Although Huang Wen was the one with the system, the more power he accumulated, the less control he seemed to have over his own trajectory. He was the only one in the world who understood the true, impending scope of cosmic threats, yet he was stalled by a trivial, infuriating bottleneck.
The looming threat of the Hulk—a being whose power scaled with pure, uncontrolled anger, a being that defied the rules of pressure points and skeletal structure—was a genuine source of strategic dread. Huang Wen needed to break through the 99-point barrier and step into the Legendary Realm, where he could truly challenge these cosmic-level powerhouses.
"It's not good enough," he muttered into his teacup, which now served more as a meditative prop than an actual drink holder. The sheer gap between his current strength and the raw, unbounded destructive force of a truly enraged Hulk was keeping him up at night.
He had been diligently pushing his internal energy cultivation, the slow, methodical method bequeathed by Bai Zhantang. But this wasn't a technique designed for immediate, dramatic power boosts; it was a decades-long endeavor intended to peak in middle age. For a genius like Huang Wen, the progress was agonizingly glacial.
"I've hit the wall of the Extraordinary realm, haven't I?" he sighed inwardly. The system had rated 99 points as the Peak Extraordinary. The door to the Legendary was guarded by a barrier that required a qualitative leap, not just a quantitative accumulation of strength. It was the difference between a master martial artist and a mythical, world-breaking entity.
The most frustrating element was his unreliable lottery system. He'd hit the jackpot once with Bai Zhantang, but now, his most accessible source of consistent missions—Logan, the legendary Wolverine—only yielded Mortal-level items and missions.
"Mortal-level items are fine if I could get them reliably from everyone," he thought, pinching the bridge of his nose. "A few hundred Mortal skill points and I could probably force my way through 99. But why only Mortal from the guy with an Adamantium skeleton and a healing factor? He's clearly Legendary-tier, or at least High Extraordinary!"
"If this keeps up, I'll be sitting on a stockpile of worthless junk," he muttered, exasperated. "The Wing Chun Kwoon will become a glorified pawn shop, and I'll be trading my internal strength for a discounted samurai sword or another bottle of lukewarm healing potion."
He pinched the bridge of his nose again, the uncertainty grating on him. Was there a time limit? Had he exhausted the major mission triggers by interacting with Logan too early? Did the system only reward high-tier lotteries for the first interaction with a Legendary character?
It's the lack of control that kills me. He knew the world was barreling toward disaster, yet he couldn't reliably trigger the mechanism that guaranteed his growth. He was powerful, yes, but against the sheer, limitless destructive force of a truly enraged Hulk, he felt woefully under-equipped.
While Huang Wen wrestled with metaphysical bottlenecks in New York, Bruce Banner was struggling with very real, human ones in California.
After the first terrifying transformation that left the lab a ruin, Bruce had become the primary focus of General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross, Betty Ross's father. Ross, already a hardened military man and the original overseer of David Banner's failed super-soldier experiments, saw Bruce not as a victim, but as a dangerous military asset that had gone rogue.
Bruce was effectively a prisoner in his own home, surrounded by armed guards and surveillance, perpetually interrogated by Ross about his father's whereabouts.
"Where is David? The man who poisoned you? Tell me, son!" Ross would bellow, hammering on the fragile emotional wall Bruce had built.
But Bruce genuinely couldn't help. The trauma of his childhood, the shocking death of his mother, the fear of his father—all of it had been suppressed, locked away by severe post-traumatic stress disorder. He remembered nothing of his youth. This amnesia was his mind's only shield against the horror.
Meanwhile, Betty, heartbroken and worried sick, was determined to find answers and save Bruce. She used her scientific connections to trace the cleaning company David Banner had used to infiltrate the research institute. She finally found his dilapidated, grimy apartment.
The meeting with David was disturbing. The man was a shadow of a scientist—manic, obsessed, his eyes burning with a terrifying, twisted pride. Betty pleaded with him to help Bruce, to turn himself in, but David's advice was chillingly simple.
"Stay away from Bruce, little girl. Stay away from the monster I made." It was the same command Ross was giving Bruce, creating a horrifying echo of control.
In her panicked exit, Betty's scarf—a soft, pink, familiar scent—slipped from her neck and landed unnoticed on David's stained carpet. David watched her car drive away, then his gaze dropped to the item. A slow, chilling smile spread across his face, his eyes taking on a predatory gleam.
"Bruce, my beautiful, powerful son," David whispered, picking up the scarf and inhaling Betty's scent. "You need a better trigger. Ross is keeping you too safe. This girl… she should be enough to finally drive you utterly mad, shouldn't she? Let's see that beautiful power unleashed again!"
David didn't hesitate. He took the scarf to the kennel where he kept his mutated hounds—dogs he had infused with Bruce's unstable gamma-irradiated blood, making them abnormally strong and savage.
"Go, find this scent. Find this girl and teach her a lesson!" David commanded, tossing the scarf to the eager, snarling pack.
That same evening, Bruce was pacing his confined space at Ross's house when the phone rang—a number only David would have.
"Bruce, my good son," David's voice was a chillingly gleeful whisper. "I've just unleashed my loyal, enhanced dogs on the girl. She smells so lovely on this scarf. I gave you the DNA, Bruce. It's unstable, yes, but it's powerful. Now, let's see just how much you really care about her."
CLICK!
Bruce threw the phone across the room, his entire body convulsing with panic. Betty! He had to move. He had to save her.
He rushed the door, only to be tackled instantly by General Ross's heavily armed security team. As if that wasn't enough, Tauber, the businessman who had tried to acquire the lab and believed Bruce was the reason the deal failed, had sent his own private military contractors to send a message.
Bruce was trapped between two hostile forces. He was just a scientist, a man with no fighting skills, and he was quickly overwhelmed. They bound him, they gagged him, they hit him.
"Betty! Someone is trying to harm Betty! You have to let me go!" Bruce pleaded desperately against the gag, his voice muffled, his mind screaming in fear and helplessness. The soldiers ignored his frantic struggle, enjoying the brutal release of restraining the infamous scientist.
The combination of the physical pain, the helplessness, the memory of his father's chilling phone call, and the immediate, mortal threat to Betty proved too much. The delicate dam holding back the inner torrent of rage finally burst.
ROAR!!!
The transformation was fast, savage, and absolute. The green wave of pure, gamma-fueled rage ripped through the room. Clothes, bonds, and restraints exploded outward. The soldiers and mercenaries—trained, armed, and professional—were scattered like bowling pins. The Hulk had a mission: save the woman. He burst through the walls and sprinted toward David's location.
The resulting battle was a chaotic, destructive maelstrom. The Hulk located the apartment and tore through the pack of monstrous dogs, their enhanced strength proving no match for his limitless rage. He was too late to prevent some trauma to Betty, but he stopped the attack.
Unbeknownst to the raging monster, however, David Banner had been busy. Inspired, ecstatic, and consumed by his obsession, David subjected himself to a massive dose of gamma radiation. He did not become the Hulk; his body reacted differently, driven by his unique genetic makeup.
David Banner became the Absorber . His mutation gave him the terrifying ability to absorb any material he came into contact with—rock, metal, concrete—and seamlessly merge with it, instantly gaining control over its mass and properties. He could become a giant, living column of stone, a shifting form of flowing water, or a razor-sharp entity of steel. David's true target remained his son, the Hulk—the one being whose strength was not finite, whose power could always be replenished by a fresh wave of rage.
The military arrived. General Ross, now backed by an entire coalition of panicked government and corporate interests, had activated a massive response. Helicopters, tanks, and squads of specialized troops converged on the scene.
Missiles, high-caliber machine-gun fire, and specialized sonic weapons hammered the Hulk repeatedly. The blasts sent the monster staggering, sometimes even drawing blood, but every impact only fueled the Hulk's rage, making him faster, stronger, and increasingly resistant to the specialized sonic attacks. His ultimate counter was a terrifying jump, soaring over the combat zone and disappearing, escaping the experimental site.
The combined, relentless assault—from the military, from his father, and from his own inner turmoil—had pushed the Hulk past his breaking point. After escaping the battle, the monster's energy was finally spent, and the green wave receded, leaving a weakened, terrified Bruce Banner alone and vulnerable.
General Ross, unable to subdue the Hulk for long, and faced with the escalating chaos, had finally listened to his daughter Betty's desperate pleas. He had agreed to let Betty meet with Bruce, hoping her calming influence could somehow bring the situation under control.
But at that moment, both Bruce Banner and the Hulk had vanished without a trace, leaving the military with nothing but smoking craters.
Bruce woke up suddenly, feeling an unfamiliar sense of peace wash over his ragged nerves. He was lying in a clean, soft bed. Warily, he looked around and saw a handsome, bald older man in a motorized wheelchair beside him.
The man smiled warmly, his eyes gentle and perceptive. "Child, don't be nervous, I mean no harm to either of you."
Bruce immediately felt his emotional state—which was usually a volatile mix of anxiety and self-hatred—stabilize under the man's soothing gaze. He looked at the old man with a mixture of suspicion and desperate hope.
"It's quite difficult to calm him down," the man in the chair said, his tone conversational. "If I hadn't had similar experience with powerful, uncontrollable rage, I truly wouldn't have been able to keep him quiet. Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Charles. Professor Charles Xavier."
Bruce's eyes lit up with eager anticipation, a flood of relief washing over him. "Him? You can make him disappear? You can take care of him? You can separate me from the monster?"
Charles smiled kindly and shook his head, instantly dashing Bruce's hopes but maintaining the sense of calm. "No, Bruce, I don't have that kind of power. Not to suppress him permanently. His mental strength is… formidable. I just calmed the raging part of your mind down enough to let him rest for a while. Think of me as a deep-sleep button, not a cure."