then sagged. Survival was possible, maybe, if he played along. "My true name is long," he rasped, "but you may call me… Dobby. And you, master wizard?"
Li Feng's smirk didn't waver. Names had power. He wasn't about to hand his over. "Jerry."
"Jerry," the demon echoed with a grin full of teeth. "What do you desire?"
He tried to sit up, power currents stirring—but broken limbs failed him. He grimaced. "At least help me rise. It's indecent to address a master while prone."
Li Feng's lip curled. He'd already felt the magic flare. "Still scheming? Planning to snare me the second I lean close?"
He cracked the box. Energy seared outward, burning the demon's flesh like acid.
The thing screamed, rolling across mirrored ground. "Stop! Please, master—!"
Li Feng tilted his head, amused. "Pathetic. Louder—I enjoy the sound."
He stepped closer, box still open. "Still thinking of escape?"
"No! No more!" the demon cried, eyes wild with terror. "Master—I submit. I swear myself your servant. Just… close the box."
Li Feng shut the lid. The demon collapsed, skin blistered, chest heaving.
"And how do you prove this loyalty?" Li Feng asked, voice flat.
"A binding pact," the demon wheezed. "A slave contract. If I betray you, my soul burns."
Li Feng's eyes gleamed. He tossed down a blank scroll and pen. "Then start writing. Every spell you know."
The demon stared at his mangled hands. "Master… I cannot write. Mend me with a spark of power, or… let me dictate while you record."
Li Feng's mind clicked sharp. He remembered the Ancient One's warning—demons wove traps into contracts, into words themselves. Dictation could be slavery with a single wrong phrase.
Not this time.
He tightened his grip on the box, eyes narrowing.
Lesson clear: never let a demon set the terms.
Dobby begged for power to mend his limbs. Li Feng's only thought was: heal him, and he'll know exactly what runs through my veins. Too dangerous.
Instead, Li Feng tapped the wooden box threateningly. "Cut the chatter. Use your mouth. Bite the pen and write. Or I'll shop for a new demon. You're not special."
The demon froze. Write with my teeth? He'd met arrogant magi, cautious magi—but never one paranoid enough to deny him his own hands. And the more cautious the master, the slimmer his chance of escape.
The box creaked open, searing light spilling out. Dobby grimaced, fury twisting into resignation. He clamped the pen between his fangs and scrawled, crooked and clumsy.
Li Feng glanced at the ugly script and smirked, chewing a biscuit. Perfect. If anyone ever insults my handwriting, I'll show them this scroll.
Page by page, the demon filled the parchment. He knew more spells than the plague demon had—no surprise, given he'd once served Naberius. But his mind was a snare of schemes.
Whenever Li Feng leaned over, sneering corrections, he cracked the box wide, letting the false angel feather's power corrode the air. Dobby's screams echoed until he was barely breathing. Only then did Li Feng shield himself—against both the stench and a last-ditch strike.
He crouched, palm up. A sickly green flame bloomed.
Dobby's eyes went wide. Plaguefire. The tar-blaze of plague demons.
"Write it properly," Li Feng snarled.
Truth was, he could only hold it seconds before his lungs gave. But the demon didn't know that. All he saw was a wizard who'd mastered demonic arts, who would catch every trap. Better to bury loopholes deep.
Three days later, Dobby was wrecked. Mouth numb from biting the pen, body raw from repeated searings. But every spell he knew was on the scroll.
At last he croaked, "My noble master Jerry, the work is done. Shouldn't you bind me now, with the contract?"
Li Feng arched a brow. "What's this—you want out of the mirror dimension?"
The demon groveled. "Only a contract lets me serve you fully. A great master deserves a loyal attendant forever."
The flattery was polished, almost artful.
Li Feng approached with the box in one hand, sword in the other. He used the blade's tip to flatten the scrolls, scanning for traps. Then, without a word, he swung.
The demon's head struck the mirrored floor. From the corpse, a flame-like soul burst upward. Li Feng whispered the annihilation chant until the fire sputtered and died.
Only then did he gather the scrolls, open a portal, and step back into the real world.
The beach wind hit him first. He dumped the supplies into the RV, stripped, and dove into the sea. Three days of canned food, sweat, and demonic stench rinsed away in salt and foam. A quick wash of fresh water, clean clothes, and he felt human again.
Humming, he drove into town.
The locals knew him—the eccentric on the coast in the beat-up RV, who drifted in every so often for crates of long-lasting food. He greeted them with a smile, hiding scrolls heavy with forbidden knowledge in his satchel.
At the converted store, he pushed inside. "Robert! Two boxes of biscuits, two sacks of flour, fruit preserves, canned luncheon meat."
The burly shopkeeper rolled his eyes. "About time. Thought you'd finally eaten through the last haul."
Beside him stood a shy girl, maybe ten, gaze downcast until Robert nudged her forward. He ruffled her hair. "This one's mine now—adopted her last month. Cute, isn't she?"
Li Feng raised a brow. "If you're trying to make me want a daughter, maybe. If you're trying to marry me off to your niece, forget it."
Robert laughed—he'd tried before. Matchmaking, in America. Ridiculous. And the girl's name was Natasha. That alone was nightmare fuel.
Li Feng crouched, softening his tone. "What's your name, little one?"
The girl whispered, "Skye."
"Skye?" The name tugged at his memory, but he let it slide. He plucked a bobblehead dancer from the shelf and handed it over. "Here. First gift's on me."
Her eyes lit up. She looked to Robert, who nodded. Clutching it, she whispered, "Thank you, Uncle."
Li Feng patted her head and turned to Robert. "Load the goods into the RV. I'll be at the bar."
Robert chuckled, rolling his sleeves. "Busy, are you? All you do is stare at the ocean. Get a job. Settle down."
Li Feng waved him off, ignored the lecture, and strolled toward the bar—leaving Robert to his crates and Skye to her new treasure.
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