Barbara "pondered" for a moment, a glimmer flashing in her eyes behind her lenses.
"Director, from my professional perspective, this has already exceeded the scope of science."
"This kind of ability is not changing matter; it is commanding matter. In some ancient civilizations, this ability is called Divinity."
"Divinity?"
Peggy Carter's brow furrowed even deeper. How was this getting more and more absurd?
"Yes." Barbara nodded, her expression becoming more serious.
"I once saw a similar description while reviewing ancient documents regarding the Sumerian civilization. A power capable of dissociating and reshaping all things was worshipped by an ancient cult."
She paused for a moment, as if feeling uneasy about the information she had "inadvertently" revealed.
"Of course, that was just a myth; I never thought it could actually exist."
These words opened a brand new, yet dead-end, door for S.H.I.E.L.D.
Peggy Carter's gaze changed.
Mysticism, cults, ancient myths...
This direction was somewhat absurd, but it was more acceptable to her than the conclusion that "laws of physics have failed."
"Continue the investigation." Peggy Carter ordered decisively.
"I want all information regarding this cult."
"Yes, Director."
After Barbara left the office, Peggy Carter rubbed her aching temples.
Just then, an emergency communication connected to her line.
It was Alexander Pierce.
"Director!"
Pierce's voice carried unprecedented urgency and grief.
"Something has happened."
"Howard Stark and his wife... were in a car accident on Long Island."
"They..."
"Are both dead."
Peggy Carter stood up, the color draining from her face.
Her hands subconsciously braced against the desk, her knuckles turning white from excessive force.
Scenes of Howard in high spirits, winking at her, flashed before her eyes, finally freezing on that rare, gentle smile he wore when holding his newborn son.
...
The legend of a mysterious swordsman swept across this chaotic land like the wind, from west to east.
Some said that in one second, he had used his unsheathed scabbard to break the limbs of an entire gang of members, yet without taking a single life, only because they had blocked his view of the sunset.
Others even posted a blurry video online, swearing they had seen with their own eyes that on the plains of Kansas, this man walked leisurely against a tornado capable of tearing trucks apart, the terrifying wind wall parting automatically like a docile pet three feet in front of him, clearing a peaceful path for him.
These legends, whether true or false, fermented through the internet and converged into an increasingly resounding name:
"The Unforgiven," Yasuo.
In an era filled with panic and unease, such a powerful, aloof, free, and unrestrained lone ranger became a legend that people yearned for.
He became the only certainty in the chaotic order, a "Way" walking upon the earth that could not be defined by anyone.
...
At this moment, in Palisades Park, New Jersey, Yasuo was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking across the wide Hudson River at the morbid steel forest on the opposite bank — Manhattan.
The cold winter wind blew his tattered clothes, and the wine gourd at his waist swayed gently, making a faint sound.
In his eyes, that urban jungle composed of steel, glass, and lights presented two completely different appearances.
One was the prosperity in the eyes of mortals.
The other was something only he could see.
He saw countless black lines, invisible to the naked eye, formed by the condensation of sorrow, hatred, and despair, entwining every skyscraper like a festering sore.
These negative emotional energies were being continuously drawn from every corner of the city and converging toward the same center.
Empire State Building.
That tower, which once symbolized human ambition and hope, looked like a heart in his eyes.
Countless black lines connected to it like blood vessels.
With every pulsation, it spread silent wails throughout the entire city.
The entire island of Manhattan was groaning in this resonance of pain, a sound mortals could not hear.
Yasuo's gaze fell on the spire of the Empire State Building.
The focal point of that "deconstruction" will was right there.
That soul who called himself an "artist" was standing at the top of the tower, greedily feeding on the pain of the entire city, preparing his final chapter.
"Building a high tower with the desires of all living beings, only to have it collapse through the pain of all living beings..."
Yasuo unhooked the wine gourd from his waist and took a drink. The spicy wine slid down his throat, but it could not wash away the weariness in his eyes.
"Truly... a boring cycle of fate."
A true swordsman could not tolerate such a clumsy performance appearing within his field of vision.
That so-called "The Deconstructionist" treated pain as paint and viewed destruction as aesthetics.
True power is control, not indulgence.
True art is striking the calmest blow at the center of a storm, not dragging the entire World into one's own madness like a lunatic.
Yasuo capped the wine gourd and hung it back on his waist.
The wind began to gather beneath his feet.
...
The Empire State Building was no longer a monument to human civilization.
It had become a tombstone piercing straight into the clouds.
The New York police had used police cars to establish the tightest defensive line mortals could construct around it.
But this defensive line was more like a ritualistic mourning.
It could not stop despair, nor could it stop death.
Countless camera flashes converged into an ocean of light outside the police cordon.
Media helicopters circled in the air like vultures, greedily capturing every detail of the wounds on this city.
"We must do something! We cannot let him continue!"
In the crowd, a street hero whose body could be covered in a layer of hard chrome metal, codenamed "Chrome Comet," let out a roar of grief and indignation.
He no longer heeded the dissuasion of his companions.
Amidst cries of alarm, like a silver cannonball, he broke through the police blockade and plunged headlong into the open main entrance of the Empire State Building.
The crowd held their breath, countless eyes staring fixedly at that skyscraper.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Hope was stretched and diluted with every passing second.
Suddenly, a black dot was thrown out from the top of the building.
The black dot traced a parabola in the air, falling rapidly with the sound of breaking wind.
"Bang—!"
A dull, heart-wrenching loud noise.
The object slammed heavily onto the plaza in front of the building, creating a deep pit in the hard ground.
It was "Chrome Comet."
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