"Power armor?" The craftsman froze for a moment upon hearing Ethan's description, then patted the bipedal mech beside him and asked, "You mean this?"
Running fast, lifting heavy objects, resisting attacks—it did sound exactly the same.
The corner of Ethan's mouth twitched as he cast a glance at the bipedal mech the craftsman had built. The only form of protection it offered to the human inside was a pair of iron bars extending from the shoulders downward—looking for all the world like the safety restraints on a roller coaster seat.
That had absolutely nothing to do with what he'd just described as "resisting attacks from all directions."
"We're just going to stand here and talk?" Ethan didn't respond to the craftsman's question. Instead, he turned his head toward the distant dunes. Moonlight bathed the sand, casting a silver-white glow.
The craftsman smacked himself lightly on the forehead and chuckled. "My bad. Come on, let's head to my sanctuary."
Around them, the others in bipedal mechs shut down their high-powered searchlights and adjusted their heading, marching toward the depths of the valley behind them. That was where the craftsman's sanctuary was located.
"Shut it down and rest for a bit—we won't be heading back just yet," Ethan opened a comm channel to the pilot inside the aircraft, issuing his orders. Then he led the group as they followed the others' steps.
As they moved forward, signs of human presence began to increase along the route. Power lines and surveillance cameras hung along the cliffs, while discarded tires and steel frameworks lay piled haphazardly against the rock walls—clearly having been there for some time.
After walking for a while, the craftsman turned his head, the red bandana on his forehead fluttering lightly in the wind. He cautioned the group, "Keep the noise down when we go in."
Seeing that most of them looked confused, he added, "My sanctuary's mostly civilians—lots of elderly people and kids. It's not like that Weapon X factory you came from. These folks need a peaceful night's rest."
Everyone nodded in understanding after hearing the explanation.
But as they neared the encampment, Ethan and the others spotted a small town built into the depths of the valley. Lights twinkled in the darkness, dim glows spilling from windows, and figures could be seen moving through the streets.
The craftsman frowned. At this hour, these people should already be deep asleep.
Ethan stepped slowly into the town's street and immediately felt the wary stares of the townsfolk. Through the glass windows, he saw them watching him from the shadows, their eyes filled with caution and fear.
On one side of the street, a group of villagers had gathered, whispering among themselves. Some pointed at Ethan, then at his armor, clearly discussing something. The children stared at him with wide eyes—curious, yet fearful.
Seeing the worried expressions on the villagers' faces, the craftsman sighed helplessly. He knew that suddenly leaving without a word, then returning with a heavily armed team, had likely spooked some of the night owls who'd then spread word to the others.
Still, he felt a bit of pride—thanks to the safety awareness he'd drilled into them, these people were always prepared to evacuate at a moment's notice.
But pride or not, the misunderstanding still had to be cleared up. The craftsman cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone and shouted loudly, "It's okay! False alarm!"
His voice echoed through the town's streets, reaching every villager. As the sanctuary's leader for decades, his words naturally carried weight.
Once they heard there was no danger, the atmosphere in the town visibly relaxed. Villagers began stepping out of their homes, curiously gathering around Ethan and the craftsman.
Even some of the kids came running up, their eyes filled with wonder and excitement.
One little girl, about five or six years old, nervously approached the gleaming silver Anti-Hulk Armor. With trembling hands, she reached out, wanting to touch it. The moment her fingers brushed the smooth surface, she let out a delighted squeal.
The other children quickly joined in, hopping and running around the mech. They pointed, exclaimed, and chattered excitedly, utterly fascinated by the towering suit of armor.
Watching the giggling crowd of kids, the craftsman suddenly shouted in mock anger, "Hey! You little rascals! Why aren't you in bed yet?! Get back to your bunks, or the Venom monster's gonna come snatch you away!"
Before he finished, he pulled a scary face, raising his hands like claws as if to grab them.
The children burst into laughter and screams of delight. Some even covered their faces and pretended to be scared. The craftsman, beaming with joy, had clearly found some amusement himself.
After a round of playful chaos, the villagers and children finally returned to their homes. The laughter slowly faded into the distance, and the small town returned to its peaceful stillness.
Standing on the street, the craftsman took in the quiet surroundings. A warmth rose in his heart.
"You've taken good care of your people," Ethan remarked.
He looked around the little town. Compared to the numb and hollow-eyed people under Magneto's rule—or those living under Doctor Doom—these folks seemed far healthier, both in body and spirit.
The craftsman simply smiled at the praise, then led the group toward a cave entrance at the town's edge. There, a massive metal door stood embedded into the rock.
Clearly, the cave had been deliberately chosen: well-hidden, yet entirely practical.
Standing in front of the metal door, the craftsman reached over and pressed a concealed button nearby. With a mechanical hum, the heavy door slowly slid open, revealing a dimly lit passageway.
"Welcome to my workshop," the craftsman said to the group, his voice full of confidence and pride.
"This is not only our secret base—it's also the birthplace of all the tech and gear I've ever created. Come in. Let me show you around."
Under the cave's lighting, Ethan's eyes were suddenly drawn to a detail on the craftsman's body.
He glanced down at the man's leg—and saw that his right leg was a prosthetic made of alloy. It looked incredibly sturdy, with a smooth surface that gleamed with a cold metallic luster.
Noticing Ethan's gaze, the craftsman turned and smiled faintly, the small mustache above his lips twitching slightly. "That was from the Vietnam War... back then, I..."
Just as he began reminiscing, the words caught in his throat. His expression darkened slightly as he shook his head and walked deeper into the cave, clearly unwilling to dwell on the memory.
He didn't need to say it, though—Ethan already knew what had happened.
During the Vietnam War, the craftsman had lost a leg and an arm in an explosion. To survive, he had drawn on a magical talent few knew he possessed, and combined it with his mutant powers. Using the souls of nine fallen comrades, he forged a portal and summoned an ancient demon to fight on his behalf.
Ever since the war ended, he'd been filled with remorse for what he considered a desecration—and he had never used his magical abilities again.
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