Nolan's voice continued to echo across every active frequency, transmitted through David's commandeered network to billions of listeners worldwide. The words carried the weight of absolute conviction, pronouncement and warning combined.
"We take this opportunity to solemnly declare to all enemies, whether on this world or across the universe entire:"
His tone hardened, becoming something closer to a threat than simple statement. "Any xenos and heretics who dare to covet humanity's future, whether organizations or individuals, will incur our endless wrath and destructive retaliation!"
"When war comes, there will be no mercy. No forgiveness. No negotiated peace. No end date until victory is absolute!"
The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over the world's collective neck. "Killing you all is the highest honor we humans can bestow upon you!"
A pause, letting that sink in, then the formal cadence returned. "The above constitutes the judgment eulogy for the innocent victims within the slum district."
"We are the first and last line of defense for humanity. We are the Guardians of Terra, guardians of humanity's future!"
David's optical sensors tracked Nolan's every movement, blue light pulsing as it monitored the broadcast quality and maintained the global hijack. The moment Nolan's final syllable fell into silence, David immediately severed the connection. Normal communications resumed across the planet, leaving shocked populations to process what they'd just heard.
Nolan stood motionless atop the Land Raider's hull, his outstretched arms slowly lowering to his sides. The crowd before him roared with excitement, voices raised in approval and bloodlust, but he ignored them completely. His eyes narrowed to slits, his focus turning inward.
He tilted his face upward, letting the cold rain fall directly onto his features. Each droplet felt crisp against skin that seemed to burn from within, body temperature elevated by adrenaline and the weight of what was about to happen. The water traced clean paths through blood and grime, temporary relief that meant nothing.
The air itself seemed to shift.
A sound emerged from above, cutting through the ambient noise of rain and distant celebration. The shriek of atmosphere being torn apart at high velocity, the distinctive boom of something massive moving faster than it should. Golden-red light flared through the clouds, breaking through the gray overcast in a streak of brilliance.
Tony Stark's armor, pushed to maximum speed, crossed the sky like a comet.
Behind him, stabilized by multiple Ark reactors retrofitted as propulsion systems, came something enormous. A giant metal tank, five meters in length and nearly two meters in diameter, moved through the air with ponderous grace despite its tremendous mass. Energy light erupted from the reactor arrays beneath it, brilliant streams of thrust keeping the massive container aloft.
The tank drifted toward the slum's center, following a trajectory calculated to position it for maximum effect. Higher and higher it climbed, reaching for optimal altitude.
When it reached nearly a thousand meters above the ground, something changed.
The Ark reactors beneath the tank suddenly blazed with impossible intensity. The energy output spiked beyond any safe operational parameters, light flaring so bright it hurt to look at directly. Then they exploded.
Not catastrophically. Deliberately. A controlled detonation designed to ignite the tank's contents.
Flames erupted in layers, each one expanding outward from the previous, creating a cascading bloom of blue fire. The effect resembled a massive flower opening its petals, each one composed entirely of burning chemical death. The bright light illuminated everything within dozens of kilometers, turning night into artificial day.
The blue flames at the core spread outward, expanding across hundreds of meters in seconds. They moved with unnatural precision, guided by the Phosphex Charges's specific properties, covering the slum's entire area with mathematical accuracy. Every corner. Every edge. Every street and building falling within the designated extermination zone.
Then the fire fell.
Thousands of burning fragments descended like torrential rain, each one carrying temperatures hot enough to melt steel on contact. They dropped in a pattern that ensured complete coverage, leaving no gaps, no safe spaces, no possibility of survival.
The slum ignited.
Buildings burst into blue flame instantly, the Phosphex Charges adhering to every surface it touched and burning with intensity that made conventional fire seem cold by comparison. Open spaces fared no better, the chemical rain soaking into soil and pavement, transforming the ground itself into fuel.
Thrall standing motionless in the streets, still lost in their corrupted stupor, were engulfed by flames. Their bodies ignited like candles, clothing and flesh burning away in seconds. They didn't have time to scream before superheated air seared their lungs. Within heartbeats, they collapsed into charred remains that continued burning until nothing but ash remained.
Fanatical believers who'd been celebrating victory suddenly found themselves running for their lives, but there was nowhere to run. The blue flames covered everything, spreading faster than human legs could carry them. They screamed as fire caught their robes, their hair, their skin. The screams didn't last long.
Wind began to stir beneath the gloomy clouds, atmospheric pressure differences created by the tremendous heat rising from the burning slum. The gusts intensified the flames, feeding them fresh oxygen, raising temperatures even higher.
Flame tornadoes formed. Massive vortices of blue fire that spun across the devastated district, sweeping up everything in their paths. The tornados moved with terrifying speed, consuming buildings, vehicles, bodies, leaving nothing but superheated ash in their wake.
And trapped within this hell, hiding civilians who'd secreted themselves in basements and back rooms, people who'd hoped to wait out the fighting, began emerging. They ran from homes that had become furnaces, desperately seeking escape.
They found none.
The blue flames were everywhere. Inescapable. All-consuming. The temperatures alone were enough to kill, superheated air scorching lungs with every breath. Those who survived the initial heat wave long enough to actually reach the flames died screaming, skin blackening and cracking, bodies writhing in agony that lasted seconds but felt like eternity.
Suffocation claimed those the flames didn't burn directly. The fire consumed oxygen faster than atmosphere could replenish it, creating vast zones where air simply ceased to exist. People collapsed mid-run, clawing at their throats, mouths gaping in silent screams as their brains shut down from hypoxia.
Metal structures throughout the slum liquefied. Steel beams that had supported buildings for decades melted like wax, running in glowing rivers across broken pavement. Stone and concrete, materials that should have been fire-resistant, couldn't withstand temperatures this extreme. They cracked, exploded, collapsed into rubble that continued burning.
The wailing was indescribable. Thousands of voices raised in terminal agony, layered atop each other until individual screams became lost in a collective howl of suffering. The sound mixed with the roar of flames, the crash of collapsing buildings, the shriek of superheated air, creating a symphony of destruction that seemed to shake the earth itself.
The entire slum had become hell manifest on Earth.
Near the Land Raider, outside the inferno's immediate reach, Tony Stark landed with a heavy impact. His armor's repulsors cut out at the last second, letting gravity finish the job. Metal feet hit ground hard enough to crack pavement.
His faceplate retracted, sliding back to reveal features twisted by emotion. Eyes bloodshot and streaming tears, whether from smoke or grief or both. The whites were nearly crimson, veins burst from strain or fury. His gaze fixed on the blue sea of fire consuming the slum, watching the district transform into an apocalyptic landscape.
The wailing reached his ears. Filtered through the armor's audio pickups, dampened by distance, but still audible. Still human. Still containing the unmistakable sound of people dying in agony.
Something broke inside him.
Tony's teeth ground together hard enough to ache, jaw muscles bulging. His hands clenched into fists. The armor responded to his emotional state, systems flaring, preparing for action.
He lifted off the ground in a burst of repulsor thrust, accelerating toward the Land Raider where Nolan stood impassively watching the destruction he'd ordered.
Tony's fist drew back, the armor's servos adding mechanical strength to human rage. He aimed for Nolan's expressionless face, intending to shatter that calm, to make him feel something, anything.
The blow never landed.
David's metal hand rose with inhuman speed, palm intercepting Tony's descending fist. Blue light flared in the Man of Iron's optical sensors, and simultaneously, Tony's armor simply stopped responding.
Every system went dark for a fraction of a second, then rebooted under new management. David's consciousness flooded through the armor's networks, overriding security protocols, ejecting Jarvis from primary control, seizing absolute authority over every function.
Tony found himself frozen mid-attack, suspended in the air by his own armor, unable to move anything beyond his eyes. Even his voice was caught behind unresponsive speakers.
His expression twisted further, rage and helplessness combining into something ugly and desperate. His mouth moved, forming words that emerged as muffled sounds inside the sealed helmet but didn't reach external audio systems. He was screaming, but silently, trapped inside his own creation.
Nolan seemed to take a slow breath, his chest expanding visibly within the power armor. He turned his head toward David, speaking too quietly for anyone else to hear over the roar of distant flames.
Then he jumped.
The power armor's enhanced strength let him clear the Land Raider's height easily, landing heavily on the ground with a metallic clang. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, waiting.
David immediately began lowering Tony's frozen armor, bringing him down in a controlled descent until metal feet touched pavement. Then, with what might have been deliberate courtesy, David released control. The armor's systems reverted to Tony's command, Jarvis sliding back into primary consciousness with apologetic notification tones.
Tony exploded into motion the instant control returned.
His fist swung wildly, no technique or training behind it, just raw fury translated into kinetic force. The blow connected with Nolan's armored chest, producing a dull clang that hurt Tony's knuckles even through the armor's protection.
Nolan rocked backward slightly from the impact but made no attempt to defend himself. He simply stood there, accepting the blow.
Tony swung again. And again. Fists hammering against ceramite plating in a rhythm driven by grief and rage rather than any tactical consideration. He wasn't trying to damage the armor. He was trying to hurt the man inside it, to punish him, to make him understand.
Nolan let him. For several blows, he remained passive, absorbing impacts without retaliation.
Then he swung back.
Not hard. Not with the full strength the power armor could generate. Just enough to match Tony's energy, returning blow for blow in what became less a fight and more a mutual release of violence.
They crashed together like children brawling on a playground, no skill or strategy involved. You hit me, I hit you. Simple. Brutal. Cathartic in its meaninglessness.
Metal crashed against metal. Tony's armor began showing damage, sections of the outer shell denting, crumpling, falling away in pieces. His face accumulated bruises where the helmet's edge didn't quite protect him from recoil. One eye was swelling shut. Blood trickled from a split lip.
Nolan's power armor remained largely intact, the heavier ceramite plating absorbing impacts that would have destroyed lighter materials. But his face wasn't immune. Bruises darkened the skin around his eyes. His cheek bore an ugly contusion. Blood smeared from a cut above his eyebrow.
The violence continued until Tony's armor had sustained too much damage to maintain structural integrity. Sections of plating hung loose, servos exposed, internal components visible through gaps.
And then Tony simply stopped. His arms dropped to his sides. The anger drained away all at once, leaving only exhaustion and grief.
He sank slowly to his knees, armor joints protesting the movement. His face turned toward the burning slum, toward the blue flames that continued their work of absolute destruction.
Tears streamed down his face, cutting clean tracks through blood and grime. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Nolan stood over him, breathing hard, his own face bearing the marks of violence. Something crossed his features that might have been regret or sympathy or simply acknowledgment of shared pain.
He stepped forward, the power armor's servos humming softly. One armored hand descended to rest on Tony's broken shoulder plate, the gesture awkward but unmistakably meant as comfort.
Nolan's expression carried genuine sorrow now, the mask of command finally cracking to reveal the human underneath. He remained like that for several heartbeats, hand on Tony's shoulder, offering what consolation he could through simple presence.
Then he turned away without speaking. There were no words that could make this better. No explanation that would justify what had been done.
He walked toward the Land Raider's open hatch, each step heavy with accumulated fatigue and emotional weight. He climbed inside, disappearing into the vehicle's interior.
Time passed. Minutes became hours.
The blue flames didn't diminish. If anything, they intensified. The Phosphex Charges's chemical properties ensured complete combustion, the fire feeding on everything, even the soil and stone beneath the surface. Within five kilometers of the slum's center, everything had melted into bubbling lava lakes.
No trace of what had existed before remained. Buildings, vehicles, bodies, all consumed completely. The landscape had transformed into something primordial, molten rock glowing with internal heat, smoke rising in thick columns toward the uncaring sky.
Nothing could survive in that environment. No air. No moisture. No microorganisms. Just heat and chemical death.
Then, impossibly, something moved.
A figure walked across the surface of the lava lake, boots leaving ripples in the molten stone. The heat that would have vaporized any living thing didn't seem to affect it at all.
It hummed a tune, cheerful and discordant with the apocalyptic surroundings. A Mexican folk song, rendered in a voice that carried too much depth, too many harmonics, suggesting something fundamentally wrong about the speaker's nature.
The figure resolved as it approached cooler areas: a middle-aged man with what remained of Mediterranean-pattern hair loss. Except his body was clearly a corpse, most of one shoulder burned away to expose charred bone and scorched meat. The wound didn't bleed. Didn't regenerate. Just existed, a testament to damage that should have been immediately fatal.
He walked with spring in his step, almost dancing despite the mutilated form.
"La la la…" he sang, the tune drifting over the burning wasteland like a ghost wandering the desert night.
"I dance the little harvest dance… sweet red potatoes in the fire… ten tiny ants on the comal, biting at my feet. It's you… it's him… ay, Dios mío, it burns… I call for mamá… and my dear madre, she whispers back…"
His voice rose, warm with madness.
"In the lands of hell, he wears the crown… hundreds of thousands of souls belong to him. And who is he? Ah, listen close… Mephisto, King of the Damned… the only devil who keeps his word."
He threw his head back and laughed, the sound rolling across the ruined wasteland like a curse.
"Hahaha! My heartfelt blessing to you, foolish child of humanity! May you stay undefeated, year after year! Keep winning… keep triumphing… and keep sending me these pure, bewildered souls—delivered straight to my door!"
The corpse laughed again, genuine delight radiating from the ruined form. The sound repeated, bouncing between non-existent walls, creating harmonics that suggested vast spaces beneath the surface reality.
Then, cutting through the celebration like a blade through silk, another voice spoke.
It was cold. Measured. The tone suggested someone completely unimpressed by displays of power or supernatural presence.
"Long time no see, Mephisto." Each word emerged with perfect clarity despite no visible source. "Who gave you permission to surface? What exactly are you laughing about?"
A pause, holding with something that might have been amusement or threat.
"Why don't you share the joke? Make me happy too."
The possessed corpse's laughter cut off abruptly, frozen mid-note. The expression on the ruined face shifted, delight replaced by something considerably more cautious.