Chapter 26: Hulk Smashes Loki, Marcus Defuses the Nuclear Crisis
Natasha's trajectory was completely disrupted by the explosion, her limbs flailing uncontrollably in the air. The next second, her descent came to an abrupt stop.
Marcus's left arm firmly supported her shoulder blades from behind, while his right hand caught the back of her knees, shielding her entire body in his embrace.
He carried Natasha over the edge of the Stark Towerrooftop platform, his feet landing softly on the helipad.
Directly ahead, the portal device powered by the Tesseract was still humming, a beam of azure energy shooting straight into the sky, supporting the spatial rift above that kept spitting out the Chitauri army.
Marcus set Natasha down, released her, and took half a step back.
After steadying herself, Natasha quickly rotated her shoulder to confirm there were no fractures. She looked up at the young man in the black hoodie standing before her, her lips curving into a self-deprecating smile.
"It seems I owe you my life." Her voice was hoarse, but her tone was crisp. "Natasha."
"Marcus."
Natasha nodded, committing this name—which had no traceable records—to memory. Just as she was about to say something else, a faint sound of boots crushing glass fragments came from behind her.
Both of them turned their heads at the same time.
Loki emerged from behind the shattered glass curtain wall inside Stark Tower. His cape was torn in several places by shards of glass, there was a bruise on his forehead, and a streak of dried blood still clung to the corner of his mouth. Yet, even so, he held his back straight, chin slightly raised, and wore that same haughty, cold sneer on his face.
"Enough."
His voice was not loud, but it carried a trembling, barely suppressed tone of someone pushed to their limit, like a guitar string stretched to the point of snapping.
"You mortals." He raised his hand, his fingertips sweeping past Marcus and Natasha before pointing to the entire battlefield below the helipad. "Do you really think you can stop me? Do you think you can defy a god with your strength, weapons, and tactics?"
He took a step forward, arms outstretched as if to embrace the entire burning city. An almost manic arrogance appeared on his face, and his voice rose sharply, drowning out the continuous humming of the portal device:
"I am a god! I was born to rule over you! You ants, you pathetic creatures, all of you!"
"Do you think you are powerful?"
He was practically roaring, the veins on his neck bulging.
"You have no idea what true power is—"
Boom.
A dull, heavy thud suddenly exploded across the helipad.
Loki's arrogant roar came to an abrupt halt. He was sent flying as if hit head-on by a wild beast, slamming face-first into the alloy floor. Centered on his head, the hard deck buckled into a shallow pit several meters wide, with spiderweb-like cracks spreading instantly in all directions.
A giant green shadow slowly stood up straight from the edge of the pit.
Hulk looked down at Loki, who was twitching and rolling his eyes in the pit, and snorted two thick puffs of hot air from his nostrils. He bent down, grabbed one of Loki's legs, and hoisted him up upside down like a ragdoll.
Marcus and Natasha stood side by side, watching as Hulkheld Loki by the ankle, swung him over his head, and slammed him hard against the floor.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Each impact made the entire top floor of Stark Towertremble. Loki's head smashed deeper and deeper pits into the floor, sending shards of alloy flying everywhere.
Hulk stopped, looked at the limp, mud-like Loki, and let out a heavy snort through his nose.
"Puny god."
He tossed Loki onto the ground and turned to walk toward the portal device, leaving a trail of heavy footprints.
Hulk walked up to the portal device, clasped his fists together, raised them above his head, and brought them down with all his might. A deafening boom exploded, and the entire Stark Tower shook.
But a layer of azure energy barrier suddenly lit up on the surface of the portal device, repelling all of Hulk's force. Hulk was knocked back two steps by the recoil, shook his numb arms, and let out a low roar, clearly not expecting that even he couldn't smash this protective shield.
Just then, the door to the stairwell leading inside the building was pushed open. Dr. Erik Selvig stumbled out. His eyes were clear, no longer clouded by the previous mind control, but his face still bore the deep exhaustion left by prolonged mental manipulation.
"Doctor?" Natasha stepped forward. "Are you free from the control?"
Selvig nodded: "Yes."
He walked to the spot where Loki had just fallen, bent down to pick up the Scepter, which was still glowing with a faint blue light, and turned to hand it to Natasha.
His voice was hoarse but unusually firm: "The energy of Loki's Scepter is identical to that of the Tesseract. Only by using it can we break through the barrier and shut down the portal."
Natasha took the Scepter, her fingertips feeling the faint pulse emanating from the staff. She pressed the communicator at her ear and spoke rapidly: "Guys, can you hear me? I can close the portal from here."
In the communication channel, the voices of Steve and Tony came through almost simultaneously.
"Then shut it down!" Steve's voice was mixed with the dull thud of his shield blocking an attack. "Endless Chitaurisoldiers are passing through the rift, the defense line is about to collapse!"
The hum of Tony's armor thrusters was sharp and screeching in the background: "Wait—are you sure you have a way to shut down the device? Is Selvig with you? Tell him I like his work, but hurry up!"
"Give me ten seconds!" Natasha gripped the Scepter tightly and stepped forward toward the portal device.
Just then, a low, suppressed voice cut into the communication channel. It was Nick Fury.
"You cannot close the portal now."
Natasha's steps came to an abrupt halt. The channel fell into a brief, deathly silence.
Fury's voice was cold and heavy, each word tense: "The World Security Council bypassed me and issued an order. An F-35 has launched a nuclear missile. The warhead's yield is enough to wipe out all of Manhattan. The trajectory is locked onto the top of Stark Tower, and it is flying toward you at full speed."
The air on the helipad instantly froze.
Natasha gripped the Scepter tightly, her knuckles turning white.
Steve was the first to break the silence, without a hint of panic, only the calm of a veteran soldier: "Fury, time remaining until the nuke arrives."
"Three minutes, maybe less."
Tony's voice followed immediately, stripped of all his usual banter, procrastination, and arrogance: "I'll intercept the nuke."
"Tony—" Steve hurriedly tried to stop him.
"Captain." Tony cut him off directly, his tone exceptionally steady. "You know, I'm the only one here who can catch up to the warhead."
The roar of the armor's thrusters suddenly spiked. Marcuslooked up into the distance. The golden-red armored figure in the distance suddenly changed direction, trailing a straight, searing bright exhaust flame, and sped through the air toward the incoming nuke.
At the same instant, Marcus's figure vanished from the helipad.
Tony's armor had just begun to trail its golden-red exhaust, and Marcus had already silently caught up. The red and black figures sped side by side through the smoke-filled Manhattan sky.
At this moment, Tony was gritting his teeth, bearing the terrifying downward inertia of the nuclear missile. The armor's overload alarm was blaring piercingly, and the entire suit was nearing critical load. In this critical moment, the visual sensor on the side of his helmet suddenly captured an unexpected figure.
The black hoodie was pressed tightly against his body by the high-altitude airflow. He looked relaxed and indifferent, completely unafraid of the high-speed flight and the pressure of the nuclear weapon, as if he were simply strolling through the sky.
"No need for all this trouble." Marcus said softly.
Tony's helmet turned abruptly, his thrusters nearly losing control and shuddering: "What?"
His words hadn't even finished.
Marcus had already reached out, gripping the casing of the nuclear missile with one hand, and steadily took it from Tony's grasp. The full weight and inertia of the warhead seemed nonexistent in his hand.
Then, engaging his core, he tensed the muscles in his right arm and hurled the entire nuclear missile like a javelin, slamming it toward the spatial rift above that kept spitting out the Chitauri army.
The nuclear missile, trailing its inertial wake, flew straight through the wormhole and disappeared to the other side of the universe. With less than a second's delay, a silent yet searing white light exploded deep within the wormhole—the light of the Chitauri mothership being completely swallowed by the nuclear blast.
Natasha stood before the portal device. The moment she saw the nuke pass through the wormhole, she gripped the Scepter with both hands and thrust it into the barrier with all her might. The azure energy barrier shattered upon impact. The tip of the Scepter touched the Tesseract, and the homologous energies collided instantly; the sky-high beam of light suddenly contracted and collapsed. The edges of the wormhole curled inward like a giant eye slowly closing, leaving only a faint blue line that flickered once before vanishing completely.
The sky went quiet.
Immediately after, all the Chitauri soldiers still charging across the battlefield froze in place simultaneously. The blue light in their eyes extinguished in unison, like marionettes whose strings had been cut. The aircraft lost control and crashed to the ground, and the Leviathans lost power in mid-air, their massive bodies trailing black smoke as they crashed down into the uninhabited ruins.
The war was over.
Above Manhattan, Tony hovered beside Marcus. His faceplate opened, revealing a face still covered in sweat and dust. He looked up at the sky where the wormhole had been, then looked at the man in the black hoodie beside him, remaining silent for several seconds.
Then he spoke into the communication channel, his tone recovering its Stark-esque playfulness, though with a little something extra—perhaps the relief of having survived a catastrophe.
"Everyone, including our newcomer. I'm buying shawarma later. I know a place."
Chapter 27: Truth Revealed in a Shawarma Joint, I Come from an Alien Empire that Glories in Conquest
The shawarma restaurant was filled with the scent of roasted meat grease mixed with cheap yogurt sauce.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, casting a pallid, cold glow across the entire shop.
The window glass had cracked from the recent explosion, but the owner hadn't repaired it; he was huddled behind the counter, peering out every now and then, clearly still reeling from the shock of the alien invasion.
Thor placed Mjolnir on the floor by his feet and was burying his head in his first shawarma.
Banner was draped in a coat scavenged from a damaged shop on the street, the collar hanging loosely over his collarbones.
He had remained silent ever since turning back into human form; the table in front of him was piled with aluminum foil wrappers, and a few unopened sodas sat by his hand.
No one spoke.
The only sounds in the shop were the soft scraping of forks against aluminum foil and the slow, rhythmic chewing, with someone occasionally picking up a water glass only to set it back down in silence.
The great battle had just ended, and everyone was still caught in the heavy, lingering aftereffects of the war.
Steve mechanically chewed on a piece of cold meat, unable to swallow it for a long time.
Natasha twirled a french fry with her fingertips, never once bringing it to her mouth.
Barton leaned against the back of his chair with his eyes closed, resting, but his fingers remained poised on the longbow at his side, never letting down his guard.
Tony sat at the other end of the long table, holding a fork, never touching the food on his plate.
His gaze remained fixed on Marcus, who was sitting diagonally across from him, and his fingers tapped the edge of the table unconsciously, the rhythm growing faster and faster.
Suddenly, he dropped his fork onto the plate.
The sharp clatter of metal against porcelain shattered the silence. Everyone looked up at the same time.
"Although I appreciate your help," Tony began, in his signature style, hiding his underlying vigilance and curiosity beneath a veneer of nonchalance, "Facial recognition, biological signatures, energy fluctuation records—zero matches for all of them. I've accessed every accessible database on the planet, and it's as if you just appeared out of thin air in this city. Who exactly are you?"
"Tony." Steve frowned, his tone warning.
"It's fine." Marcus met Tony's gaze and set his fork down on the edge of the plate, "I never intended to hide it."
His voice was low, but everyone in the quiet restaurant heard it clearly.
"The reason you couldn't find any information on me," Marcus met Tony's gaze, his tone flat, "is because I was never from this world to begin with."
The french fry twirling in Natasha's fingertips stopped. "So, you're an alien?"
"That's right. But to be more precise, I'm not from this universe."
Tony leaned back into his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and wore a look of disbelief: "You're saying you came from another universe and appeared here just to help us win this fight? I feel like I'm listening to science fiction."
"You're wearing a suit of armor you built yourself, eating at the same table as a Norse god and a man who can turn into a green giant." Marcus looked at him, "Science fiction should be non-fiction to you."
Tony opened his mouth, but for once, he found himself at a loss for words. Barton stifled a laugh in the corner; it was the first sound he had made since the meal began.
Thor put down his shawarma, leaned forward slightly, his expression grave: "Does everyone in your world possess power like yours? Do you, like Asgard, consider yourselves gods?"
"We would never call ourselves gods." Marcus met his gaze, his tone flat, every word sincere, "But any Viltrum Empire warrior can, relying solely on their own strength, crush the civilization of most planets in a single day."
Everyone's movements stopped simultaneously.
The french fry that had been twirling in Natasha's fingertips finally fell back onto her plate with a faint thud. Barton opened his eyes. Banner's fingers tightened unconsciously around his soda bottle, his knuckles turning white. The smirk on Tony's face froze and then faded away.
Steve placed his fork on the table, moving gently; the metal made almost no sound as it hit the aluminum foil. He looked up, his blue eyes fixed directly on Marcus, his voice low, but every word carried weight.
"You said—destroy?"
"That's right." Marcus did not avoid his gaze, "The Viltrum Empire prides itself on conquest. Planets that surrender are incorporated into the empire's territory, but for those that resist to the death—"
He paused, "The civilization of the entire planet is wiped out. Cities are razed to the ground, and not a single living soul survives."
Steve put down his fork, his voice strained deep in his throat: "And what about you? How many planets have you destroyed?"
The moment those words landed, the air in the restaurant seemed to lose all its warmth.
Natasha's back stiffened slightly, her gaze locked firmly onto Marcus, her muscles ready to explode into a defensive stance at any moment. Barton's fingers unconsciously brushed against the metal cutlery on the table, the lethargy in his eyes completely gone as he secretly calculated the distance between them.
Thor leaned forward slightly, faint, crackling sparks of electricity drifting around him. Tony tapped his fingertips lightly against the table, his brain rapidly running tactical simulations to restrain the other party, not a hint of playfulness left in his eyes.
Marcus took it all in. He didn't move, and his breathing didn't even change rhythm.
"I have never destroyed any planet." His voice remained steady as ever, "I was sent on my first conquest mission as soon as I came of age. But I encountered an unidentified alien creature on that planet. During the battle, my traversal ability activated for the first time, and I was thrown into another universe, where I stayed for a whole year."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over every face at the table.
"By the time I traveled back, the civilization on that planet no longer existed. I found the surviving remnants, and they told me the Empire had sent people to look for me, and they couldn't provide an answer. So the Empire gave them an answer."
"Destruction."
"I couldn't accept that." Marcus withdrew his gaze, letting it rest on the now-cold plate in front of him, "So I left the Empire."
As his words faded, the restaurant fell into a brief silence.
Steve spoke first. He looked at Marcus, his eyes full of steady conviction: "I believe you."
Tony immediately raised an eyebrow, turned to look at him, his tone wrapped in his usual teasing and skepticism: "You believe him that easily? Captain Popsicle, your old-school 'good guy' filter is a bit too thick."
"Tony." Steve' tone was steady, "If he really wanted to deceive us, he wouldn't need to say his race are conquerors. He could have easily fabricated a more harmless identity—a lost interstellar traveler, an ordinary person who accidentally crossed over, anything. But he didn't. He laid the worst part out on the table first."
Thor lifted Mjolnir from by his feet and rested it on his lap; the hammer gave a low hum, as if in agreement. "I have lived for over a thousand years and have seen more lies than there are grains of sand in Midgard." He looked at Marcus, his gaze open and direct, "My intuition tells me he is telling the truth."
"He saved my life." Natasha's voice was very soft, but everyone heard it clearly: "From under Loki's scepter. If he wanted to harm us, he wouldn't need to go through all this trouble."
Barton finally straightened up from the back of his chair, pointed to his own eyes with his finger, and then gestured toward Marcus: "I saw him save several children. Carried them out of a burning apartment and delivered them to the fire trucks."
He picked up the unopened soda on the table and shook it at Marcus, "Besides, I still owe him a drink."
Everyone's gaze finally fell on Banner. He had been sitting silently in the corner, with empty aluminum foil wrappers piled in front of him.
Being stared at by so many people at once, he appeared somewhat uneasy; he pushed up the glasses that weren't there on the bridge of his nose and said softly, "I have no objections."
Tony looked around: the look of conviction on Steve' face, the composure of Thor, the calmness of Natasha, the soda bottle in Barton's hand, the helplessness of Banner's slight shrug. Then, he picked up his fork again and speared a piece of cold roasted meat on his plate.
"Fine," he said, chewing, his voice muffled, "The minority obeys the majority. I've never cast such an absurd vote in my life."
He swallowed the meat and pointed his fork in Marcus's direction, "But later, you have to let me give you a full physical. I'm just curious, on a purely scientific level."
Steve ignored Tony's final addendum. He stood up and extended his hand toward Marcus.
"Welcome to Earth."
Marcus looked at that hand. He reached out and took it.
The two hands clasped firmly; there were no explosions, no sudden enemy attacks.
"Thank you," Marcus said.
Tony tapped his plate with his fork from the side: "Alright, touching moment over. Who can help me call the owner out? This meal is on me, after all, I just saved New York."
Chapter 28: Multiversal Spiders Drop into Hells Kitchen, Pursuers Follow Close Behind
One week later
Marcus flew over Hells Kitchen, with several stacks of cash he had just "borrowed" from a gang leader tucked into his jacket pocket.
The night wind, carrying the fishy scent of the Hudson River, passed through the gaps between buildings; he kept his speed very low, his Bio-field smoothing the airflow into silent ripples.
Just then, a trembling female voice traveled through the alleyway and reached his ears.
"Please... spare me, this is all the money I have..."
Marcus's figure paused in mid-air.
He tilted his head to listen, and more sounds flooded in—the footsteps of three people forming a semicircle in the alley, the rough sound of boots scraping against the concrete, and a few lewd laughs muffled in their throats.
"It doesn't matter if you didn't bring money," one of the thugs spoke up, his voice dripping with greasy amusement. "As long as you let the three of us have some fun, we can let you go."
Marcus turned expressionlessly and dove toward that alley.
Just as he was about to land at the entrance of the alley, the space within it suddenly tore open as if someone had ripped it from the inside, creating a gash out of thin air.
The edges of the dark red rift spat out tiny arcs of electricity, and the air was compressed, emitting a low hum.
A person rolled out of the rift and crashed heavily onto the trash-filled concrete ground.
The three thugs stepped back in unison.
The woman trapped against the wall forgot to cry, staring blankly at the slowly closing rift.
Even Marcus hung in mid-air, narrowing his eyes slightly.
The person who had fallen to the ground climbed up.
His movements carried an almost habitual agility; he patted the dust off his body and casually straightened his crooked belt.
Then he lifted his face.
His mask was torn in half, revealing the lower half of an excessively young face, with a smear of uncleaned blood on his chin.
His uniform was ripped from shoulder to chest, and the spiderweb pattern was scorched into a blur.
But the eyes visible through the broken lenses still habitually curved into a smile.
"Hey, don't be nervous, I'm just—"
Halfway through his sentence, he saw the scene before him clearly.
Three thugs were blocking a corner in a semicircle, a tear-stained woman was huddled in the corner, and two of the thugs still had their hands in the position of reaching for knives.
Those young eyes changed.
The smile was still there, but it had shifted from an apologetic smile to another kind of smile.
"Wow." Spider-Man patted the dust off his clothes. "Looks like I dropped into the right place."
One thug pulled out a dagger and brandished the tip at him: "A cosplay freak, huh? Mind your own business and get lost!"
Spider-Man tilted his head and made a "hold on" gesture with his hand: "Let me guess—you think it's exciting to corner a woman in an alley in the middle of the night, right? And then I got in the way of your fun, so you're going to teach me a lesson with that little knife?"
He lowered his hand, and his tone suddenly changed.
The playful, lighthearted tone was still there, but the layer beneath it surfaced—a kind of utter exhaustion and impatience.
"I'll be honest with you. I was just chased and beaten by two weirdos, and I'm in a very bad mood right now. So, while I can still talk nicely, put the knives down, let her go, and get lost."
The three thugs exchanged glances.
The leader spat on the ground, raised his dagger to his chest, and pointed the tip at Spider-Man's face: "Who do you think you are? Just because you're wearing a cheap spandex suit, you think you're a superhero? Who are you trying to scare!"
He took a step forward, and his two accomplices followed, closing in.
Spider-Man looked at them, was silent for a second, and then sighed softly.
Just as the three thugs were about to make a move, the dark red rift in the alley that hadn't completely closed suddenly trembled violently again.
Another figure walked out from inside.
The dark red and charcoal black suit was particularly eye-catching in the shadows of the alley entrance; the widened sensor lenses flashed with cold light, and the four metal octopus arms on his back slowly extended, swaying gently in the air.
Hidden within the youthful body was the arrogant and sharp soul of an old scientist; beneath the mask, there was none of the softness of an ordinary Spider-Man, only the cold edge of precise tactical calculation.
Following close behind, a round, pink pig figure popped out of the spatial rift.
The loose red and blue suit wrapped around a short, sturdy body, the red spider antennae on top of his head swayed gently, a pink pig nose poked out from the opening in the mask, and a pair of huge white lenses darted around.
He raised a short hand, his web-shooters hissed and sprayed white webs, and a small wooden hammer appeared out of thin air in his other hand.
The last figure to land almost blended into the darkness of the alley entrance.
On the pitch-black web suit, a huge white skull on the chest was stark and blinding, and the long, narrow lenses scanned the front with motionless cold light.
He raised his wrist slightly, the hidden gun barrels in his web-shooters aiming at the three thugs; the scent of gunpowder mixed with the cold city wind, and there was no trace of the relaxed smile of an ordinary Spider-Man, only a dispassionate, murderous calmness.
At this moment, Octopus Spider-Man tilted his head and glanced at the Spider-Man who had appeared first, the cold light of his sensor lenses flashing in the dark red afterglow of the rift: "No. 9700, why haven't you run yet?"
Spider-Man No. 9700, the one who had landed in the alley first.
He was just shifting his weight off his limping leg, and upon hearing this, he raised a hand and pointed at the three thugs: "I was just preparing to deal with these three thugs before running."
"Deal with," Punisher Spider-Man repeated the term, his tone devoid of any question, as if savoring an inaccurate term.
His long, narrow lenses turned toward the three thugs who were still frozen in place, and he raised his wrist slightly.
Three gunshots almost merged into one.
The muzzle flashes flickered three times in the shadows of the alley entrance, and before the casings had even hit the ground, the three thugs were already screaming and collapsing to the ground.
The bullets precisely pierced their knife-wielding wrists and knees; the daggers flew out of their hands, and the three of them rolled on the ground, wailing while clutching their bleeding wounds.
The woman trapped against the wall let out a short scream, then immediately covered her mouth tightly with both hands.
The scent of blood mixed with the smell of gunpowder permeated the narrow alleyway.
Punisher Spider-Man lowered his gun, his voice without a hint of inflection: "Now we can run."
He turned to Spider-Ham.
That round, pink pig was clutching his chest with his short hands, his huge white lenses wide open: "Can't you be a little gentler! I was just planning to knock them out with my hammer!"
Punisher Spider-Man said coldly: "Criminals do not deserve gentleness."
He turned his lenses to look at Spider-Ham: "Are you sure your device brought us to this universe, where there is someone who can help us turn the tables?"
Spider-Ham pulled a disk from behind him, with an orange light bead pulsing on the metal chassis: "Don't worry, my device won't let us down."
"Thank you very much for saving me," Spider-Man No. 9700 said, holding his shoulder, his voice filled with confusion. "But can you explain to me what exactly is going on?"
Octopus Spider-Man turned his head, just about to speak.
The dark red rift in the alley that had already closed suddenly tore open again.
Arcs of electricity whipped against the brick walls, and the air was compressed, emitting a low roar.
Deep within the rift, two twisted figures were rapidly approaching.
Spider-Man No. 9700 tensed up: "They've followed us here."
Chapter 29: Cross-Universe Predators Appear, Spider-Hunt Staged in Hells Kitchen
The dark red rift in the alley had not yet fully stabilized, and the electric arcs spitting from its edges suddenly surged violently again. The space-time channel was torn open from the inside by brute force, and two scarlet figures walked out, one after the other.
The male who stepped out of the rift first was burly, his scarlet hunter trench coat stretched taut over his broad shoulders. His light-gold hair was draped back, his dark-gold slit pupils were as cold and hard as blades, and thick fangs were slightly exposed between his lips. He dragged a nine-section steel whip in his hand, the barbs scraping against the concrete floor and making a piercing metallic screeching sound.
The female following closely behind was slightly shorter with a more slender frame, but she possessed the same cold, pale skin, dark-gold eyes, and waist-length golden hair. Her bright golden locks appeared sharper and more flamboyant, her narrow eyes tilted upwards, and dense, sharp fangs were half-exposed between her lips, with a frivolous smile hanging at the corners of her mouth. The hem of her waist-cinching hunter coat fluttered with her steps, and the leather holster at her waist was filled with silver throwing knives, one of which she was currently flipping and playing with at her fingertips.
Both of them carried a limp figure in their hands. The Spider-Man, whose suit was gripped by the back of the neck, had his mask mostly shattered, his exposed face covered in bruises and dried bloodstains. His limbs dragged powerlessly on the ground, stumbling over rubble as they walked.
Spider-Ham's large white eyes widened to their limit. He pointed his short finger at the two dragged figures, his voice filled with grief and indignation: "No. 444! No. 666! You died such miserable deaths!"
The Spider-Man No. 444, who was being dragged on the ground, barely raised half of his swollen face, his voice so weak it sounded like it was being squeezed through his teeth: "I told you... don't call us by these designations... we'll be killed by these names sooner or later..."
No. 666 didn't even have the strength to lift his head, his skull hanging on the concrete floor, feebly chiming in: "Exactly... the numbers 444 and 666... are too unlucky..."
The man holding No. 666 glanced down at his prey, his thick fangs fully exposed from between his lips as he pulled into a manic grin: "Don't worry. Father wants to savor you slowly, I won't kill you. After all, prey is freshest when it's alive."
The woman tossed the one she was holding to the foot of the wall with one hand. No. 444 rolled twice and hit the brick wall, letting out a muffled grunt.
She brushed the non-existent dust off her gloves, her dark-gold slit pupils sweeping over the four Spider-Men standing in the alley, her tone frivolous and casual: "Brix, stop talking to them. While Morlun is being held up, let's quickly capture these more troublesome Spider-Men."
As she spoke, she drew a silver throwing knife from the holster at her waist, the blade flipping and spinning between her fingers, the silver light blurring into an arc. She pulled her lips wider: "Then Father will know that we are stronger than Morlun, and we will be able to eat even more Spider-Men."
Hearing this, Brix tossed No. 666 to the wall as well, his right hand gripping the handle of his nine-section steel whip, the barbs making a faint metallic friction sound under his grip.
His dark-gold slit pupils swept from left to right across Octopus Spider-Man, Punisher Spider-Man, Spider-Ham, and Spider-Man No. 9700, and a low, beast-like growl emanated from his throat: "Understood, Bora. It just so happens there are four Spider-Men here. Let's have a competition to see who catches more."
The throwing knife in Bora's hand suddenly stopped spinning, held backhand between her index and middle fingers, her eyes tilting upwards even more sharply: "The loser has to give half of the spider food they hunt to the other for the next month."
"Deal."
The moment the words fell, both scarlet figures disappeared from where they stood.
Spider-Man No. 9700's Spider-Sense exploded first.
He was all too familiar with that stinging sensation spreading from the back of his neck to his fingertips, but the intensity this time far exceeded any previous instance—as if a whole basin of ice water had been violently poured into his skull.
He had no time to think, his legs kicked off the ground and he leaped backward. Almost at the same instant, a silver throwing knife grazed his throat, and the shrill sound of the blade slicing through the air arrived half a beat behind the knife itself. The throwing knife nailed into the half-collapsed brick wall behind him, the entire blade embedding into the wall, leaving only the hilt trembling slightly on the outside.
Bora stood where he had just landed, tilting her head, one hand still maintaining the posture of throwing the knife, a curve of disappointment hanging on the corners of her mouth: "You dodged pretty fast. Stronger than those two pieces of trash."
Spider-Man No. 9700's back hit the brick wall of the alley, cold sweat seeping out from under his shattered mask. Just as he was about to say something to buy time, Bora's throwing knives had already left her hands. This time it wasn't one—it was three, forming a triangle shape that blocked all space for him to dodge left or right.
He gritted his teeth and turned sideways, using his right leg to push off the wall for leverage, and passed horizontally through the gap between the three throwing knives. The knives nailed into the wall behind him in a straight vertical line, each one buried up to the hilt.
Before he had even landed, the fourth throwing knife had already arrived; Bora had anticipated his evasion trajectory. Spider-Man No. 9700 twisted his waist mid-air, but the throwing knife grazed his ribs, tearing through his already damaged suit and leaving a shallow bloody gash on his skin.
Bora looked at the bleeding wound and licked her fangs. She walked toward No. 9700 with leisurely steps, the tips of her boots tapping out a crisp rhythm on the ground, the holster at her waist swaying gently with her pace, as she casually drew a throwing knife and spun it between her fingers, the entire set of movements as fluid as fingertips brushing over piano keys.
That was her way of hunting: she was in no rush to close the net, instead using round after round of throwing knives to push the prey to their limit, watching them gradually exhaust their stamina while dodging, and finally collecting that look of near-collapse with her own hands.
Spider-Man No. 9700 clutched the graze on his ribs, his breathing already becoming rapid, but those eyes behind the shattered lenses habitually crinkled: "So you're a ranged damage dealer, right? Then I guess you're not very good at melee combat?"
Before his words had even faded, he flipped his wrist and shot a web, sticking it to the holster at her waist, using the leverage to pull himself directly toward her, his right fist fully charged with force, aiming straight for her face.
Bora smiled.
She didn't retreat, instead stepping forward half a step to meet his fist, her left hand opening wide to directly wrap around his fist. The moment her finger bones tightened, Spider-Man No. 9700 heard his knuckles emit a teeth-grinding creak inside her palm.
"Who said those who play with throwing knives can't fight in melee?" Bora leaned close to his face, her dark-gold slit pupils inches away, her fangs almost touching his mask, "I just felt you weren't qualified to make me take melee combat seriously yet."
She violently twisted her left hand to the side, forcing Spider-Man No. 9700's entire right arm to rotate, his shoulder joint emitting a muffled sound of protest. He gritted his teeth and didn't make a sound, shooting a web from his left fingertips in an attempt to stick to her face, but she easily avoided it by tilting her head.
As Bora let go, she raised her right leg high, kicking him hard in the chest with the toe of her boot, sending him flying, knocking over a row of metal trash cans in the alley, and burying him in a pile of garbage and waste paper, unable to stand up for a moment.
Chapter 30: Rule-Level Stun, Breaking the Deadlock; Multiversal Spider-Men Clash with Spider-Hunter Twins
Octopus Spider-Man had been calculating from the very first second Bora launched her attack.
Four metal octopus arms fully extended from the ports on the back of his armor, each mechanical claw at the tip slightly open, with built-in scanning modules capturing movement data for the two opponents at a frequency of hundreds of times per second.
Data streams constantly flickered across his widened sensor lenses—movement speed, attack frequency, initial projectile velocity, predicted evasion trajectories—every item was being broken down, reorganized, and modeled within his brain.
"The enemy's melee capability exceeds visual estimates. To deal with a long-range suppression type, I must disrupt the throwing rhythm, close-quarters combat—"
He did not finish his sentence.
A barbed steel whip smashed through the air with a dull, wind-breaking sound. Octopus Spider-Man's four octopus arms reacted simultaneously: two raised up to block, one exerted force to shift his body sideways, and the last one sprayed webbing toward Brix's direction.
Brix didn't even look at the webbing, letting the white slime paste itself onto his chest.
The muscles in his arms bulged to the limit; he gripped the whip handle and pressed down hard, the barbs on the steel whip biting into the alloy shell of the octopus arm, scraping out a blinding shower of sparks.
Octopus Spider-Man was forced to one knee by this brute force, and the load data on his sensor lenses jumped from green to orange.
At this moment, a furry, short pink leg had already stepped onto the side wall of the alley.
Spider-Ham's short, stout body used the momentum to leap, darting into the air behind and to the side of Brix in a few quick steps, his round belly jiggling slightly during the jump. He raised his short arms high, and that small wooden hammer that appeared out of thin air gleamed with a cartoonish warm light under the dim streetlamp.
"Hey!" He swung the hammer around, his white lenses curving into two crescent moons. "You can't bully my friend!"
The wooden hammer traced a short arc and landed solidly on top of Brix's head.
The force was as light as patting a pillow.
Brix didn't even tilt his head. His hand gripping the whip handle didn't even loosen, and a look of disdain curled the corners of his mouth, then his dark gold slit pupils suddenly contracted.
A strange dizziness came from the top of his head. It wasn't pain, but a tingling sensation expanding from deep within his skull, as if someone had stuffed a whole ball of cotton inside his brain and lit a blinding lamp inside the cotton.
His vision began to blur and double. The concrete floor beneath his feet rose and fell like waves, and the steel whip gripped in his hand suddenly became incomparably heavy, the barbs scraping across the ground with a sluggish dragging sound.
"What..."
Brix squeezed the word out with difficulty, the tone drawn out very long. His eyeballs rolled upward uncontrollably, and a circle of rotating, flickering little stars floated out from the top of his head out of thin air.
Octopus Spider-Man did not let this opportunity pass.
The moment his sensor lenses captured Brix's pupils losing focus, his four metal octopus arms exploded with power simultaneously; two braced against the ground to lift his body, while the remaining two extended forward, their mechanical claws precisely locking onto Brix's wrists and ribs, pinning his opponent tight.
Immediately following that, his right fist, carrying long-accumulated kinetic energy, smashed into Brix's face, and the four octopus arms coordinated with the twisting force of his torso to push forward with a violent shove, blasting Brix—whip and all—flying away.
Brix's massive body smashed through the already precarious brick wall at the alley entrance, bricks and dust exploding together, and his crimson figure tumbled into the abandoned parking lot next door.
Octopus Spider-Man stood straight, panting heavily, the load data on his sensor lenses slowly dropping back to green. He looked down at his right fist; the web pattern on his knuckles was stained with the enemy's red blood.
Spider-Ham landed back on the ground, shouldering the wooden hammer on his round shoulder, poked his head out to look at the dark shadow still struggling in the pile of collapsed bricks in the parking lot, then turned to look at Octopus Spider-Man.
"My hammer isn't bad, right?" He shook the hammer handle, his white lenses blinking. "The stun it causes is rule-level."
Octopus Spider-Man turned his head to look at Spider-Ham, the cold light on his sensor lenses flickering slightly. "Thank you."
Spider-Ham shifted the wooden hammer from one round shoulder to the other, waved his short hand, and a short, snorting laugh squeezed out from the opening in his mask: "We're all on the same side, no need to thank me."
Before his voice had faded, two silver throwing knives had already torn through the air, one aimed straight at his face, the other locking onto Octopus Spider-Man's throat.
Spider-Ham's short, stout body leaned backward, the throwing knife grazing the tip of his pink pig nose, the blade missing his mask by a hair's breadth.
Octopus Spider-Man's four octopus arms had already reacted the moment his Spider-Sense exploded; one pulled his upper body to the side, while another extended a mechanical claw, deflecting the trajectory of that throwing knife by half an inch.
The throwing knives nailed into the brick wall behind them, the hilts vibrating slightly along with those that had embedded into the wall earlier.
Bora stood at the other end of the alley. She still maintained the posture of throwing the knives, but her dark gold slit pupils swept past the two Spider-Men in front of her and toward the parking lot. Brix was wobbling as he climbed up from the pile of collapsed bricks, a few cartoon stars still hanging over his head that hadn't dissipated yet.
Bora retracted her gaze, and the corners of her mouth pulled wider. She drew three throwing knives from the sheath at her waist, flipping them between her fingers to make the blades shimmer into three intermittent silver lights under the dim streetlamp.
"Can't even take care of two Spider-Men,"
Her voice was as light as if she were casually commenting on a dish that didn't taste good, "Looks like for the next month, half of your food will have to be handed over to me."
Before the words left her lips, three throwing knives left her hands simultaneously. Her figure rushed out right behind the throwing knives, the hem of her coat rolling up behind her into a crimson afterimage.
Suddenly, three gunshots almost overlapped into one.
The throwing knives were knocked away by bullets in mid-air, and the sparks of metal collision flashed three times in the dim alley. The blades spun and bounced in different directions; one clanged as it nailed into a wall crack, one bounced onto a pile of garbage, and the last one spun and stabbed into the concrete floor.
Punisher Spider-Man stood at the alley entrance, the smoke from his muzzle not yet dissipated. His narrow lenses had already turned toward Bora, his wrist slightly raised, the muzzle aimed at that rushing crimson figure. His index finger hooked onto the trigger, beginning to pre-press—
A roar of shattering walls came from the right.
A chunk of concrete as large as a car flew horizontally from the parking lot direction, its edges still attached with twisted steel bars.
Punisher Spider-Man had to abandon his shot, bending his knees slightly to flip backward. The chunk grazed his suit, smashing a hole through the wall where he had just been standing, brick shards and cement dust pouring down like rain.
Brix stood at the edge of the parking lot, one arm still maintaining the throwing posture. The dizziness in his dark gold slit pupils had already faded, replaced by a violent fury that burned through his reason after being thoroughly provoked. He gripped the handle of the nine-section steel whip, his knuckles cracking, and walked with large strides toward Punisher Spider-Man.
Chapter 31: Witnessing the Interdimensional Spider-Hunter, Marcus Ends the Battle in an Instant
Marcus hovered above the alley, watching from beginning to end.
In his past life, he had never read Marvel comics, so he knew nothing about the Spider-Men or the two crimson figures who had emerged from the rift before him.
But that didn't stop him from making a judgment; from the moment the two sides clashed, he had already weighed them up in his mind.
The speed, strength, and reflexes of Brix and Bora—he saw every item clearly, and the conclusion was simple: they were far inferior to him.
As for the "Morlun" they mentioned being held up, and the "Father" they revered, he had never seen them either.
But even if those two were truly hundreds of times stronger than the pair before him, with his current combat power, even if he couldn't completely resolve this incident, retreating unscathed would be more than enough.
Since he had no concerns about self-preservation, the moment Brix gripped his nine-section steel whip and strode toward Punisher Spider-Man, Marcus moved.
Boom.
The few Spider-Men in the alley couldn't capture his movements at all; only a deafening roar exploded in their ears.
Centered on the spot where Brix had originally been standing, the concrete ground suddenly collapsed, blasting out a deep pit several meters in diameter. Debris and dust shot into the sky, and the entire alleyway trembled.
Bora's charge came to an abrupt halt. Her feet nailed to the ground, her dark golden slit pupils contracted sharply.
Spider-Man No. 9700 had just propped up his upper body from the trash pile, a banana peel still hanging off one arm. The shockwave nearly knocked him back down; he grabbed a nearby overturned trash can to steady himself and peered through the dust toward the pit.
"What happened again?!"
Octopus Spider-Man did not speak. His four mechanical octopus arms opened slightly, and the data stream on his sensor visor was refreshing at a frequency of hundreds of times per second, the scanning module piercing through the dust to lock onto the bottom of the pit.
Then he saw it. The man in the black hoodie had one foot planted firmly in the center of Brix's back.
Brix was embedded face-down in the shattered concrete, his nine-section steel whip having rolled to the edge of the pit, with a scrap of his own clothing still hanging from its barbs.
His limbs were splayed, unmoving, and his crimson hunting trench coat draped over him like a crumpled rag.
A cold light flashed in Octopus Spider-Man's sensor visor. His brain stored data from every encounter he had with the Inheritors—dozens of skirmishes, and not a single one had been overwhelming.
Every time, it had been a desperate escape; every time, a difficult victory; every time, a painful price had to be paid.
His voice came through his mask, carrying a rare, unexplainable confusion that the data couldn't parse: "I have battled the Inheritors dozens of times. This is the first time I've seen someone defeat them instantly."
The dust slowly settled. The scene at the bottom of the pit was completely exposed to everyone's eyes.
Marcus stood in the very center of the pit, one foot stepping on Brix's back, not even a speck of dust on his black hoodie.
He had one hand in his pocket, the other hanging at his side, his expression identical to when he had been hovering in the air watching just moments ago.
Spider-Ham hoisted his wooden mallet back onto his round shoulder, his white lenses curving into two crescents. He poked the nearby Punisher Spider-Man with his short arm, and a smug snort squeezed out from the opening in his mask for his pink snout.
"I told you, my gadget would lead us to the person who could turn the tables."
Punisher Spider-Man slowly lowered his muzzle. His narrow lenses lingered on the figure at the bottom of the pit for two seconds, then turned to Spider-Ham.
"Nice work."
Bora stood in the middle of the alley, three throwing knives caught between her fingers, having forgotten to throw them, her dark golden slit pupils fixed intently on the man in the black hoodie standing on Brix's back at the bottom of the pit. Her lips no longer curled upward, and her eyes, usually full of frivolity, were now devoid of any amusement.
She returned the throwing knives to their sheaths, moving slowly, as if she needed this time to recalibrate the situation before her.
Then she spoke, her voice filled with vigilance.
"Who are you?"
Marcus did not answer.
Bora felt a blur before her eyes, and the figure in the black hoodie had already vanished from the bottom of the pit. Her dark golden slit pupils dilated sharply; she had no time to make any reaction at all.
A hand reached out from behind her and tapped her on the back of her neck with an understated motion.
Slap.
Bora's dark golden slit pupils lost focus instantly, and she collapsed softly onto the debris-covered ground like a marionette with cut strings.
After the dull thud, the alleyway suddenly fell silent.
Spider-Man No. 9700 propped himself straight against the trash can, looked at Brix embedded in the concrete at the bottom of the pit, then at Bora slumped at Marcus's feet, and fell silent for two seconds.
Then he turned his head to look at Octopus Spider-Man, his voice still raspy from surviving the ordeal: "You said earlier that you were here to find the person who could turn the tables?"
Octopus Spider-Man's sensor visor did not leave Marcus, and he nodded mechanically.
Spider-Man No. 9700 plucked the banana peel off his arm, threw it aside, and let out a long breath.
"Found him."
At this moment, Marcus turned around, his gaze sweeping over the few Spider-Men in the alley who were still in varying degrees of shock.
"Alright. Explain it. What exactly is going on here?"
Spider-Man No. 9700 was holding the trash can while working his right arm, which had almost been twisted off; hearing this, he immediately raised his hand, pointing at Octopus Spider-Man and Spider-Ham, his tone a mix of post-survival excitement and a belly full of questions: "Right! Hurry up and explain it to me! Today, I was inexplicably chased and beaten by these two people, then a rift split open, and suddenly so many different versions of myself popped out?"
He paused, looked down at his own tattered suit, then looked at the Punisher Spider-Man in the pitch-black suit with a skull printed on it, his voice rising by half a pitch unconsciously.
"Seriously, I still don't understand what happened."
Octopus Spider-Man retracted the data stream on his sensor visor, and the four mechanical octopus arms slowly retracted behind him. He looked at Marcus, then at the bewildered Spider-Man No. 9700, his voice steady as he spoke:
"The ones hunting us are the Inheritors family. They are an interdimensional hunting tribe that feeds specifically on Spider-Men."
"To be more precise, what they consume is the Totem Power flowing within us, which is the inherent life essence of everyone chosen by the Spider Totem. Without it, we are just ordinary people; possessing it, we become prey in their eyes."
He paused for a moment, the cold light in his visor flickering slightly.
"In the universes they have already annihilated, there are thousands of Spider-Man remains."
Spider-Man No. 9700 looked down at his hands, then touched his chest, as if confirming whether he was really hiding some treasure he hadn't felt at all.
He raised his head, looking completely bewildered: "Totem Power? I have this thing in my body? I can't sense it at all."
Chapter 32: Splitting Up for Interdimensional Travel, Zombie Siege at the End of the Rift
Just as Octopus Spider-Man began to explain, at the other end of the alley, Punisher Spider-Man had already turned and walked toward the base of the wall.
Spider-Ham's round figure followed beside him, and the two stopped one after the other in front of No. 444 and No. 666.
The two wounded individuals, one leaning against the wall and the other lying on the ground, didn't even have the strength to lift their hands.
Spider-Ham pulled a palm-sized metal canister from behind his waist; the canister was printed with a silhouette of a pink pig head. He unscrewed the lid and poured out a few colorful pellets.
"Open up."
No. 444 saw the pellet hovering over his face and forced his swollen eyelids open: "W-wait a second, what is that?"
"Piggy feed. Eat it and you'll be able to move."
"I'm not eating feed! I'm a Spider-Man, not a pig—"
The moment No. 444 opened his mouth to protest, the feed was precisely stuffed inside.
No. 666 lay on the ground, having not even the strength to protest; he only managed a weak "No, don't," before he too had his mouth stuffed.
Punisher Spider-Man bent down and lifted the two of them off the ground.
After a short while, the bruises faded, the wounds healed, and the broken bones knit back together.
No. 444 flexed his wrists, his tone filled with self-doubt: "It actually works."
No. 666's eyes were hollow: "I still ate the feed."
Just then, the voice of No. 9700 came from behind: "Totem Power? I have that inside me? I can't feel it at all."
No. 444 and No. 666 looked up and exchanged a glance, then simultaneously walked toward No. 9700.
Their steps were still unsteady, yet they moved surprisingly fast; the unpleasant matter of the feed was instantly wiped away by the words "Totem Power."
They had just reached him and were about to ask—
"The matter of Totem Power cannot be explained in a short while."
Punisher Spider-Man's voice came from behind them, cold and hard like a chambering bullet, "You only need to know that they will keep hunting us."
No. 9700 was silent for two seconds, then raised his hand to wipe the bloodstains off his mask: "Fine. So what should we do now?"
Everyone's gaze turned to Octopus Spider-Man.
His sensor lenses flickered with cold light, and his four metal octopus arms slowly retracted behind him.
"Two things. First, take the wounded and retreat to Universe 13. Second, return immediately to help Scarlet Spider and the others. Morlun is still over there."
He turned around, his lenses aimed directly at Marcus: "But the prerequisite for returning to help is that Mr. Marcus is willing to assist us."
All the Spider-Men's gazes fell squarely on Marcus.
The alley suddenly became so quiet that only the whimpering sound of the night wind passing through the broken brick walls remained.
Marcus's gaze swept over those damaged masks.
The expectation in No. 9700's eyes, the solemn posture of Octopus Spider-Man, the short hands of Spider-Hamclutching his wooden mallet, the silent gaze of Punisher Spider-Man, and No. 444 and No. 666 standing at the back, supporting each other.
"I can step in to help you," he said in a flat tone, "but after this is over, you must do me a favor."
No. 9700 froze for a moment, then the eyes visible through his broken lenses curved up.
He didn't even ask what the favor was and nodded directly: "Deal."
Octopus Spider-Man's sensor lenses flashed with cold light. He didn't agree immediately but asked in a deep voice: "What favor?"
"It's useless to say it now," Marcus said, meeting his lenses, "Let's talk about it after you come back alive."
Octopus Spider-Man was silent for a second, then slowly nodded.
Spider-Ham had already shouldered his wooden mallet and waved a short hand: "Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!"
As soon as he finished speaking, he pulled the metal disc with the pulsating orange light orb from behind his waist and quickly pressed a few times on the side of the base with his short fingers.
The disc emitted a low, humming sound, the air was compressed and twisted again, and two dark red spatial rifts tore open on both sides of the alley simultaneously.
Octopus Spider-Man's sensor lenses quickly scanned the two portals. After confirming the coordinates, he turned to the others and said in a crisp tone: "No. 9700, you and Punisher Spider-Man take No. 444 and No. 666 to Universe 13. I will go with Spider-Ham and Mr. Marcus to support Scarlet Spider's side."
No. 9700 was just about to walk toward one of the doors when he suddenly paused, turned his head, and pointed a finger at his own chest: "Wait. Why do you call me by a numerical code, but call him by his hero title?"
He pointed at Punisher Spider-Man.
Octopus Spider-Man's sensor lenses flickered with cold light, and his tone was devoid of any emotion: "Because there are too many Spider-Men. Those without distinct characteristics are uniformly referred to by numerical codes."
"I don't have characteristics?!" No. 9700's voice suddenly rose. He looked down at the wounds still dripping blood on his tattered combat suit, "I was just nearly beaten to death by a woman who plays with throwing knives; isn't that characteristic enough?!"
Punisher Spider-Man didn't give him a chance to continue arguing.
He stepped forward, dragging the fallen Brix and Borawith one hand, and with the other, he clamped five fingers onto the back of No. 9700's combat suit, dragging him toward the portal like a sack of supplies.
No. 9700 staggered backward, one finger still pointing wildly in the air: "Wait a second—I'm a wounded patient! I'm really—I'm a wounded patient!"
Before he could finish speaking, the two had already disappeared into the dark red rift.
No. 444 and No. 666 supported each other and limped after Punisher Spider-Man; the four figures disappeared one after another into the dark red rift.
The portal hummed and closed, leaving only Octopus Spider-Man, Spider-Ham, and Marcus in the alley.
"Then let's go too." Spider-Ham shouldered his wooden mallet and was the first to hop toward the other portal.
Marcus was about to follow, but suddenly turned his head to look at Octopus Spider-Man, his tone flat but carrying a hint of scrutiny: "How did you know my name? I don't recall introducing myself."
Octopus Spider-Man's steps paused. The four metal octopus arms behind him slightly opened and then retracted, and the cold light of his sensor lenses flickered, then returned to a steady state.
He turned his face, his voice under the mask calm and composed, without a trace of unease at being exposed.
"I hacked into your world's network. I found your file in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database—the battlefield records of the Battle of New York, and the Avengers' preliminary assessment of you. Based on that data, your strength is very likely sufficient to go head-to-head with the Inheritors."
He paused for a moment, his lenses turning to Marcus, his tone frank: "This is also the reason why I asked for your help."
Marcus glanced at him, didn't pursue the matter, withdrew his gaze, and walked toward the portal.
The two stepped into the dark red rift together.
Passing through the portal, Marcus stepped out onto cracked asphalt pavement.
The world before him was gray and dim. The sky was weighed down by thick leaden clouds, the glass curtain walls of skyscrapers were shattered over large areas, and the walls were covered in dried, dark stains.
Vehicles were strewn haphazardly in the middle of the street, rusted to the point where their original colors were unrecognizable.
The street was packed with zombies. Thousands of rotting bodies shuffled slowly, shoulder to shoulder, their throats emitting low, guttural growls that merged into a hair-raising background noise.