The Ancient One finally departed with Loki. As the two stepped into the shimmering portal, everyone watching—including Nick Fury up in orbit—exchanged bewildered looks.
"It seems Earth is far more complicated than we imagined," Talos muttered, a chill crawling down his spine. He had believed the Skrulls were the masterminds in the shadows, yet it turned out an even more terrifying existence was lurking behind them.
Worse still, even these agents who controlled global intelligence had no idea who that person was.
"These people have completely unknown origins. We absolutely cannot let them go unchecked," Nick Fury said coldly, his voice filled with iron resolve.
Fury had always been someone with an extreme need for control—and an equally extreme persecution complex. He would even suspect an old lady crossing the street of being an assassin. His paranoia rivaled that of the ancient warlord Cao Cao.
And it was precisely this paranoia—this habit of doubting everything and preparing for every conceivable disaster—that kept him firmly seated as the "King of Spies." It was why the World Security Council had appointed him Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Seeing a sorcerer capable of resurrecting the dead, his first instinct wasn't to make an ally, but to prepare defenses.
Instant teleportation, impossible miracles—what other powers did this mage possess?
Did he pose a threat to humanity?
Was there a hidden agenda behind his mysterious appearance?
As Fury wrestled with these questions, a message came from Natasha:
"Gilgamesh wants to live in the White House. What should we do? Should we… ask the President to move out?"
The White House was a symbol of American power. If an alien decided to occupy it, even if the President didn't object, the endlessly protesting American public certainly would.
And if Gilgamesh found out they refused him… the consequences would likely be explosive—literally.
Then the real dilemma emerged:
Fight or not?
If they used force—even if they somehow won—any injury inflicted would be seen as a declaration of war against the Asgard. After all, they had already harmed an Asgardian prince. Who else would the gods take revenge on?
If Thor were still on Earth, they might at least negotiate—maybe blame it on some internal conflict over the throne.
"I can't decide this alone. Let's consult the Security Council."
Rubbing his temples in exhaustion, Fury switched to a secure video call.
To his surprise, the U.S. President agreed immediately—on the condition that Gilgamesh participate in a joint press conference to prove America had established strong diplomatic relations with the extraterrestrial race.
It had to be said, the old fox had a brilliant plan. He wanted to form ties with Asgard while projecting strength to neighboring countries. If everything went well, he might even go down in history as the first president to forge relations with aliens.
Unfortunately for him, while his ambitions were grand, Gilgamesh didn't acknowledge him at all.
"For a god to set foot on Earth and live in such a tiny house is already a blessing for mortals," Gilgamesh said coldly, staring at Black Widow until a cold sweat broke across her back. Then he added, "Tell that fool this: my presence here is an announcement—an order—not a request."
"Do you truly think a god would ask mortals for permission?"
Gilgamesh looked at Natasha with an amused expression as he posed the question casually.
To his surprise, Natasha paused… then nodded, as though marching to her own execution.
"Yes, Thor once asked us for help."
The moment the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake. Her eyes widened in horror as she clapped a hand over her lips.
"I—I didn't mean it like that, please believe me!"
Gilgamesh smiled at her, his expression turning even more playful. "I promised the Ancient One I wouldn't kill you—but that doesn't excuse your insolence. Considering this is your first offense, get out of my sight. And don't ever appear before me again."
Natasha quickly bowed in gratitude, covered her mouth, and bolted out of the White House in panic.
"That curse… that curse is real?"
Her face was pale, her heart still pounding. She had wanted to deny it, but the words that escaped her lips were simply the truth buried deep within her fear.
If she hadn't said it, she might not have angered Gilgameshdin so badly. If not for the Ancient One's intervention, she would have certainly been erased by this capricious God of Light.
And she wasn't the only one who had changed.
In the hospital room, Tony lay on a bed with an IV in his hand. Pepper sat beside him, worry etched into her face as she wiped her tears now and then.
Normally, Iron Man would have joked around to ease her anxiety. But now he was behaving entirely out of character—clinging not to Pepper, but to his bodyguard Happy's hand, refusing to let go.
"Happy," Stark said softly, "has anyone ever told you that your hands are big and warm… and that holding them makes a person feel safe?"
Happy blinked in confusion. "Uh… someone might've said that. Usually a beautiful lady, though."
"So… I'm the first man to compliment you?" Stark's grip tightened. Then, as if that wasn't enough, he lightly scratched Happy's palm with his fingertips.
A shiver ran down Happy's spine. He yanked his hand back immediately. "Boss, you, uh… you need rest. Suddenly the room feels stuffy—I'm going for a walk!"
He hurried out of the ward and rushed straight to the bathroom, scrubbing his hands under the freezing water.
"My God, this is crazy. This isn't real. I must be dreaming. Yes… a dream… it has to be."
Leaving Stark's bizarre condition aside, there was Captain America—who had suffered the most under Gilgamesh's hands. His body was covered in wounds, and only the super-soldier serum had kept him from death.
After half a day of emergency treatment, his condition had finally stabilized. Now, with a ventilator in his mouth, Steve Rogers lay motionless on the hospital bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, overwhelmed by a hollow emptiness consuming him from within.
"Why… why do I feel so empty? Has the curse already begun?"
He couldn't help but reflect on his life. When he remembered the moments where he saved people, won praises, and basked in the adoration of the masses, an inexplicable fatigue weighed down on his heart.
But when he recalled killing on the battlefield—taking lives, even the innocent—he felt a strange, unsettling satisfaction.
That satisfaction urged him to dredge up more and more memories of bloodshed, but his iron will pushed back:
"I must not fall into that pleasure. If I do… I'll sink into darkness."
So he forced himself to remember the dull, tedious, noble moments—dancing with Carter, protecting the weak, upholding justice.
But all those bright, positive memories only made him unbearably irritable, filling him with the urge to wreck the entire hospital room.
And yet… reason told him he had no other choice but to endure.