Chapter 29: How Misunderstandings Arise

Eli leaned against the wall, unmoving, a trace of mockery curling at his lips.

Someone was storming the prison.

Of course, it had nothing to do with him. He didn’t believe anyone would come to rescue him—he wasn’t important, and he had no one outside.

He was reflecting.

The police couldn’t find the reason for Lucy’s disappearance, Joseph had been beaten into a vegetative state and couldn’t be interrogated, and the book’s existence would never be leaked.

His charges were mainly for malicious injury; the laboratory accident couldn’t be pinned on him. Though sentenced to several years, he would eventually get out.

When that happened, he had to find that book.

It was the Book of God, containing the knowledge to become divine!

“I’m doing this for all humanity!” Eli clenched his fists, persuading himself again and again.

With the book’s secrets, he could create matter from nothing.

He could solve the food crisis, end famine for the world, even create life itself—freeing women from the pain of pregnancy and childbirth, freeing men from doubts about paternity.

Men would not need women; women would not need men. Love would be just love, true love transcending gender and race.

Even if you fell in love with a snake, a ghost, a tree, or a stone, you could still have offspring, defying reproductive isolation, regardless of gender.

He would become humanity’s hero, and the only god in their hearts and eyes.

Thinking these thoughts, Eli straightened his back.

Suddenly, gunshots rang out.

He shrank into the corner, afraid of being caught by stray bullets.

Looks like the prison breakers are formidable.

Who do they want to rescue?

That corrupt politician? Or the boss of Fifth Street?

It didn’t matter; it had nothing to do with him.

The gunfire grew more intense, muffled groans echoed.

Were they fighting outside the door?

Eli thought for a moment, then hid under the bed—safer there.

Bang!

The door burst open.

A beam of light flashed.

Eli saw a face appear above the bed board.

Lucy’s ghostly visage.

She grinned.

…

…

In another cell.

A plump, bald man half-reclined on his bed, unconcerned about the commotion outside. On his neck was a large tattoo: the number “5”.

He was the boss of Fifth Street.

Serve his sentence, aim for a reduction—that was his prison strategy.

Plus a steady flow of bribes, and he’d be out in a few years.

Suddenly, the door opened.

A deep voice sounded.

“Boss, we’re here to rescue you!”

Rescue me?

The bald man was stunned, hurriedly waving his hands and shaking his head. “I’m not leaving! I want a reduced sentence… Wait, what nonsense is this? Fifth Street has the guts to storm the prison? What do you think this is, a terrorist attack? Who are you, really? Why rescue me? I won’t leave, I want to reform!”

The darkness masked the bald man’s irritation, and also hid Old Wang’s confusion.

After two seconds of silence, the deep voice spoke again: “That’s not up to you… The Dragon Warrior sends his regards!”

Bang!

A massive fist appeared.

…

…

Five minutes later, the power was restored.

The entire prison was in chaos.

A dozen prison guards had actually attacked their own, but fortunately their numbers were small and order was quickly restored, with no casualties.

Standing outside Eli’s cell, Coulson and Natasha exchanged glances, unsure what to say.

Before them lay a floor littered with the agonized, groaning field agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Including Level 7 agent Grant Ward—other than themselves and Natasha, the whole team had been wiped out.

No broken arms or legs, apparently—the assailant seemed not to want to confront S.H.I.E.L.D. directly, had gone easy on them, hadn’t released any other prisoners to stir up trouble, yet could not be called a good Samaritan.

They’d wounded people in a prison break; could such a person be good?

Eli had been taken.

The mission had failed.

“How many were there?” Coulson worried about his year-end bonus.

After working so hard all year, would he end up with nothing?

His beloved “Lola” still needed a face wipe… er, a paint job!

“One.”

Ward, suppressing his pain, climbed off the ground, both fearful and exhilarated. “Just one person, moved fast, hit hard—we didn’t even have a chance to draw our guns. I’ve never seen such a formidable opponent; he’s a true master, the master of masters!”

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

Never seen? You’ve seen me in action, haven’t you?

So, you think this person is stronger than me?

“How strong?” she asked, eyes dangerous.

Her hands clenched, knuckles cracking.

“I don’t know.”

Ward glanced at Natasha. “Honestly, I don’t. He was too fast—I couldn’t even see him clearly, the whole thing took less than five seconds! And he was so precise, not a single wasted motion, just like a veteran who’s fought hundreds of battles with cold weapons!”

Natasha pondered.

In modern times, where would you find cold weapon warfare?

Could it be a highly trained assassin?

She thought of the Red Room, remembered her own childhood training.

Ward wasn’t inexperienced; his judgment rarely failed.

Stronger than her?

He must have endured the harshest training, and for a long time.

By that logic, the person could be seventy or eighty, completed countless missions, killed many.

Without enough time and experience, it would be impossible to defeat a fully equipped field team so easily, and to hold back besides!

Coulson suddenly thought of something, turned and asked: “Agent Romanoff, could you do it? Defeat the entire field team before they can react?”

Ward snorted inwardly.

Proud as he was, though he admired legendary agent Natasha, he had his dignity!

Boss, what are you saying!

“I could.”

Natasha considered for three seconds, then answered confidently: “But not so quickly. It’s not a matter of skill, but physical ability. My physique can’t support such speed, unless…”

“Unless the person underwent some kind of modification, like Captain America.” Coulson supplied the answer.

He left some words unsaid, because they were classified.

Air Force General Thaddeus E. Ross, known as “Thunderbolt,” had restarted the Super Soldier Program. The current Hulk, previously Dr. Banner, was among its products—an accidental result, a monster.

Similar experiments were not limited to one.

Some military, some government, some even civilian.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had handled more than one such incident.

Would they have to handle another?

There were other possibilities, too—mutation.

Or alien modifications, like Captain Marvel, or high-tech enhancements, like Ant-Man, or ties to mysterious organizations, such as The Hand.

If it were one of those, it wouldn't be so bad.

What he feared most was another kind.

Captain America wasn’t the first to be injected with the Super Soldier Serum; the Hydra leader, Red Skull, was.

And now, Hydra’s symbol had reappeared, even declared, “We’re back”—a declaration of war.

Had Hydra succeeded in recreating the Super Soldier Serum?

Coulson felt a headache coming on.

Ghost Rider, the Darkhold, Hydra, Super Soldier Serum…

This matter was getting more and more complicated!

“Network and communications are back,” Coulson said. “Agent Ward, assist the guards in restoring order. I’ll request a Quinjet, and a field team composed of medical, tech, and ops personnel… Sorry, but all of you must undergo treatment and… interrogation!”

Ward nodded; protocol had to be followed.

What happened next no longer concerned him.

Whether S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra.

Coulson and Natasha soon left.

In a deserted spot, Coulson picked up his communicator and dialed.

“Director, S.H.I.E.L.D. may be in big trouble… Yes, the Hydra symbol has appeared!”