"Hello, Mr. Pierce," Harry replied with a smile.
The agent beside Pierce—Sitwell—had a good sense for reading the room. He guessed that Harry might not fully understand Pierce's status, so he introduced his superior for him.
"Mr. Potter, allow me to introduce him. Mr. Pierce is the former Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and currently a minister of the World Security Council. He's a respected elder."
Harry looked at Pierce in surprise. He hadn't expected the old man's position to be this high.
The World Security Council was an international organization formed by representatives from multiple countries, meant to maintain global security and stability.
A minister there held immense influence in any nation.
Harry kept a friendly, sociable smile on his face and made small talk with Pierce, but inwardly he was muttering to himself.
For some reason, Pierce had thick brows, kind-looking eyes, and a warm, approachable appearance—yet Harry instinctively felt he wasn't a good person.
It might have been a misconception, or it might have been chaos magic warning him in his subconscious. Just in case, Harry decided that from now on, he'd keep things politely superficial with Pierce and absolutely not get close.
Still, he didn't take it so far as to imagine Pierce as some unforgivable monster, like the head of a terrorist organization.
After all, no matter how trashy S.H.I.E.L.D. was, no matter how stupid Nick Fury might be, and no matter how incompetent the World Security Council could get… they wouldn't put an actual terrorist boss in a ministerial seat, right?
That was a key role tied to global security, carrying countless lives and the world's peace and stability.
If something that absurd really happened, it would be way too ridiculous.
What—terrorists regulating themselves?
And if you took that idea to its darkest conclusion… then did S.H.I.E.L.D. and the World Security Council even belong to the "good guys," or had they already become an appendage of a terrorist organization?
If even the top brass were moles, then what about the agents on the ground?
Harry almost laughed at his own thoughts. Impossible. Absolutely impossible!
Even if Pierce had issues, at worst he'd be a corrupt official abusing power for personal gain—nothing lower than that!
Harry's main reason for coming to S.H.I.E.L.D. was to demand that they cooperate with Peter to clear out the lizard-men in the sewers. His second purpose was to deepen cooperation with S.H.I.E.L.D.
After arriving, under Nick Fury's lead, Harry's group first went to an underground training facility.
Here, Harry would test whether several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had magical talent.
Back when Black Widow shamelessly tried to seduce Harry, he had already tested her—her talent leaned toward telekinesis.
With training, Black Widow might be able to master advanced telekinesis.
This time, the tests were mainly for the other agents.
The first agent up was Hawkeye. He stared at Harry with eager anticipation and asked, "Mr. Potter, how's my talent?"
Harry answered him with a look of pure disgust.
Hawkeye's magical talent wasn't even close to Black Widow's, much less the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj.
If Harry "loaned" him power, it would be a deal with no profit and no loss—aside from turning him into extra combat strength, Hawkeye provided Harry no other value.
Still, Hawkeye's combat ability was decent, and he also had moderately compatible lightning-magic talent.
With strict training, maybe he could master a weakened version of a Railgun… and fire off a Getsuga Tenshō.
Harry's face stayed blank, his voice flat and emotionless.
"Magical talent is average. You have moderate compatibility with Railgun. I suggest you study hard. If you're lucky, it might be useful in a fight someday. Barely qualifies you as a mid-tier thug. Next."
Hawkeye wasn't disappointed at all. Just having magical talent already made him happy, not to mention that the most suitable magic for him was Railgun.
He'd seen Railgun's power in videos. Even if what he fired wasn't as massive as Harry's, it would still boost his strength significantly.
Next up was Agent Sitwell.
The moment Harry's gaze landed on Sitwell's shiny bald head, his expression turned solemn, and a thought flashed through his mind automatically:
This kid has the makings of a powerhouse!
But the instant the results came out, Harry was deeply disappointed.
This bald, fat guy was only compatible with the most basic earth-element magic—mud manipulation.
Forget a giant spell—he couldn't even dream of it.
This time, Harry didn't keep a blank expression. Frost practically formed on his face as he said coldly, "You can do construction work, sure. But for combat—what, you want to throw mud at the enemy? Next!"
Right after that, the bulky Crossbones strode up to Harry's side.
He was a thick-built, middle-aged man, radiating the hardened, brutal aura of someone who'd lived through countless battlefields.
Harry thought it would be another crude, talentless muggle, but Crossbones gave him a pleasant surprise.
Crossbones's magical talent wasn't astonishing—just medium—but what thrilled Harry was that his talent was perfectly, wonderfully lopsided in exactly the right way.
Electric current to reinforce his body and dual blades, a lightning armor for solid defense, plus an electric flash spell with special utility…
Wasn't that basically the prototype of the melee-sorcerer system Harry loved most?
After beating Loki senseless last time, Harry had completely fallen in love with the punch-you-in-the-face experience, and he'd made up his mind to become a melee sorcerer.
Now, seeing someone with the same taste, Harry patted Crossbones on the shoulder, approval filling his eyes.
"You're pretty good. Your talent isn't great—just medium—but your future combat direction has real potential."
Crossbones's eyes lit up instantly. He asked eagerly, "Really? Then what magic suits me? And how should I fight in the future?"
Harry grinned, raised his thumb, and flashed a bright white smile.
"Of course it's melee sorcerer. Think about it—when the fight starts, throw an electric flash spell first. While the enemy can't open their eyes, cast reinforcement magic on yourself, then charge straight in.
After that, you just slash, slash, slash—cut every enemy down to the ground. That kind of blood-pumping fighting style is perfect for you. Keep it up. I believe in you!"
Crossbones's mouth twitched nonstop.
This was nothing like the kind of "sorcerer" he'd imagined. Compared to close-quarters killing and getting splattered in blood, he preferred ranged output.
After years of nonstop melee and too many brush-with-death moments, he was already exhausted—body and mind.
Crossbones sighed silently to himself.
Whatever. At least magic was usable. With it, his strength would improve a lot. Better than nothing.
And especially when he saw Sitwell—his rival and friend—wearing an utterly miserable expression, Crossbones immediately felt much better.
Of course.
Comparison is happiness.
Finally, it was the last test subject: Agent Coulson—the bald, worn-out middle-aged man who looked like his kidneys were failing.
Coulson was different from the others. Much calmer.
He didn't have high expectations for magic. As an intelligence agent, he was stronger than an ordinary person, but among agents, he wasn't outstanding.
To Coulson, magic was like an extra surprise in life—nice if he had it, but if he didn't, he could accept that too.
After all, he spent most of his time behind the scenes and rarely appeared on the front lines. Compared to combat agents, he didn't need magic as much to protect his own safety.
But after the test, Harry suddenly blurted out, "Holy crap!"
"What is it?" Hearing that, even Coulson got nervous.
Harry truly hadn't expected Coulson to give him such an enormous surprise.
Coulson's talent was extremely high—top-tier even by Kamar-Taj standards.
And the magic he was compatible with was diverse: disintegration, gravity manipulation, magical shields, lightning magic, portals… and in the future, he might even have his own pocket dimension!
Honestly, if Harry didn't know Coulson was fiercely loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D. and wouldn't resign easily, he would've tried to poach him.
Thinking that, Harry gave Sitwell—who was standing nearby with a heartbroken face—a disdainful glance.
As expected, baldness was the mark of the strong.
It's just that Sitwell was trash!
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