Chapter 50: A Traitor? There Are No Traitors Here! [Please Add to Your Collection and Recommend the New Book]
Nick Fury now saw Hydra in everyone.
With the recent string of events, he felt surrounded—Natasha had defected, Hawkeye, suspected to be with Hydra, was missing, Hill was chained to her desk, and the only reliable contact left was Coulson. Coulson was useful, but in the end, just an ordinary man.
He could handle ordinary human threats, but when it came to these monsters, it was a tall order.
“Coulson, stay alert. Don’t act rashly. The Captain and his team are already en route.”
Inside S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, Nick Fury stared at the surveillance feeds, maintaining constant communication with Coulson, his attention also fixed on the incident site as he spoke through the comms to Rogers aboard the jet.
“Captain, you’re about to arrive on scene. Please be ready for combat.”
“No problem. I’m still as sharp as ever—ready to jump in any second.”
But glancing around, Rogers could only sigh deeply.
Vikaarn, riding his deathly steed, paid no mind to the grimacing helicopter pilot. Sometimes he’d speed up to greet Rogers at eye level, then dart around the aircraft in circles, or skid his mount in looping figure-eights—thoroughly enjoying himself…
“Jarvis, how much longer until the suit is charged enough to overtake that insufferable guy?” Tony Stark’s patience was spent—he was desperate to race Vikaarn.
“Sir, less than a minute.”
“How long, exactly?”
“Eight seconds.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to see the look on his face.”
“However, sir, I must inform you—during this charging period, he’s already circled the helicopter twice. If you both start at the same initial speed, he’ll be two thousand meters ahead of you before the charge is complete.”
“Shit!”
“I can’t accept this. Shit! Did you hear me, Jarvis? Shit!”
“Sir, accepting defeat with grace is the mark of wisdom. It will help keep your heart rate and blood pressure in check…”
“Hahahahaha!” Vikaarn was laughing maniacally through the comms.
Inside the helicopter, Rogers stared at his shield and the assault rifle at his side, comparing himself to his two teammates. He bent his arms, holding his face in his hands.
His mood matched that of the helicopter pilot.
The other agents wore blank expressions—their spirits as battered as Captain America’s.
Having dealt with the squad blocking her way, Zazalara received new orders from Roald.
She was to wait for the next group to arrive.
The Scourge’s debut required a grander stage. She toppled every building in the vicinity, tore up the underground structures, concealed the signs of the catacombs, and crafted a chaotic scene to confuse onlookers and set the stage for what was to come.
At last, Tony’s trio arrived at the site of the incident!
Meanwhile, on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s surveillance grid, a blazing red dot flashed past at high speed.
When the camera angle shifted, Grommash, clad in black armor, appeared—leaping atop a tall building.
“Fantastic—is this a new hero?”
“Besides Iron Man, who’s this guy?!”
The sudden appearance of Grommash was immediately broadcast by the ever-present war correspondents covering the disaster.
With his massive axe slung over one shoulder, Grommash cast a contemptuous glance at the foolish humans below, then looked skyward.
Cameras caught the moment he raised his head. The feed swiftly cut to another figure—a knight astride a skeletal warhorse.
The comms crackled with Grommash’s thunderous cry:
“Scourge!!!”
Vikaarn feigned surprise, then brandished his sword in sudden realization.
“War!!!”
The words rolled like thunder, black clouds swirling overhead.
The sudden tension left the onlookers dumbstruck.
“Hey, what’s going on? Why do I get the feeling he’s not here to help us?” Tony quickly asked Vikaarn over the channel, a sense of impending danger gnawing at him.
“Switch the feed, Hill—now,” Nick Fury ordered, immediately sensing something was off.
The camera angle shifted at lightning speed—now everyone could see the truth.
“Sorry, buddy, I can’t go with you now. I have more important things to do.”
“What?” Tony and the rest were baffled by Vikaarn’s words.
Vikaarn looked at Tony, his expression tragically earnest, as if hoping his good friend would accept his final, heartfelt message.
“Honestly, Tony, I think we would’ve gotten along. Given a little more time, we’d probably be good friends—hitting the bars, the casinos, the clubs together…”
“Hey, don’t say that—I’m not that guy anymore!” Tony protested instantly, worried Pepper would see this live. Public and private life must be kept separate!
What a headache—he couldn’t figure out what this unpredictable man was up to. “What are you trying to say?” Tony pressed.
“Sorry, my friend. Right now, I feel like a hero about to challenge the demon king—wanting to see my life flash before my eyes, to reflect on the power of friendship…”
Tony’s eyes widened. “Jarvis, check—does he have some kind of mental disturbance?”
“Sir, based on my analysis, Mr. Vikaarn appears to be delivering a last testament.”
“What?” Tony refused to believe it. How could this be happening? The battle was just starting!
Boom!
A sudden explosion thundered in the distance. In the chaos of multiple camera feeds, Grommash, axe raised high, leapt from the top of a building.
Boom!
A second blast—the nightmare mount’s kick sent Stark flying. The ground split and debris showered down as Vikaarn charged Grommash, sword raised.
A visible shockwave burst through the air, flinging building fragments skyward. Black shapes clashed and tumbled through the collapsing ruins, already devastated by countless spiders.
Flames and frost, blood and fury—Vikaarn and Grommash battled for reasons beyond mortal comprehension.
Buildings crumbled, masonry scorched, the two figures smashing through structure after structure.
Amidst the blazing inferno and rolling shockwaves, both Stark, pulling himself up, and Rogers, leaping from the helicopter, heard the distant roars:
“—War—!”
“—Scourge—!”
Roald watched from behind the hidden curtain, writhing in secondhand embarrassment.
Having someone with zero acting talent put on a show really ruined the mood.
Kel’thuzad arched an amused eyebrow.
“How do you rate their performance, Kel’thuzad?”
“A touch theatrical, but formidable in presence and voice—quite impressive.”
Kel’thuzad’s words were always elegant, but always slippery.
“Excellent. Halve their soul rations for the month, give the rest as a bonus to Zazalara, and buy some gourmet cat food for Mr. Bigglesworth.”
“Master, your wisdom is unparalleled.”