Marvel: Apocalyptic Beginning, a High-Level Game!

Chapter 244 I love you 3000 times!

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On Earth.

Let's temporarily ignore the Celestials' involvement, which ended inexplicably—it came and went without warning, like a gust of wind that passed by but refused to admit it had gotten lost.

After Thanos watched those two troublesome guys finally leave, he let out a heavy sigh from deep within his chest, a sigh that felt as if it had been pressing down in his lungs for a thousand years.

He stood alone amidst the rubble, his shoulders slumping slightly for a moment—just a moment.

Then he turned his head, his jaw tightened, and his gaze swept over the ants who were trying to approach again. With a sudden swing of his right hand, the wind from his fist, carrying the remaining purple light of the Power Gem, sent two heroes who had rushed up to stop him from speaking flying.

The two figures traced an arc as they crashed into the distant ruins, raising a cloud of dust.

Thanos did not go to see them again.

He straightened up again, his massive, mountain-like body casting a long shadow in the smoke of battle.

He slowly raised his right hand, and the Infinity Gauntlet, set against the backdrop of war and dust, looked brand new—the golden metal surface was without a single scratch, and the six grooves were neatly arranged, as deep as six eyes gazing at the universe.

Although it was the first time Thanos had truly used these infinite powers, it felt as if he had used them countless times before. Every inch of power flowing through his arm felt so natural and seamless, as if the gauntlet was an extension of his body.

He spread his five fingers, then slowly clenched them, his knuckles making a teeth-grinding cracking sound.

"I am—Destiny!!"

The roar exploded from deep within his throat, shaking the surrounding air.

His chin was raised, veins bulged on his purple skin, and his eyes burned with an undeniable certainty.

At that moment, he stood in opposition to all the Avengers, with his fully armed legion behind him and the sky above him stained dark red by the flames of war. He held the gauntlet, which was full of infinite power, high, like an unshakable idol!

however--

The sound of hammering rang out again.

The sound was clear and sharp, like a heavy hammer slamming into the center of an anvil.

Everyone tensed up simultaneously, countless eyes turning in unison towards the source of the sound. Thanos's movements froze for a moment, his pupils contracting slightly, and the confidence that had just risen in his chest was suddenly punctured by something—air was hissing out of that hole.

Everyone watched all of this with bated breath.

But soon they realized—it didn't seem to be of much use either?

There were no beams of light, no explosions, no cataclysmic upheavals. Only that crisp sound, followed by deathly silence.

That's impossible.

Thanos was practically cursing the world to death in his mind. His chest heaved violently, and his breathing became heavy and rapid, each exhale seeming to be squeezed out from between his teeth.

What exactly happened?

Why!

Interrupting everything again and again?

Everything was agreed upon, wasn't it? Wasn't it?!

He looked at the gloves in his hands over and over again, examining them repeatedly, the golden metal surface almost seeming to be stared through under his gaze.

He confirmed it—the design of the six Infinity Stones above—

Empty.

Only six huge holes were left.

Wait a minute.

hole??

As if struck by lightning, Thanos suddenly realized something.

His head snapped back at an almost broken angle, the muscles in his neck taut like a fully drawn bowstring. His gaze pierced through layers of ruins and smoke, fixed on the last man he had kicked away—the man he had once considered "cursed by knowledge."

The man was leaning against a broken boulder, his nano-armor slowly receding from his chest to his limbs, revealing a face stained with blood and sweat.

Tony Stark.

His breathing was shallow and rapid, each breath seeming to be using all his strength, but his eyes—those bloodshot eyes—were surprisingly bright.

Perhaps they were prepared in advance; who knows?

Also made of nanotech armor, with the same red and gold color scheme, the six Infinity Stones had now condensed onto Tony Stark's armor—right on his palm, embedded between the metal textures of the armor. The six colors of light were like six tamed stars, obedient yet dangerously attached to his skin, separated only by a thin, almost non-existent layer of nanomaterial.

However, since the gloves had not been engraved with any runes or magic, they were undoubtedly absolutely fatal to Tony Stark at this moment.

His entire right arm was trembling slightly, not from fear, but from a burning pain that seemed to ignite from the depths of his bones.

He is still alive only because of that last bit of willpower—that stubborn, proud willpower that refuses to bow to anything—that keeps him going.

His lips had lost all color, and the chapped lips twitched slightly, as if he were silently reciting something.

"I am... Iron Man."

The voice was so soft, almost as if it could be torn apart by the wind. But every word seemed to be driven into the earth, into the memory of everyone.

When the snap of the fingers actually began—

The sound wasn't loud.

But that unstoppable force, carrying light, exploded outwards from him in all directions, as if the sun had been stuffed into this small battlefield at that moment.

The dazzling white light engulfed everything, swallowing Thanos's astonished face, the terrified screams of thousands of alien warriors, and the ruins, war, smoke, and dust.

No one could make a move, because it was all too late.

They understand.

How long did the light last? A second? Two seconds? Or forever?

When the white light finally dissipated, and everyone's vision returned to focus, they saw Thanos standing there forlornly, watching the ranks of his men vanish like ashes behind him—

Gone, all gone. Proxima Midnight is gone, Corvus Glaive is gone, and the vanguard warriors turned into grayish-white dust one by one, swept away by the wind, leaving nothing behind.

Thanos's body swayed.

He silently sat down on a large rock, his movements as slow as those of an old man in his twilight years.

His hands hung limply at his sides, the holes in the Infinity Gauntlet staring blankly at the sky.

He just sat there, just like the world, like the world before he was beheaded, sitting outside that little house watching the sunset—the same posture, the same silence, the same loneliness.

He lost.

But he didn't regret it. He was simply outmatched.

Even in the final moment of his demise, his gaze remained fixed on the hero known as Iron Man.

Those golden, bloodshot eyes, through the crumbling mask, through the fading life, through the unbridgeable chasm between victory and defeat, gazed at the man who was almost on the verge of death.

Looking at the man whose chest was being devoured inch by inch by infinite power.

what.

Lost.

Thanos lowered his head, his enormous head slowly drooping, as if he had finally unloaded something.

His body began to turn to ash from the edges, first his fingertips, then his arms, then his shoulders—his entire body completely turned into ashes and disappeared into the universe, just like the wish made by Tony Stark with his snap of his fingers—to make all the anomalies in this universe disappear completely.

The battlefield suddenly fell silent.

The silence wasn't solemn, but rather blank, as if the whole world had held its breath at that moment.

Finally, as if he had used up his last bit of strength, Iron Man's body tilted forward.

He didn't fall—he was supported by the rock next to him, his back against the rough stone surface, his head drooping, his chin almost touching his chest.

The nano armor had completely disappeared, revealing a gray T-shirt soaked in sweat underneath. The burns on his right arm stretched from his wrist to his shoulder blade, and his skin had taken on an unnatural purplish-black hue.

The little spider was the first to rush forward.

Peter Parker's face was deathly pale, his lips were trembling, and his eyes were brimming with tears. He wanted to reach out to help him up, but he didn't know where to start. His fingers hovered in mid-air, trembling, unsure of where to land.

But his wife, Pepper Potts, was the first to come to his side and hold him in her arms.

She knelt on the gravel, supporting the back of his head with one hand and wrapping her other arm tightly around his shoulder, pulling him into her embrace.

Her forehead pressed against his temple, tears silently sliding down her cheeks and dripping onto his shoulder.

Tony's eyes, which had gradually lost their color, still held a final lingering affection as he looked at his lover.

His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he no longer had the strength to make a sound.

His gaze slowly, bit by bit, swept over her face, as if trying to etch it into the deepest part of his soul and take it to a place she could not follow.

Countless heroes seemed to feel the same way at that moment, and one after another they knelt down on one knee.

They certainly knew the power and special nature of the Infinity Stones—after all, they had lost someone important, five long years, and an entire shattered world because of the snap of these stones.

Now everything is back to normal, and no one will threaten them anymore.

And the undisputed hero of all this is undoubtedly that playboy who was once looked down upon by everyone—

The man who flew into the sky wearing an iron can, the mortal who carried the power of a god in a mortal body.

The wind stopped.

The smoke of battle has cleared.

The last rays of the setting sun shone through the gaps in the clouds, casting a thin layer of gold over the devastated battlefield.

The shadows of everyone were stretched very long, cast on the shattered ground like rows of silent monuments.

Why does everyone look so unhappy?

When a highly offensive interjection appeared in the room, everyone was undoubtedly furious—at this moment, in this place, what dared to speak in such a tone?

Countless gazes simultaneously turned to the source of the sound, their sharpness like the edge of a blade.

But when they looked up and saw the young Asian man standing next to Iron Man—

Nobody recognized him.

Perhaps someone will recognize them.

But it is no longer included in this list.

This was something no one expected—the anger they initially felt towards this person transformed back into helplessness and apology upon seeing the other's figure.

That shift wasn't a rational judgment, but rather a near-instinctive reaction, just like...

It's as if any negative emotion towards it is a desecration that's unbearable to look at.

The young man was wearing a long robe with a distinctly oriental yin-yang design, over which he wore a cloak with gold-trimmed cloud and snowbird patterns.

The robe was moon white in color, with a yin-yang pattern extending from the chest to the waist. The black and white colors seemed to have some indescribable dynamism as they flowed together.

Gold-edged cloud patterns meander along the edge of the cloak, each line so fine it looks as if it were drawn stroke by stroke with a fine brush.

The snowbird pattern is embroidered on the back, its outstretched wings neither ostentatious nor restrained, resting perfectly amidst the cloud patterns.

His long hair was loosely tied up with a plain silver hairpin, with a few stray strands falling beside his ears, blown up and down by the wind.

His face wasn't exactly striking, but when he looked into his eyes—those bottomless, pitch-black eyes—all the restlessness subsided, leaving only a quiet, heavy compassion.

The more elaborate attire of the opposing team members made them stand out awkwardly in the crowd, but no one found it jarring.

As that slender, slightly pale hand rose slightly, a glimmer of light gathered at its fingertips—

The light wasn't the purple of the Infinity Stone, nor the green of the Time Stone, but a warm, lustrous white, like the radiance of jade bathed in moonlight—

Tony Stark, who seemed to be on his last breath and about to disappear, suddenly opened his eyes.

His pupils were initially unfocused, then suddenly focused, like a drowning person being pulled out of the water.

He blinked uncertainly, his brows furrowed, his lips moving, and his breathing changed from barely perceptible to rapid, heavy gasps.

In an instant, he felt the exhaustion in his body vanish completely.

The burning pain that raged from the depths of my bones was fading, like the receding tide, receding layer by layer.

Especially that feeling of dragging his soul away—

The feeling was as if ten thousand hands were tearing at his consciousness, trying to uproot him from his body—

It no longer exists!

It was as if... as if he had returned to the state he was in before he snapped his fingers.

wrong.

It's even better now.

He looked down at his chest.

There was no light at the location of the reactor, but it was no longer empty.

His right hand—the one that had just been covered in purplish-black burns, rotting from his fingertips all the way to his shoulder—was now completely healed, his skin smooth as if it had never been injured.

He could even feel the tips of each finger getting slightly warm, the blood flowing smoothly in his veins, and his heart beating powerfully in his chest.

He placed his warmed hands back into his lover's hands.

Pepper's hands were cold.

Her fingertips were trembling.

"Tony." Her voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible, tears blurring her vision. She looked into his eyes, into the light that had returned to his pupils, her lips trembling, unable to utter another word.

Pepper Potts and Tony Stark, who also understood what was going on, turned around and looked at the man who was smiling at them.

The young man stood there, his hands tucked into his sleeves, his head tilted slightly, and a faint smile playing on his lips.

There was no boasting, no pride, not even satisfaction in that smile—only a very light, almost sigh-like quality.

"You deserve a better ending," he said, his voice not loud, but everyone on the silent battlefield heard him clearly.

His gaze fell on Tony's face, on his lips that had regained their color, and on his hands clasped with Pepper's.

"Your child needs you, Tony Stark."

When his resolute gaze fell upon Tony, Tony felt something heavy pressing down on his shoulders—not pain, not a burden, but a solemnity that was seen through, inescapable, and impossible to dispel with any joke or sarcasm.

At the same time, countless friends also flocked to join in.

They cheered, screamed, tears and smiles mingling together in a dense mass.

Spider-Man was the first to rush over, hugging Tony's waist and burying his face in his shoulder, crying like a six-year-old child.

Then it was Rod, then Happy, then everyone who could run over.

They reached out to Tony and pulled him from Pepper's arms—not roughly, but with the kind of relief, eagerness, and determination that comes from someone who had survived a near-death experience.

They tossed the man, who had just been pulled back from the brink of death, high into the air, caught him, tossed him up again, and caught him again.

The setting sun blended everyone's shadows together, making it impossible to distinguish who was whose.