Deep within the realm of consciousness, ripples stirred across a black sea that should have been dead silent.
Within that indescribable domain of observation, a torrent of data scoured the boundaries of dimensions at speeds exceeding light.
There were no playful fonts, nor any jokes about taking a “vacation.”
There was only cold, mechanical, and absolutely rational causal correction.
[Singularity “Leon Parker” detected with excessive energy index.]
[Current dungeon difficulty: Extremely Easy.]
[Evaluation: Lacks challenge; incapable of driving the growth of the hero or extracting adequate emotional value.]
[Recommendation: Execute correction protocol.
Introduce supernatural variables.]
“Advance Mephisto’s intervention.”
As the words fell, an invisible hand tore an imperceptible rift in the curtain of the Marvel Universe.
An aura from a deeper dimension—dark-red energy tainted with sulfur and despair—silently seeped into the underground pipe network of Oscorp Tower, eventually coalescing within that vial of emerald-green serum.
Balance was restored.
…
Oscorp Tower, Sub-level 30.
Dead silence.
As the green liquid slid down his esophagus, there was no burning sensation.
Instead, a chilling, terrifying cold instantly froze his stomach.
Then, the extreme cold flipped to extreme heat.
It wasn’t the pain of fire searing the skin, but as if every single cell were undergoing a nuclear detonation from within.
“Aaargh—!!!”
Norman’s agonized screams were trapped inside the laboratory by soundproof glass.
Beneath his skin, veins that should have bulged green now gleamed with an eerie dark red, as though molten iron were flowing through them.
“Power…
Is this…
power?”
Norman fell to his knees, clawing savagely at the floor.
His fingernails shattered, leaving his hands bloody.
But he felt no pain.
Only heat.
A suffocating heat capable of burning the soul.
Just as his consciousness hovered on the brink of collapse, a seductive voice echoed not through his ears, but directly inside his shattered cerebral cortex.
“Norman Osborn.”
The voice was ancient and icy, oozing with the foul reek of decaying corpses mixed with sulfur.
“What do you desire?”
Norman raised his head with great effort.
He saw a vision.
Reflected on the laboratory’s massive one-way mirror was no longer his own face, but a burning scroll of parchment.
“I want…
Oscorp…
I want to…
kill them…” Norman’s sanity snapped completely, leaving behind only the most primal desire.
“I want to crush…
everyone who looked down on me…
into dust!”
“Deal.”
The voice chuckled darkly.
*Sign and seal it with your soul.*
*Power.*
*This is the missing piece of my puzzle.*
Norman tottered to his feet as his spine popped like cracking firecrackers.
His body stretched forcibly, bones tearing through flesh only to heal back in an instant.
The green personal armor suit sitting nearby seemed drawn by magnetic force.
With a loud *clang*, it shattered its display case and flew toward Norman.
The metallic armor plates clamped onto his skin.
*Sizzle—*
A sickening sound of corrosion echoed.
This wasn’t equipping armor.
This was fusion.
Under the corruption of dark-red energy, twisted runes surfaced across the cold alloy suit, pulsing over the metal surface like living blood vessels.
The eyepieces flared to life.
No longer a cool, high-tech green light, but two leaping, ghostly flames from the depths of hell.
Norman raised a hand.
A pumpkin bomb materialized automatically in his palm.
It was no longer a simple chemical explosive.
The carved smiley face on its surface contorted, opening its mouth to spew a crimson tongue of fire.
“The board of directors…”
Norman’s voice had changed.
It sounded like rusty metal plates grinding together, or a demon roaring from the bottom of an abyss.
“I’ll be presiding over tonight’s meeting in person.”
…
Midtown High School, lunch break.
The noisy cafeteria overflowed with teenage hormones and the greasy aroma of fried food.
Peter Parker stood in the middle of the aisle, head bowed.
By his feet lay a smashed sandwich turned into complete mush.
Aunt May had woken up at five this morning to make it, adding extra cheese because she thought Peter looked too thin lately.
A foot stepped on it, grinding hard to crush the breadcrumbs into the dirt.
“My bad, Microwave Parker.”
Flash Thompson shrugged exaggeratedly, a sickeningly arrogant smirk plastered on his face—the trademark look of a high school bully.
“I really didn’t see you standing there.
I mean, you’re pretty much invisible anyway, right?”
A scattered wave of snickers rose around them.
The pathetic laughter of those eager to curry favor with the strong.
Peter didn’t move.
His eyes remained locked onto the flattened sandwich.
Aunt May’s back wasn’t good.
The sight of her busy silhouette in the kitchen.
Her fingers wrapped in Band-Aids.
An uncontrollable rage, surging alongside a strange power he had never experienced before, bolted straight to Peter’s head.
“Pick it up.”
Peter’s voice was very quiet.
“What?” Flash cupped a hand over his ear, feigning deafness.
“What did you say?
Speak up, nerd.”
“I told you…”
Peter snapped his head up.
His usually mild, obedient brown eyes shrank into pinpoint pupils.
Instinctively, his right hand gripped the edge of the stainless-steel cafeteria table beside him.
His fingers tightened.
*Screeech—!*
A jarring screech of tearing metal instantly cut through all the noise in the cafeteria.
Dead silence fell over the room.
Everyone’s eyes were drawn like magnets to Peter’s hand.
The industrial-grade stainless-steel table—three millimeters thick and welded to the floor—was groaning in agony.
The hard steel plate yielded like thin paper, crumpling and warping beneath that deceptively slender hand.
Weld points snapped apart.
Peter stood holding a corner torn straight off the stainless-steel table.
The jagged edge bore four deep, distinct finger indentations.
*Clang.*
Deprived of support, half the table crashed heavily to the floor.
“…”
The smirk on Flash Thompson’s face froze.
He instinctively took half a step back, his Adam’s apple bobbing hard.
He glanced at Peter’s hand, then at his own prized biceps.
Cold sweat dripped down his temples.
Was this guy even human?
If that hand grabbed his neck instead…
Peter froze too.
As the adrenaline drained away, sanity rushed back.
Staring at the twisted piece of scrap metal in his hand, his face went deathly pale.
He messed up.
Completely and utterly messed up.
Exposing this kind of power in front of everyone meant the end of a peaceful life.
It meant research institutes, the military, or crazy scientists dissecting him on a table…
“I…
the table…” Peter panicked and dropped his grip.
The metal piece slammed onto the floor with a crisp thud.
“It…
it broke…”
The eyes of the surrounding students shifted.
Fear, alienation—they looked at him like he was a monster.
In the middle of that suffocating silence, a hand clapped onto Peter’s shoulder.
“Told you this school’s infrastructure was built on cheap tofu-dregs.”
Leon’s voice cut in right on cue, oozing disgust and disdain.
He strolled out from behind the crowd, holding an ice-cold Coke.
Bending down, he picked up the crumpled chunk of stainless steel and bounced it in his hand.
“Stainless steel?
This is literally just recycled soda cans pressed together.”
Leon casually tossed the scrap back onto the table, then turned to stare at the stunned Flash Thompson as if looking at an idiot.
“And you, Flash.”
Leon pointed at the ruined table.
“I know you’ve been lifting weights lately to show off for the cheerleaders, but do you really have to take it out on school property?
Everyone saw it—you sat your heavy ass on the table, and that’s why it caved.”
“I…
I didn’t!” Flash instinctively blurted out.
“It was clearly him—”
“Peter?” Leon raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the skinny teenager standing beside him.
“You think this nerd who does nothing but read books and take photos could rip steel apart with his bare hands?
Are you insulting everyone’s intelligence, or do you just think physics class was a suggestion?”
The students exchanged looks.
It did make sense.
Compared to Peter, the well-known nerd, Flash—the varsity football captain—seemed much more capable of doing that kind of damage.
Sure, ripping steel by hand sounded absurd, but what if the table was just garbage quality?
“These tables just look shiny on the outside,” Leon pressed on, knocking his knuckles against the surface to produce a hollow sound.
“See?
Proof of cut corners.
I’ll have Ben write a letter to the school board later.
What if a collapsing table crushes a student next time?”
Without giving Flash any chance to defend himself, he dragged the still-dazed Peter toward the door.
“Let’s go, Peter.
Since the table’s broken, let’s eat on the roof.
I brought two pizzas anyway.”
Only after their figures vanished past the cafeteria doors did the noise gradually return to the room.
“Was it really bad table quality?”
“Duh!
You actually think Parker can tear through steel?
He can’t even unscrew a bottle cap.”
“Fair point…
but man, Flash does have a heavy ass.”
Flash Thompson stood rooted to the spot, his face turning the color of pig liver as he listened to the whispers around him.
Staring at the deformed corner of the table, he genuinely began to question his reality: *Was the table really that fragile?*
…
On the rooftop.
The wind blew strong.
Leaning against the railing, Peter looked down at his hands, which were still trembling.
“Thanks, Leon,” Peter said, his voice raspy.
“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have known how to explain it.”
“Explain what?
That you’re Popeye who ate his spinach?”
Leon bit into a slice of pizza and leaned next to Peter, gazing out at the distant Manhattan skyline.
Across his retina, the data stream of [Tactical Analysis] was rapidly updating.
In that split second earlier, he had clearly measured the exact force behind Peter’s grip.
[Grip Force Burst: 3.8 tons]
[Status: Emotional fluctuation caused bio-field containment breach]
This was the potential of Spider-Man.
“Peter,” Leon suddenly said.
“Sometimes power is like a loaded gun.
You can’t just throw the gun away because you’re scared of a misfire.
You have to learn how to keep the safety on.”
Peter turned to look at his younger brother—younger, yet acting as though he saw through everything.
“You don’t seem…
surprised at all?”
“Surprised by what?
That you’re strong?” Leon shrugged, shoving the last piece of pizza into his mouth.
“In a New York where mutants roam the streets and aliens could drop from the sky at any second, even if you told me you could shoot webs, I’d think it makes sense.”
Peter’s heart jolted, and he gave a forced laugh.
“Ha…
shoot webs…
that’d be so gross.
Only spiders do that.”
Leon didn’t expose him.
He brushed the crumbs off his hands and stood up straight.
Because just moments ago, his [Tactical Analysis] had picked up an extremely dangerous signal source.
Coming from the direction of Oscorp Tower.
Leon narrowed his eyes, staring in that direction.
“Looks like Norman Osborn drank the serum after all.
Guess someone doesn’t want us living a quiet life.”
Meanwhile…
Oscorp Tower, top floor.
Standing before the massive floor-to-ceiling window, a figure cloaked in swirling dark-red aura looked down upon all of New York City.
Norman Osborn—or rather, the all-new Green Goblin—extended an armored finger and lightly dragged it across the glass.
*Sizzle—*
The high heat melted the glass, leaving behind a scorched black streak.
He drew a smiley face on the glass.
Hideous, twisted.
“Peter Parker…
Leon Parker…”
Norman’s eyes, burning with hellfire, gleamed with wild insanity.
“Now, I lack nothing!”
*BOOM!*
The glider beneath his feet spewed a trail of mixed green and dark-red flame, carrying this nightmare from hell straight into the clouds.