The day after his emancipation was a Saturday, and for the first time, Hawk woke up as a legally recognized adult. His first act as "Mr. Hawk" was a practical one: he took a bus to Queens, to the street across from Queensboro Bridge Park, and met a landlord.
His new apartment was waiting. Finding it hadn't been difficult. While good, cheap apartments were a myth in New York, merely cheap ones were abundant, especially for someone willing to overlook a few flaws. The landlord, a skeptical, weary man who had seen every kind of tenant, was initially hesitant to rent to a seventeen-year-old with no co-signer. But the moment Hawk produced the fresh, court-stamped emancipation document, the man's demeanor shifted from suspicion to business. When Hawk offered to pay six months of rent upfront in cash, the deal was sealed instantly. Keys were exchanged, a lease was signed, and just like that, Hawk had a fortress.
After the landlord left, he closed the door and surveyed his new domain. The apartment was, to put it generously, a box flattened by life. The carpets were old and worn, carrying the faint, ghostly scent of decades of other people's lives. The walls were mottled with age, and the living room was so small that a second-hand sofa and a folding table would turn it into a claustrophobic maze. The bedroom was no better; it was a space for a bed and little else.
But it was perfect. It had four walls, a locking door, and all the essential components for survival. Most importantly, tucked away outside the bedroom window, was the non-negotiable feature he had sought: a rusty, but sturdy, fire escape that led directly to the flat, open expanse of the building's rooftop. That was his training ground, his sanctuary, his connection to the stars.
He spent the next two days making it his own. His "furnishing" was spartan and practical. He threw out the old, stained mattress and bought a new, firm one—not for comfort, but for the deep, restorative sleep a warrior required. He replaced the yellowed, grime-caked showerhead in the bathroom. For two full days, he left the windows wide open, letting the crisp autumn air finally exorcise the lingering ghost of the previous tenant's love for curry.
During the deep cover of night, he made one other crucial move. He slipped out and made his way back to the ruins of his old block, retrieving his treasure from its hiding spot. He moved the five Chitauri energy weapons back to his new apartment, wrapping them in the old, discarded bedsheet and sliding them into the darkness under his new bed. His armory and his nest egg, hidden in plain sight.
By evening on the second day, a new routine was established. Just as before, he bought a simple meal—a hamburger and a cold cola—and made the familiar climb to the rooftop. He found a clean spot, sat down, and ate while gazing at the vast, star-dusted canvas overhead. As the stars in the heavens twinkled, he felt an answering glimmer from the universe within his own soul.
He had decided. He knew which of the forty-eight Bronze constellations he would claim first.
It would not be Pegasus, the symbol of miracles and the indomitable protagonist. Nor Cygnus, with its mastery of absolute zero, or Draco, with its legendary shield. He had considered them all, but in the end, his choice was dictated by the single, unwavering principle that had guided his entire life.
Survival. Not just winning a battle, but enduring the unendurable. And for that, there was only one answer.
Phoenix.
The constellations were more than just vessels of power; they were imprints of an ancient inheritance. By lighting a constellation, a Saint inherited its core attributes. And among all the Bronze constellations, none possessed an attribute as conceptually, game-breakingly powerful as the Phoenix. It was a power that even the legendary Gold Saints of the Zodiac did not possess.
A Phoenix does not die. It only rises from the ashes.
The core of the Dragon was ferocity and protection. The core of the Pegasus was miracles. The core of the Phoenix was immortality and rebirth.
In his memories of the old world's lore, this BUG-like power came with a heavy price. The conditions for becoming the Phoenix Saint were so impossibly strict that the constellation's seat was almost always empty. For eons, the Phoenix Cloth had no master. But this was the Marvel Universe. The throne was vacant, and he was the sole and undisputed claimant. The universe had handed him an unprecedented opportunity.
He would be a fool not to take it. His goal had never changed: to live, and if possible, to live comfortably, and for a very long time.
Having made his decision, he did not hesitate. He closed his eyes and focused inward, mobilizing the power he had claimed from the Chitauri invasion. Twelve brilliant, fourth-magnitude stars blazed within the darkness of his inner cosmos. Following the celestial map of the Phoenix constellation burned into his memory, he began the act of celestial engineering.
The Phoenix was composed of one second-magnitude star, two third-magnitude stars, and six fourth-magnitude stars. The math was simple. Two of his fourth-magnitude stars, burning together, collapsed into a single, brighter third-magnitude star. He repeated the process. Two newly formed third-magnitude stars then merged in a brilliant flash, forming one dazzling second-magnitude star.
He arranged them in the void, connecting the points of light. The proud, celestial firebird began to take shape. He took inventory. He had used four stars to make a third-magnitude, and another four to make the second-magnitude. That left him with four, but he needed six fourth-magnitude stars for the final parts of the constellation.
"Still two short," he murmured, a slight smile on his face. The constellation was largely complete, a radiant, burning outline of a phoenix, missing only the final stars to finish its tail.
Just then, he felt a strange ripple in his Cosmo. The phantom images of the other forty-seven Bronze constellations flickered around the nascent Phoenix, and he felt an unmistakable wave of what could only be described as resentful accusation. They were jealous.
Before he could process the bizarre sensation, the nearly-complete Phoenix seemed to assert its dominance. A silent, phantom cry of a celestial firebird echoed in his soul, filled with an unshakeable arrogance. The resentful whispers of the other 47 constellations instantly fell silent, fading back into dormancy. The proud Phoenix, chosen first, now hovered supreme in his inner universe, looking down upon the others. Look, it seemed to say. I am the coolest.
Hawk's mouth twitched. He left his inner universe and made his way back down to his apartment.
Later that night, lying on his new bed, he allowed himself to think about the next step. Lighting the constellation granted him the core attribute of immortality. But forging and wearing the Phoenix Cloth… that would unlock the constellation's true, devastating power. Its exclusive techniques.
He envisioned them. The Phoenix Genma Ken, the Phantom Fist. A mental attack that didn't just create illusions, but shattered the enemy's mind, trapping them in a waking nightmare from which there was no escape.
And the ultimate technique. The Hoyoku Tensho. Phoenix Wings Soaring. It was not a punch, but an apocalypse. The ability to unleash a devastating, scorching storm of cosmic fire, a tidal wave of destruction that incinerated all in its path, like the spreading wings of the firebird itself.
The path was clear. Immortality was within his grasp. He just needed two more stars.