The night was black as ink, swallowing the deserts and mountains of Afghanistan whole.
A black, armored SUV, like a silent beast, crept into an area cloaked in rubble and shadows. A door opened, and a powerfully built man in an expensive suit stepped out.
Obadiah Stane.
His leather shoes crunched softly on the loose sand, a sound at odds with the dead silence around him. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder, sweat, and cheap fuel.
A man with a vicious scar across his face emerged from the shadows, a grin splitting his face to reveal a set of yellowed teeth.
"Mr. Stane," the scarred man's voice was rough and tinged with sycophancy, but the greed and arrogance in his eyes were unmistakable. "Welcome to my domain."
Obadiah's expression was blank. He gave a slight nod and followed the scarred man into a hidden cave.
Inside, the cave was lit as bright as day by several harsh industrial floodlights. Dozens of armed militants stared warily at the unexpected guest, but Obadiah's gaze never strayed from one thing.
It was a humanoid suit of armor, cobbled together from scrap metal and spare parts. It was crude and bulky, yet it radiated a heart-stopping, violent beauty.
Paul One.
"A masterpiece, isn't it?" the scarred man said, slapping the armor's cold metal shell with a show of pride. "Tony Stark, that playboy, built this thing from a pile of scraps. He's a genius, but we… we can make his genius work for us."
Obadiah circled the armor slowly, his deep-set eyes glittering with undisguised desire. He could already imagine what it would be like when this shell was fitted with Stark Industries' most advanced weapon systems.
"Name your price," Obadiah's voice was low and steady, betraying no emotion.
The scarred man's grin widened. He thought he had the well-dressed businessman right where he wanted him.
"I don't want money, Mr. Stane." He wagged a finger. "I want a partnership. We have the blueprints for this armor and the engineers who helped Stark build it. You provide Stark Industries' production lines and technology. Together, we will build a true… Iron Legion!"
His voice, tinged with a near-maniacal excitement, echoed through the vast cave.
"Then, no government, no army, will be able to stand against us! And you, Mr. Stane, you will be the king of this new world!"
Obadiah listened quietly. Only when the scarred man had finished did he let out a soft chuckle.
"An Iron Legion… It does sound tempting."
The smugness on the scarred man's face was practically overflowing. He extended a hand, ready to seal the alliance with his future "king."
However, Obadiah didn't even glance at the outstretched hand.
He slowly retrieved a palm-sized, silver metallic device from the inner pocket of his suit.
"A fine idea," Obadiah said, his eyes turning as cold as ice. "Unfortunately, you've made a fatal mistake. You underestimated us."
The grin on the scarred man's face froze. He didn't understand.
"You have no idea what true power is."
As the words left his lips, Obadiah pressed a button on the device.
There was no gunshot, no explosion.
Only an invisible, high-frequency sonic wave that instantly enveloped the entire cave.
"Aargh!"
The scarred man was the first to fall. He clutched his head, letting out an inhuman scream as blood seeped from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. He collapsed, his body convulsing violently on the ground.
His surrounding militants fell like scythed wheat, one after another, clutching their heads and writhing in agony. Their weapons clattered to the ground.
The entire process took less than three seconds.
In the cave, the only ones left standing were Obadiah and the two silent bodyguards who had been behind him the entire time. They wore custom-fitted earpieces, their faces impassive as they surveyed the hellscape before them.
Obadiah looked down at the spasming form of the scarred man, a contemptuous sneer on his lips.
"Power isn't something that can be mastered by brutes like you who only know how to kill," he said, nudging the man's body with the toe of his shoe. "Power is technology. It's intellect. It's the ability to make your brain boil inside your skull without me even getting my hands dirty."
He leaned down, his voice as soft as a devil's whisper.
"Thank you for finding this for me. In return, I'll make it quick."
He straightened up and gave a short command to the bodyguards behind him.
"Clean this up. Leave no one alive."
"Take the armor."
"Yes, sir."
The bodyguards drew silenced pistols, and a series of muffled shots echoed through the cave. Soon, everything was silent once more.
Obadiah turned his back on the bloody scene. His gaze fell once more upon the cold suit of armor, his eyes burning as if admiring a priceless treasure that was about to be his.
He pulled out his phone. The screen lit up, displaying a news photo.
In the picture, Tony Stark was gazing deeply into Pepper Potts' eyes on the balcony of the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Not far from them, the boy named Paul was watching with an unreadable, almost mocking smile.
His finger slid across the screen, zooming in on the photo until it settled on Paul's face—a face too young to bear such a mature expression.
An illegitimate son that Tony Stark would publicly acknowledge.
A genius who could invent a revolutionary medical robot like Baymax.
A deeper, more sinister glint appeared in Obadiah's eyes.
Tony was already out of control. Now there was another unpredictable variable.
Stark Industries was his life's work. He would not let it be destroyed by this pair of idealistic father and son.
"Tony, my dear nephew…"
He murmured to the phone screen, his voice carried away by the wind into the dark desert.
"The game has only just begun."