The Brooklyn cemetery was quiet, save for the rustle of autumn leaves and the distant hum of a city that had long since learned to live without Captain America. Steve Rogers lay against the roots of an old oak tree beside his gravestone. "Steven G. Rogers – Soldier, Hero, Friend." The inscription was nearly obscured by time and crimson leaves.
His breathing slowed, the years finally catching up with him. The sun set gently through the branches, casting long shadows. Steve watched it all with peace in his chest. If this is the end… it's a good one.
Around him, his closest friends stood in silence. Sam Wilson, kneeling nearby, kept a hand on Steve's shoulder. Bucky, stiff with emotion, stood at the head of the grave. Thor watched quietly, Mjolnir resting by his side. Jennifer Walters stood back, holding the hand of Nathaniel Barton, Clint's daughter—fifteen, stubborn, and fierce-eyed like her father. She clutched the compass Steve had given her—the one with Peggy's old photo tucked inside.
"You… made it," Steve whispered.
"We wouldn't miss this," Sam said softly.
Nathaniel dropped to her knees beside him. "You still owe me that shield trick gramps."
Steve smiled faintly. "It's… under your bed. Right next to the secret stash of chocolate."
She laughed, breaking into tears. The others looked away respectfully.
Doctor Strange approached, the cloak of levitation drifting just behind him. "It's time."
The air shimmered. The sky dimmed.
The cemetery grew crowded. People gathered silently—civilians, veterans, children, nurses—watching from the gates. They came not for the symbol, but for the man. The one who stopped to shovel their sidewalks. The one who didn't wear a cape.
Steve's heart slowed.
---
Death arrived not as a threat, but a companion.
A pale woman cloaked in starlight. Her voice was neither cruel nor kind.
"Steven Rogers," she said, her voice the whisper of wind through snow. "Your story is not yet done. Someone has requested your audience."
His spirit rose, young and whole again. Steve looked down at the grieving heroes. He reached for them hoping for another last chance for goodbye—
And was pulled into light in the hopes of meeting peg again.
---
The space beyond was impossible and chaos.
He stood on a shimmering platform beneath an endless cosmic sea. Stars spun like fireflies. Galaxies whispered in ancient tongues. Beside him stood Death. Before him loomed the One Above All, a shifting silhouette wrapped in galaxies.
"Steven Rogers," the entity boomed, voice resonating through stars. "A soul who chooses duty even in death. Fascinating."
Steve squared his shoulders. "If this is about punishment or praise, you're wasting your time I believe that I have lived my life well and have no regrets."
The OAA's form shimmered with amusement. "Neither. I offer purpose."
Visions flashed in Steve's mind:
A distant world cloaked in cold and conflict.
Monsters, twisted and unnatural.
Men with cat-like eyes wielding steel and alchemy.
A wall of ice cracking apart under pressure.
"This world teeters on destruction. It does not know heroes like yours. It needs… something else."
Steve frowned. "You don't want a hero. You want a weapon."
The OAA stilled. "I want a survivor. A protector. And to become that, you must learn. Not by divine gift… but through fire, steel, and scars."
Lady Death stepped forward. "You will be sent to a realm where humanity breeds warriors not born, but forged. Witchers—trained from childhood to endure hardships that which would break others."
Images spiraled around him:
A boy running through snow with a wooden sword.
An old man barking orders beside a burning forge.
Potions brewed from blood and bone.
"You will walk their path," the OAA said. "Not one school, but all. The Wolf. The Bear. The Cat. The Viper. The Griffin. The Manticore. The Crane."
Steve looked down at his hands. No sudden strength. No power-up. Only the body of a man who had already given everything.
"Why me?"
"Because you still ask that question," Death answered. "And because no one else would walk into Hell for strangers."
The OAA extended a hand, conjuring a glowing trail across stars. At its end, a portal shimmered—beyond it, a frozen keep perched on a cliff. The Kaer Morhen of old.
"You will begin at the School of the Wolf," the OAA said. "Live. Learn. Bleed. If you survive, the others will follow."
Steve breathed deeply, adjusted the straps of a basic training tunic now covering him, and gave a wry smile. "Sounds familiar."
Lady Death inclined her head. "One last warning, Steven Rogers: not all who train become Witchers. And not all Witchers remain human."
He stepped toward the gate. Then paused. "Will I ever see them again?"
"Perhaps," said the OAA. " after your mission is accomplished ."
The cold wind of another world howled through the portal.
Steve Rogers didn't flinch.
---