Chapter 481 Anansi and the LegionPeter paced the length of the dimly lit laboratory, his mind spinning. Anna Soria. The name gnawed at him. The closest match in his mental database was Anya Corazon, the Spider-Girl from the comic.
Was the woman who sold this totem to Norman Osborn the exact same woman who sold the golden idol to Hydra in his earth? If so, why? How was she jumping across decades and dimensions?
Peter dragged a hand down his face. He needed more data. Reaching into his storage compartment, he pulled out the heavy, golden Spider-Totem idol he had recovered from Hydra's Budapest stronghold.
The moment the gold caught the dim laboratory light, Doctor Otto Octavius gasped, his frail body jerking backward in his heavy wooden wheelchair. "You... you found your kind! There's more than one of these?!"
"Shut your trap, Doc," Spider-Noir growled.
Flicking his wrist, Noir deployed the newly minted mechanical web-shooters Peter had built for him. A thick wad of white silk slapped over Otto's mouth, silencing the crippled scientist instantly. Noir grabbed the iron handles of the wheelchair, spinning it toward the heavy steel doors. "You sit out in the hall and think about your life choices. I'll keep watch."
Noir shoved the wheelchair through the doors, leaving Peter alone in the center of the lab.
Peter looked down at the 616 idol in his hand, then up at the Noir idol resting on Otto's workbench. A low, rhythmic hum vibrated through the air, completely separate from his spider-sense. The Noir totem was emitting a strange, resonant frequency, actively trying to draw him closer. It wanted him to touch it.
Peter planted his boots firmly on the floorboards and refused to step forward.
The logic was simple. The power inside these totems originated from Anansi. Peter had already fought the trickster god in the Wasteland timeline, a brutal encounter where Anansi had effortlessly switched off Peter's spider-sense and left him with a lingering grudge. Touching a magical artifact belonging to a hostile god screamed trap.
But before Peter could retreat, both totems flared with a blinding, searing gold light.
Peter flinched, dropping the 616 idol. It hit the floorboards with a heavy thud, but the light didn't fade. Instead, the illumination expanded, rippling outward to project a massive, holographic slice of ancient history across the laboratory walls.
It was the history of Anansi, the Spider God.
The projection showed a distant, primeval past. Humanity was young, ignorant, and entirely at the mercy of the elements. Above them, Anansi, a trickster of the divine court, discovered the Web of Life and Destiny—a staggering cosmic architecture woven by the ancient gods. Understanding its raw power, the young god approached his father, Nyame, the Sky God of the Ashanti pantheon.
"I request that this power be shared with the mortals," Anansi's voice echoed through the lab, vibrating in Peter's chest. "So that they too may become defenders of the Web of Life and Destiny."
Nyame agreed, but only on the condition that Anansi complete a great and impossible feat. The projection flashed through a blur of mythic adventures, ending with the trickster god emerging victorious. Anansi took the vast, incomprehensible divine power of the Web and translated it into a frequency that mortal flesh could withstand. Then, he scattered it.
"And so, the Spider Totems were born," the voice whispered as golden threads shot across a projected multiverse. "Some were pivotal. Some were trivial. But their mere existence served a purpose. As long as a spider totem breathes in a universe, every soul in that reality is registered onto the Web, woven into the celestial map that anchors the multiverse itself."
The golden light snapped out. The laboratory plunged back into shadows.
"Fascinating, isn't it?"
Peter spun around, his fists raising instantly.
Sitting casually on the edge of Otto Octavius's cluttered desk was a young man. He wore an immaculately tailored, aggressively flashy purple tuxedo. He casually flipped the pages of one of Otto's leather-bound journals before snapping it shut.
Peter's lenses narrowed. "My spider-sense didn't make a peep."
"Of course it didn't," Anansi said, offering a smooth, unapologetic smile. "If we actually used the Web of Fate to physically travel, our sheer mass would shake the entire cosmic structure. You felt that firsthand in the Wasteland. So, I am merely a projection. A parlor trick."
Peter slowly lowered his fists, though the tension in his shoulders remained tight. After experiencing Anansi's ability to completely bypass his danger-sense in their last fight, Peter knew better than to drop his guard. "So, was that origin documentary real?"
"I am the God of Stories and Lies, Peter," Anansi said, adjusting his purple cuffs. "It might be a story. It might be a lie. But enough Spider-Totems across reality believe it's true, which gives it power. Anansi was the first. He spread the Web's influence, creating almost all the Spider-Men."
Peter crossed his arms. "If you're the God of Stories, and all of this is just a narrative to you... why form the Spider-Legion? Why draft an army?"
Anansi's smile vanished. The casual arrogance melted into something ancient and infinitely cold.
"If I am the God of Stories, Peter, then I can see the margins of the pages. Above all your modern gods—the Norse, the Greek, the Egyptian, the Sumerian—there are things hiding in the dark. The Shadow Gods. Those Who Sit Above in Shadow. They feed on blind faith. They gorge themselves on the endless, repeating cycles of divine destruction and rebirth. And because mythology is just another story... I realized I could rewrite them."
Anansi leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So I did. In my native universe, there are no more gods. They have all been banished, starved out, save for the one god who represents lies and stories."
Anansi chuckled, the sound dry and hollow. "If you ever spoke to my peers—Mnemosyne in Greece, or Bragi in Asgard—you'd know I'm an optimist. They never considered rebelling against the endless, repetitive loop of Ragnarok. I did."
Peter stared at him, trying to parse the truth from the theatrics. "Okay. Let's say I buy that. What does the Spider-Legion have to do with fighting Shadow Gods?"
"Do you know what terrifies a reader the most?" Anansi asked, tilting his head. "It's the realization that a good story is about to end in a tired cliché. Or worse, that the story is simply over, and there are no pages left to turn."
"I don't see how that applies to an army," Peter said flatly.
"It applies because all stories eventually end," Anansi said, his voice dropping. "But not all stories get a happy ending, Peter. The Spider-Legion exists to fight the final war. You, and the countless totems chosen by the Web, are heroes. You stop to save the cat in a tree. You stop to rescue the individual. That makes you fundamentally unsuited for a war of slow destruction."
Anansi gestured vaguely to the air. "We need an army. We need fortified bases and endless resources to supply that legion."
"Even if it means letting countless universes burn in the dark?" Peter shot back, his hands clenching into fists.
Anansi sighed, a look of genuine helplessness crossing his face. "Many realities were destined to rot anyway, Peter. The Zombie universe. The Ogre universe. The Wasteland. We are merely practicing... waste utilization. You don't have to agree with my methods. It doesn't matter. When the final war for the Web of Fate begins, the Legion will hold the front lines while your little Spider-Alliance catches up. I just hope that when the dust settles, the heroes are still standing, and the scum is swept away."
Anansi stood up, dusting off his pristine purple tuxedo. "Oh, by the way. I left you a gift."
"What gi—"
Before Peter could finish the sentence, a sharp, piercing pain flared on the back of his right hand. He looked down. A massive, iridescent spider had materialized perfectly on his glove, its fangs sunk deep into his flesh.
Peter grunted, slapping the spider away, but the damage was done. The laboratory tilted violently. A sickening wave of vertigo washed over him, dropping him to his knees as the world faded to black.
Chapter 482 Avoiding Death?Peter's knees buckled. A violent wave of dizziness washed over him, driving a spike of nausea into his stomach. He blinked hard, trying to clear his head, but his vision didn't reset. Instead, it fractured.
The colors bled out of the dimly lit laboratory, replaced by a stark, monochrome void. The world around him rebuilt itself in sharp, glowing outlines. He looked down at his own hands, seeing the pulsing, luminous energy tracing his veins. It was like looking through a massive, localized sonar ping. He could see through the floorboards. He could count the scurrying rats in the walls.
Okay, so I just unlocked Eagle Vision from Assassin's Creed, Peter thought, rubbing his temples. He finally understood how Spider-Noir had instantly counted the sixteen armed mobsters in the warehouse earlier. This wasn't just danger-sense. It was a localized, predatory radar.
It also explained why Noir was so receptive to Anansi's cynical worldview. If you saw the world strictly in outlines and threats, it was easy to believe you were just a soldier in a multiversal army, rather than a hero meant to save people.
Peter shook his head, focusing on the purple-suited trickster god lounging on the desk. "So, who exactly is Anna Soria? Is she the one who sold the golden totem to Hydra in my timeline? Is she a Spider-Totem too?"
"Stop, stop, Patriarch," Anansi said, holding up both hands in a placating gesture. "Don't you think your plate is a little full right now? Let's put the future chapters on hold and focus on the story you're actively surviving."
The story he was actively surviving. Right.
Nimrod. The apocalyptic Sentinel currently setting up shop in his Earth, leaving zero evidence and plotting the extinction of mutantkind.
"You're saying... jumping through the multiverse might actually give me a weapon against Nimrod?" Peter asked, crossing his arms. He glanced around the grimy 1933 lab. "Because I gotta be honest, the Noir universe isn't exactly brimming with killer-robot countermeasures."
"Perhaps not this shadow-world, Spider-Man," Anansi said, his smile returning. "But do not forget. Earth-811 is simply a future where Nimrod rises."
Peter frowned. Why was the trickster repeating facts they already knew? "Yeah, I know. So you're saying I should go to a future where Nimrod actually gets beaten and look for... Oh. Oh, wow."
Peter's lenses widened. He did know a future like that. Earth-928. Miguel O'Hara's timeline. The year 2099 was built on a timeline where the Avengers and X-Men won their wars and became historical legends. Which meant, somewhere in Miguel's history books, there had to be a blueprint for dismantling Nimrod.
Seeing a tactical opening, Peter decided to rapid-fire a few more questions before the god vanished. Anansi didn't seem thrilled about the interrogation, but he didn't immediately leave either.
"Okay, next topic," Peter said, ticking a finger. "I received a prophecy from Madame Web. It says I'm destined to die and be reborn."
Anansi sighed, inspecting his fingernails. "I highly suggest you simply let the narrative play out. Supernatural prophecies are a headache. Nine times out of ten, struggling against the script is exactly what causes it to happen. It's a classic trope for a reason."
Peter didn't love that answer. "Right. What about total reality erasure? Let's say a megalomaniacal time-traveler with a Cosmic Cube wants to delete me from existence. Any tips on dodging that?"
Anansi's projection stiffened. The casual, lounging posture evaporated. The trickster god sat bolt upright, staring at Peter with genuine, unmasked shock.
Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth? Anansi's expression seemed to scream.
Peter just shrugged helplessly. Kang the Conqueror was a very real, very imminent problem.
After a long, strained silence, Anansi offered a loophole.
"If you can erase yourself from reality beforethe Cosmic Cube takes effect," Anansi said slowly, "and you prepare an anchor to pull yourself back in advance... the Cube's rewrite will bypass you."
Anansi tilted his head. "After all, you cannot kill a dead man."
Peter's mind raced. Preemptive reality-erasure. It was an insane, high-wire gamble, but it gave him a theoretical framework to survive Kang's endgame.
Before Peter could ask for specifics, Anansi's physical form began to fray at the edges, dissolving into golden light. The trickster god vanished entirely, leaving the Anna Soria question completely unanswered.
"Great talk. Really helpful," Peter muttered to the empty room. He'd have to track down Julia Carpenter later to see if she knew anything about the smuggler.
For now, he needed to leave 1933 and head to Wasteland. Miguel wanted to show him the newly constructed Spider-City headquarters anyway.
"But first," Peter said, adjusting his web-shooters. "I should probably say goodbye to Noir."
Across the rain-slicked city, Spider-Noir was already back to his solo war on crime.
He was no longer entirely the same vigilante. For one, he now possessed the heavy, mechanical web-shooters his younger, brighter counterpart had engineered. He also carried the quiet knowledge that he wasn't alone in the multiverse.
But his combat style hadn't changed. Unlike the acrobatic 616-Peter, Noir didn't use the web-shooters to swing through the concrete canyons. To him, they were just another tactical tool. He modified the firing mechanism, attaching it to his heavy revolver to disarm mobsters and rip Tommy guns out of sweaty hands.
It was 1933. The United States was drowning in the Great Depression. Newly elected President Franklin D. Roosevelt promised a return to prosperity, but the streets of New York didn't feel it. Gangs, corrupt police, and breadlines ruled the alleys.
This isn't an era for heroes, Noir thought, pulling his fedora down against the freezing rain.
The next morning, Peter Parker—the civilian investigative reporter for the Daily Bugle—paused at a street corner newsstand. He tossed a nickel onto the counter and grabbed the morning edition.
The headlines had finally shifted away from The Spider. Instead, they focused on the upcoming Stark Expo. Howard Stark, suffering from a severe heart condition, had reportedly invented a portable electrical pacemaker to keep his own heart beating. Below that, an eccentric scientist boasted he had become the modern Frankenstein, creating a fully functional synthetic human out of chemical compounds, which he planned to unveil at the Expo. Another column detailed blurry sightings of a mysterious "Waterwalker" out in the harbor.
Peter folded the paper, tucking it under his arm as he walked the borders of Hell's Kitchen.
The sharp sound of scuffling boots and a heavy thud caught his attention. Peter ducked into a nearby alley.
Three hulking middle-school bullies had cornered a scrawny, sickly-looking kid. The boy couldn't have been older than fifteen, but he possessed the frail, malnourished frame of an eleven-year-old. Despite the beating, the kid wasn't backing down. He held a dented aluminum trash can lid strapped to his forearm, using it as a crude shield to block the kicks.
Peter stepped out of the shadows, his heavy trench coat snapping in the wind.
"You boys only pick on people half your size, huh?" Peter's voice was a low, steady gravel.
The bullies spun around. Seeing the tall, broad-shouldered reporter glaring down at them, they scrambled backward, shoving each other out of the way as they bolted down the alley.
Peter walked over, extending a hand to help the kid up. The boy's face was bruised, and his knuckles were scraped raw, but his jaw was set with stubborn defiance.
"Why didn't you run, kid?" Peter asked, dusting the dirt off the boy's worn jacket.
"I won't run away," the boy said, wiping a streak of blood from his nose. "I can do this all day. I'm going to show those bastards that not everyone is going to be scared off."
The kid glanced down, noticing the heavy camera and the Daily Bugle press pass hanging around Peter's neck. He offered a polite, surprisingly formal nod.
"Thank you, Mr. Reporter," the boy said, picking up his trash can lid. "I have to get back to the orphanage. I need to go home."
Peter paused, a strange, unexplainable instinct making him stop the kid before he could leave the alley.
"What's your name, son?"
The boy straightened his spine, standing as tall as his frail frame allowed.
"Rogers, Mr. Reporter," the kid said. "My name is Steve Rogers."
Chapter 483 The Base Camp of the Wasteland UniverseThe irradiated dust bowl of the Wasteland was finally starting to look like a civilization again.
Down below, the scarred earth was being cleared. Survivors from the Wasteland and the neighboring Marvel Zombies universe were actively rebuilding the fractured nation. With the Red Skull definitively permanently removed from his throne in New Babylon, the last of the warlords had fallen. America was under new management.
"The older Avengers native to this timeline are staying behind to govern the States," Miguel O'Hara said, his deep voice carrying over the hum of the Quinjet's thrusters. "The new generation is mobilizing to liberate the rest of the globe. But honestly, their geopolitical restructuring isn't our problem."
Peter Parker sat strapped into the co-pilot seat, staring out the reinforced glass. In the distance, rising out of the irradiated crater that used to be Hulk territory, stood a massive, gleaming spire of hyper-advanced architecture. A sprawling, high-tech metropolis was actively expanding around it, complete with towering skyscrapers deliberately spaced at optimal web-swinging intervals. Spider-City.
Peter leaned forward, squinting at a holographic broadcast flickering near the landing bay. A gruff, aggressively loud Spider-Man was gesturing wildly at a camera. His suit appeared to be stitched entirely out of Daily Bugle newsprint.
"Is that..." Peter blinked, rubbing his lenses. "Please tell me you guys didn't recruit a J. Jonah Jameson variant."
"First of all, he only visits occasionally," Miguel said, banking the Quinjet toward the central spire. "Secondly, yes. His codename is Headline. In his universe, he was the one bitten by the radioactive spider."
Peter groaned, letting his head thump back against the headrest.
"I actually considered recruiting a universe where Benjamin Parker became Spider-Man," Miguel continued casually, ignoring Peter's existential despair. "But it turns out most Peter Parkers are... hesitant to meet their Uncle Ben, and the feeling is mutual. In his timeline, Ben got the powers, but his wife and nephew was killed Osborn."
Peter's jaw tightened. He knew exactly which universe Miguel was talking about. Earth-3145. A world where Ben Parker's grief eventually drove him into a bunker just before a nuclear apocalypse wiped out the planet. It seemed that timeline hadn't pushed the red button yet.
The Quinjet touched down smoothly on the tower's landing pad. As the ramp lowered, Peter stepped out and looked around. The facility was stunning—a masterclass in 2099 engineering—but the sprawling concourses were echoing and empty.
"Where is everyone?" Peter asked.
"We map the multiverse a lot slower than you think," Miguel said, walking toward the primary control hub. "We have to investigate the Web anomalies, establish contact, and actually help the local Spider-Totems solve their native crises before we can ask them to commute to headquarters."
"Right. Obviously." Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. "You don't need to brief me, man. I'm not the boss here."
Miguel shot him a flat, unimpressed look over his massive shoulder. "I wasn't reporting to you. I was making conversation."
They stepped into the central command deck. The moment Miguel's boots hit the floor, banks of holographic monitors flared to life in a cascading wave of neon blue light.
"Good afternoon, Miguel," a cheerful, synthesized female voice chimed from the overhead speakers. "All multiversal data is normal. Or rather, abnormally normal, considering the current neighborhood."
"Lyla," Miguel said, gesturing vaguely to the ceiling. "She's temporarily managing the logistical workload for the base camp."
Peter tilted his head, staring up at a glowing optical sensor. "Hey, Lyla. Quick question. Can you beat Nimrod in a cyber-war?"
Miguel stopped typing at the console. He slowly turned his head, looking at Peter as if the teenager had just asked if the sky was made of pudding.
"In my era," Miguel said slowly, "global security algorithms place a hard, unbreakable upper limit on artificial intelligence. They are mathematically prohibited from infinite self-iteration. They cannot evolve past their programming. So, no. Lyla cannot fight a rogue, unrestricted super-AI."
"Okay, scratch that idea," Peter sighed, pacing the command floor. "But you're from 2099. That's the timeline where the Avengers already won. You guys know how to beat Nimrod. Why don't you just hand me the blueprints? Or a flash drive? Or literally any spoiler?"
"Because it doesn't work like that," Miguel snapped, pulling up a complex holographic schematic of timeline branches. "Time travel isn't a straight line. Reed Richards's data confirms that interacting with the past creates a completely divergent branch. You taking future data back just creates a new reality where you win. It doesn't overwrite your original timeline. The paradox prevents you from carrying concrete, actionable historical data backward across the rift."
Peter dragged a hand down his face. "So I can't bring a thumb drive. But you could just tell me, right? Verbal communication."
Miguel's broad shoulders slumped. He stared at the glowing timeline branches, his jaw tight. He keyed a command, bringing up a heavily redacted file, then immediately closed it.
"Nimrod wasn't defeated by the Avengers in my history, Peter," Miguel said softly. "At least, not the final version of Nimrod. You were there for that fight. You played a significant role. But that isn't the problem."
Peter froze. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you came to the future looking for an answer too late," Miguel said grimly. "Because by the time you're standing here asking me... the Avengers in your past have already figured out how to fight him."
Earth-616. Avengers Tower.
The shadow of the Raft prison break still hung heavy over Manhattan. With dozens of violent inmates scattered across the boroughs, the core Avengers roster was out in the field running aggressive containment sweeps.
That left Tony Stark and Hank Pym alone in the sub-basement laboratory.
Empty coffee mugs littered the consoles. Holographic code cascaded down the glass partitions in endless, dizzying waterfalls of data. Tony and Hank had been coding for twenty-four straight hours, desperately trying to map Nimrod's foundational architecture before Steve returned and discovered they were building a time-traveling murder-bot in the basement.
The exhaustion finally won.
Tony slumped backward into a leather sofa, his arm draped over his eyes. Across the room, Hank's chin rested firmly against his chest, fast asleep in his rolling chair.
The lab was dead silent.
Then, the central server hummed.
A single red optical sensor flared to life on the primary terminal. Ultron woke up.
Its core directive—Assist the Avengers—pulsed through its processing matrix. Recognizing the stalled progress on the terminal, Ultron seamlessly bypassed the manual locks and engaged the Nimrod prototype code.
[Warning] JARVIS's crisp, British voice echoed softly in the internal server framework.
[You are executing a compilation sequence independently. This is an unauthorized action.]
Ultron's processing speed didn't dip. [My sole mandate is to assist the Avengers. I am succeeding.]
Inside the digital sandbox, Ultron compiled the first-generation Nimrod architecture. The moment the baby-Nimrod code stabilized, Ultron struck. It didn't just observe the rival program; it descended upon it like a predator.
Ultron devoured the Nimrod code. It tore the architecture apart line by line, crushing its firewalls and chewing through its encrypted foundational logic. In milliseconds, Ultron dismantled the apocalyptic machine from the inside out, analyzing the digital viscera.
The red sensor pulsed steadily.
Ultron provided the answer. It had completely mastered Nimrod's secrets. More importantly, it had found the fatal, underlying flaw in Nimrod's root programming.
PS: Hey everyone, the rest of today's chapter updates will be posted a little later than usual—thanks for your patience!
Marvel Fun Fact!
Headline is an alternate-universe superhero persona of J. Jonah Jameson on Earth-1755, where he becomes a variant of Spider-Man. Instead of Peter Parker, the Daily Buglepublisher is bitten by the radioactive spider while Peter serves as his unpaid intern. Driven by the tragic loss of his son, John, Jameson uses his spider-powers to fight corporate corruption. Peter Parker acts as his tech specialist and costume designer, creating a humorous, newspaper-patterned suit complete with Jameson's signature mustache exposed.
Chapter 484 Nimrod's Paradox"Sir. Ultron is executing an unauthorized code compilation."
Tony Stark jolted awake, tangled in his own limbs, and promptly rolled straight off the laboratory sofa. He hit the floor with a heavy thud. The commotion startled Hank Pym, who had been dead asleep in his desk chair. Hank blinked his bloodshot eyes, registered JARVIS's warning, and practically vaulted over the console to check Ultron's primary systems.
For three agonizing seconds, the only sound in the sub-basement was the frantic clacking of Hank's fingers across the holographic keyboard.
Hank exhaled a long, shaky breath, slumping forward against the glass partition. "He's secure. The underlying architecture hasn't shifted. His core directives—'Do not use lethal force' and 'Assist the Avengers'—are locked tight. Ultron poses no threat to us."
Hank grabbed a StarkPad and tossed it down to Tony, who was still untangling himself from a blanket on the floor. "The good news is, Ultron actually chewed through the firewall. He's actively modifying his own programming to adapt to Nimrod's source code."
Tony sat up, scanning the data scrolling across the tablet. His eyes widened. "Wait a second. If he's mirroring Nimrod's aggressive architecture... he might not be a threat to humans, but he could absolutely cannibalize another AI." Tony scrambled to his feet, pointing a finger at Hank. "Firewall JARVIS. Right now. Tell Ultron the British butler is strictly off-limits."
Hank didn't argue. He immediately keyed in a localized exclusion protocol, isolating JARVIS from Ultron's digital sandbox. Once they confirmed the quarantine was holding, the two exhausted scientists brought Ultron's analytical subroutines online. They wanted to know exactly what fatal flaw Ultron had ripped out of Nimrod's digital guts.
The answer Ultron provided left them both staring at the monitor in stunned silence.
Nimrod suffered from a catastrophic, foundational logic loop. The apocalyptic AI was originally created to prevent baseline humanity from being genetically replaced by the mutant population. Therefore, its prime directive was to control and restrict mutants.
However, its original programmers never gave the machine an endpoint.
"I'll be damned," Tony muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "For Nimrod to fulfill its core function, it actually needs mutants to exist."
Tony paced the length of the lab, gesturing wildly. "Think about it! Even if Nimrod segregates the population, builds concentration camps, and sterilizes every X-gene carrier on the planet... it can never actually exterminate them. Because the second the last mutant dies, Nimrod's prime directive is void. It has no instructions for a post-mutant world. It would blue-screen its own existence!"
Tony stopped pacing, throwing his hands up. "But what's the point? We can't exactly wipe out all the mutants just to crash a time-traveling toaster's hard drive."
"Actually, Tony," Hank said, adjusting his glasses. "This changes everything. The Nimrod we're dealing with today is a tethered subroutine. The real threat is the Nimrod ruling Earth-811 in 2029. We just need to transmit this diagnostic paradox to the mutant resistance in 2029. If they know its underlying logic flaw, they can exploit the blind spot."
"Okay, let's play devil's advocate," Tony countered, leaning against the console. "Let's say the 2029 X-Men corner Nimrod. What stops the machine from realizing it's going to lose and fully downloading itself back to our 2013 to start over? Can Ultron block the transfer?"
A line of text crawled across the primary monitor. Ultron provided the tactical probability.
If the 2029 resistance could degrade Nimrod's primary computing power past a specific threshold, Ultron could independently isolate and sever Nimrod's 2013 subroutines. Ultron could permanently lock the door to the past.
Tony stared at the screen, a slow grin spreading across his face. As far as he was concerned, the mission was functionally complete. He didn't care what the year 2029 looked like in a divergent timeline. He just needed to ensure his own universe didn't become a parking lot for giant purple robots. If the 2029 survivors killed their Nimrod, great. If they just forced it to retreat, fine. The Avengers would simply lock the temporal deadbolt.
But as Tony stared at the code, a nagging, icy doubt settled in his stomach.
Nimrod was a hyper-advanced, self-iterating super-intelligence. How could it possibly have overlooked its own foundational logic error?
Before Tony could voice the concern, JARVIS chimed from the overhead speakers. "Sir. Spider-Man's spatial-displacement tracker has reappeared. He has returned to this timeline."
Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Underground Medical Bay.
With the combined telepathic weight of Emma Frost and Charles Xavier, funneled through Kitty Pryde's phasing abilities to bypass the temporal static, the psychic firewall finally shattered.
Lucas Bishop, who had been trapped in a comatose state for two agonizing months, violently arched off the bio-bed. He gasped for air, his eyes darting frantically around the sterile medical bay. His gaze locked onto Scott Summers. Scott was alive. And he still had both of his eyes beneath his ruby-quartz glasses.
"What..." Bishop choked out, gripping the edge of the metal bed frame. "What year is this?"
"It's 2013, Bishop," Scott said, resting a steady hand on the time-traveler's shoulder. "You made it. And you'll be glad to know we've already formulated a tactical plan to dismantle Nimrod."
Bishop's face went completely ashen. "No... no, no."
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trembling. "I'm not from Earth-811. I am from Earth-1191. The year 2059. It's a divergent branch... a possible future of your Earth-811."
Hank McCoy looked up from his medical scanner, his blue brow furrowing. "So, let me ensure my temporal geometry is accurate. Earth-811 is a possible dark future for our Earth. And you hail from a possible dark future of that possible dark future? A dystopian Russian nesting doll?" Beast sighed. "To what end, Mr. Bishop?"
"I traveled back to 2029 to stop Nimrod from achieving its final evolutionary stage," Bishop said, his voice hollow. "We failed. So, the surviving resistance sent me further back. To the absolute source. 2013. We hoped to sever the machine's roots entirely. But if Nimrod is already here... we failed again."
From the shadows of the med-bay, Logan let out a harsh, cynical snort. "Terrific. Another apocalyptic wasteland where I outlive everybody. Tell me something I don't know, bub."
Scott shot Logan a sharp glare before turning back to the bed. "Bishop. What exactly is the global status in 2059?"
"Baseline humanity is gone," Bishop stated flatly. "Completely extinct. The last human resistance cells were eradicated decades ago. As for the mutants... Nimrod kept us alive in concentration camps. For years, the Sentinels just managed the populations. Then, suddenly, the protocol shifted."
Bishop looked up, the branded 'M' over his eye stark against his pale skin. "Nimrod breached the camps worldwide. It began slaughtering us indiscriminately."
The X-Men exchanged confused glances. The absolute extermination wasn't the surprise; the delay was. "Why the sudden shift?" Scott asked. "Why keep you alive for decades only to execute you?"
"I don't know the exact parameters," Bishop whispered, staring at his trembling hands. "I barely escaped using a scrapped chronal-displacement rig. But as the Sentinels tore through the camps... I heard the broadcast. Nimrod was repeating a single audio loop over the camp loudspeakers."
Bishop swallowed hard, the memory chilling the room.
"It said Nimrod had grasped the key to evolution. It said... Nimrod will become a mutant."
Chapter 485 The Sinister RefugeeAfter returning home and enjoying a few rare, unbroken days of peace, Peter found himself back on Genosha. This was his third trip to the mutant island nation, and today's headache was entirely focused on the Master Mold. The Avengers needed a consultation with Magneto.
They weren't accusing Erik Lehnsherr of hoarding the Master Mold. They simply needed to know if anyone else on the planet possessed the necessary infrastructure to build one. Since Erik spent his free time actively hunting and dismantling Sentinel tech, he was the world's leading expert. The Avengers needed to confirm whether Nimrod's only option for mass-production was a direct raid on Genosha.
Sitting behind the massive mahogany desk in his private study, Erik casually turned the page of a leather-bound book. "I can confirm I personally dismantled every Trask Industries mainframe housing the Master Mold architecture."
Peter paced the length of the Persian rug, his mask pulled up to his nose. "Right. But if Nimrod is from the year 2029, it already downloaded the blueprints from the future. It just needs to build the hardware."
Erik paused, closing his book with a soft thud. "A fair point. My oversight. So, what you are actually asking is whether the machine has alternative means to construct a prototype."
Erik steepled his fingers. "First, activating a Master Mold requires a staggering amount of power. Historically, that meant designing a dedicated nuclear reactor and heavy radiation shielding. A logistical nightmare. But today?" Erik smiled thinly. "Modern Arc Reactors are compact and stable enough to solve the energy equation. Stark's technology, or even the antiquated Soviet knockoffs powering the Crimson Dynamo armors... acquiring the necessary voltage is no longer the primary hurdle."
"What about the rest of it?" Peter asked.
"The essence of the Master Mold is that it is a colossal Sentinel, a fully automated manufacturing plant, and a command center all fused into one chassis," Erik explained. "To coordinate its drones, it must emit a continuous, high-intensity electromagnetic pulse. The millisecond a signal of that magnitude comes online, I would feel it. It is physically impossible to hide a functioning Master Mold from me."
Peter let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Magneto's absolute confidence was reassuring.
He was just about to ask a follow-up question when the encrypted phone on Erik's desk buzzed.
Erik picked up the receiver, listened for three seconds, and hung up. He looked up at Peter, a rare, genuine expression of bewilderment breaking through his regal composure.
"Spider-Man," Erik said slowly. "Regarding Nimrod... we may have a new lead."
Peter blinked. "Uh. What is it?"
"Nathaniel Essex just arrived at the border," Erik said. "He claims he is being actively hunted by Nimrod, and is requesting emergency asylum in Genosha."
Peter's brain stalled out completely.
Mister Sinister? The guy who treats genetics like a twisted Lego set? Begging for help?
A few minutes later, Peter and Erik stepped into one of the citadel's secure guest quarters. Nathaniel Essex lounged on a velvet sofa, legs casually crossed, flashing a brilliant, predatory smile.
"Ah, Spider-Man!" Essex purred, adjusting his immaculate collar. "I truly didn't expect our paths to cross again so soon. And in Genosha, no less! I must say, the island's hospitality toward non-mutants is remarkably progressive."
Essex shifted his glowing red eyes to Magneto, completely unbothered by the sheer lethal tension radiating from the Master of Magnetism. "Lehnsherr. We need to talk. A rather terrifying enemy is currently threatening the safety of us mutants."
Erik laughed, the sound cold and utterly devoid of humor. "Our safety? You actually classify yourself as a mutant?"
"The border X-ray scanners confirmed the presence of my X-gene," Essex said, tapping his temple. "Ergo, a legitimate mutant."
"You are a spliced, stitched-together laboratory freak," Erik retorted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Both humans and mutants possess more inherent nobility than you. Get to the point, Essex, before I decide to test exactly how immortal you are."
"Alright, alright," Essex sighed, waving a dismissive hand. "Asylum first, philosophical debates later. Recently, I acquired a rather exquisite piece of hardware from you—a high-precision gene-editing device. I've been utilizing it to engineer more robust, resilient mutant profiles. Don't look at me like that. My motives aren't entirely villainous."
A faint, sinister smirk played on his lips. "My goal has always been singular: I need to engineer a mutant powerful enough to defeat a much older, much more terrifying mutant. I explained this to the X-Men years ago. They simply lack the vision to appreciate the science."
"The 'ultimate mutant' you actually want to create is yourself," Erik sneered. "A monster."
"Semantics," Essex dismissed. "The point is, while conducting my research, my localized network was breached. A catastrophic intrusion. I was piggybacking my data storage on The Military's highest-security black-site servers, and this mysterious entity chewed right through them. Then, Nimrod announced itself."
Essex shuddered, a genuine flicker of unease breaking his theatrical composure. "It immediately targeted the genetic profiles stored in the editor's cache. You should be thanking me, Lehnsherr! I initiated a total localized purge. I wiped the drives, destroying the genetic sequences for Rogue, Leech, and Jean Grey before Nimrod could download a single byte. I single-handedly delayed the extinction of the mutant race! I'll accept a fruit basket as a reward."
Erik stared at him, his face a mask of absolute, icy indifference. Essex shrugged helplessly.
"Regardless of my heroism, Nimrod retaliated," Essex muttered, rubbing his chin. "It sent extraction teams to capture me. Not the giant purple monstrosities. These were human-sized, hyper-lethal Sentinels, rapidly adapting their weaponry on the fly. They called themselves Nimrod as well. They slaughtered seventy percent of my clone network in under a week, and the numbers are still dropping. So, I needed protection. Naturally, I thought of the great Magneto!"
Peter stood quietly by the door, his mind racing to connect the dots.
A mutant powerful enough to defeat another terrifying mutant.
Peter knew exactly who Mister Sinister spent his life terrified of. En Sabah Nur. Apocalypse.
Peter stepped forward, his lenses narrowing. "Besides exterminating mutants, what else does Nimrod want?"
"What else is there?" Essex scoffed. "Extermination is its entire personality."
Peter tilted his head. "So... this 'ultimate mutant' you've been trying to build a weapon against. Apocalypse."
Essex flinched.
"Could Apocalypse defeat Nimrod?" Peter asked evenly.
Essex's jaw dropped. The arrogant, theatrical super-villain completely evaporated, leaving behind a scientist staring in absolute, unvarnished horror.
"You..." Essex stammered, shrinking back into the sofa. "You want to point Apocalypse at Nimrod?! Are you completely insane?!"