It was still night, and Damian trembled as he climbed over the windowsill into his home. His posture was terrible—if someone saw him, they'd probably think he was clinging to a crescent moon in the sky.
"Damn! If I'd known it'd be this cold flying through the sky, I should've worn long johns before heading out!"
He cursed as he shut the window, then crawled toward the heating switch like a desperate creature.
The heater groaned in protest with a low hum before slowly sputtering to life.
Damian tucked his hands into his sleeves and squatted beside the radiator. Closing his eyes, he immersed his consciousness into the glowing orb in his mind.
"Rough Stone: 20"
Staring at the pitiful total of 20 Rough Stones, Damian felt a surge of excitement. This proved that Rough Stones could be earned by completing certain tasks.
Though the exact mechanism wasn't fully understood yet, Damian had a general direction. As long as he kept running experiments, he'd eventually figure out a consistent set of rules.
For now…
Damian rubbed his hands together and whispered gleefully:
"Hehehe… Come out! Emperor Rock!!"
With a wave of his hand, 20 Rough Stones vanished.
Swish!
A vivid image of a brilliant blue sky dotted with white clouds flashed before Damian's eyes.
"Sunset Fruit ×1, Slingshot ×1"
Weapon Name: [Slingshot]
Rarity: ★★★
Weapon Type: Bow
Base Attack Damage: 354
Substat Bonus: Critical Hit Rate +31.2%
Weapon Skill: [Slingshot]
Normal and charged arrows that hit an enemy within 0.3 seconds of being fired deal 60% increased damage. If they hit after 0.3 seconds, damage is reduced by 10%.
Weapon Description:
"It's technically just a bow. After countless modifications and failed attempts to create the ultimate slingshot, its inventor realized he'd accidentally built a bow instead."
Damian stared blankly. "…Liu Wei, you've really done some messed-up stuff!"
---
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the classroom windows of Midtown High School, spilling across the desks. Damian sat with a sour expression, chewing slowly on a golden fruit.
"I'm late… I'm so late…"
Just then, Peter Parker burst into the classroom, backpack bouncing on his shoulders. His eyes immediately locked onto Damian.
"Huh? Z, what fruit are you eating? It smells amazing!"
Peter plopped into the seat beside him, nostrils flaring at the sweet, tantalizing aroma.
"It's a Sunset Fruit," Damian muttered through gritted teeth, taking another reluctant bite. "A specialty from my hometown."
Peter blinked. "Is it… good?"
"It tastes pretty good," Damian admitted.
"Then why do you look like you're eating literal garbage?"
Damian took a deep breath, held up the fruit—now only one-third remaining—and spoke with profound anguish:
"Because this single fruit cost me half my savings."
Peter nearly leapt out of his chair. "What?! Just this one?! Is it studded with gold or diamonds or something?!"
Damian gave a bitter laugh. "Haha… Why else do you think I'm eating it with a face like this?"
......
Time flies—and before you know it, break time is over in the blink of an eye.
Peter Parker pulled out his laptop and slid his fingers across the touchpad.
Damian leaned over and saw that he was browsing a news website. Two headlines on the screen were particularly eye-catching:
The first read: "The serial disappearances on U.S. Highway 9 have been solved! The murderer has been apprehended!"
The accompanying photo showed a blurred image of the suspect wearing an orange vest—but Damian knew there was no way that could be the real killer.
After all, the real murderer's ashes had already been scattered.
Peter Parker didn't linger on the first headline for long—his attention was quickly drawn to the second:
"Shock! Stark Industries' Interim CEO to Visit New York City for Inspection—$70 Million Reward Offered for Information Leading to Tony Stark!"
Pepper Potts' official statement took up half the page, and anxiety bled through every line.
"Seventy—seventy million?! How many years would I have to work to earn that much?"
Peter's voice suddenly rose, drawing curious glances from the students around him.
Hearing this, Damian tilted his head, did a quick calculation on his fingers, and said:
"Currently, the average annual income for industrial workers in the U.S. is about $30,000 to $50,000. Let's take the midpoint—roughly $40,000 a year.
So, as long as you don't eat, drink, sleep, or even breathe—and just work nonstop—you'd need about 1,750 years to earn that much.
Or… you could buy a lottery ticket. Who knows? Maybe your ancestors' graves suddenly catch fire—and not just any fire, mind you. It's got to be the kind that spews Mach rings! Then, just maybe, you'd hit the jackpot.
Besides," he added with a grin, "the U.S. Constitution practically guarantees the right to get rich quick—so why not aim even higher?"
Peter Parker stared at Damian with an expression that clearly said: "Nice to meet you. Though, honestly, since we already know each other, there's no point pretending to be polite."
From the front row, Gwen Stacy turned around with a smile. "I heard someone say they want to do something big? That's awesome! Keep talking—I'll keep listening. It just so happens my dad hasn't had a promotion in a while."
Peter's face instantly flushed. "I didn't! I wasn't! Don't go making things up!"
"Don't deny it, Peter," Gwen teased. "Explanations are just cover-ups—and cover-ups mean there's a story! Come on, spill it."
"Z, shut up."
......
Meanwhile, in Washington, D.C., inside the director's office at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters…
Nick Fury glanced at the files spread across his desk, his one eye narrowed in thought.
In the U.S. Highway 9 serial murders, the oldest victim's remains dated back to the early 19th century—a baffling detail, given that the bodies were preserved almost perfectly, as if time itself had paused for them.
According to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s occult division, the creature responsible was known as the "Creeper"—an ancient predator that awakens for 23 days every 23 years.
It feeds on humans and can regenerate by consuming their organs and limbs—even growing bat-like wings in the process.
Its truck was filled with bodies wrapped in white cloth, like some grotesque collection.
But what troubled Fury most was the mysterious red-haired man who had appeared—and vanished—without a trace.
"Red hair… a flaming sword… incinerating monsters to ash in seconds?"
Fury muttered to himself, tapping his fingers on the table.
Such power couldn't belong to an ordinary human. Mutant? Alien? Or something entirely undocumented?
After a moment's pause, he picked up the encrypted phone and called the head of the New York branch:
"This is Nick Fury. Keep an eye out for a red-haired man with fire-based abilities—possibly carrying a large melee weapon.
If you spot him, do not engage. Report directly to me.
Yes—any time."