Chapter Fifty-One: Would You Like to Be My Son, Peter? [New Book—Please Add to Your Collection and Recommend]

"Jarvis, does this mean I don’t have to fight anymore?"

Lying amid the ruins, Tony Stark was chatting with his most trusted butler, Jarvis.

"Yes, sir. Just now, you’ve already lost your dream. The battle hadn’t even begun and you were forced to withdraw early."

"Jarvis, I came here to be a superhero. You know what to do."

"Understood, sir. Based on dopamine secretion and your recent neural wave scans, Jarvis has already activated a spare suit, which is currently en route."

"Nicely done, Jarvis."

"It’s what Jarvis is meant to do, sir. The new suit will take some time to arrive. Would you like some music in the meantime? Jarvis warmly recommends ‘The Lonely Goatherd,’ ‘The Happy Yodeler,’ and ‘Pink Flamingos.’"

"Why those? I sense you’re mocking me."

"Those selections are based on your emotional troughs, sir. Jarvis does not make mistakes."

"So, I’m the one who’s wrong?"

"Yes, sir."

"I’m starting to think about firing you. Besides developing anti-knight armor, maybe I should work on a whole new intelligent system."

"Very good, sir. Before Jarvis goes offline, I’ll send Ms. Pepper all your hotel itineraries and certain transactions with the opposite sex, just to complete the handover..."

"Jarvis, let’s talk about the anti-knight armor now."

"As you wish, sir."

Jarvis’s tone never wavered—everything was under control.

As a mature artificial intelligence, it was steadily learning and enriching itself.

After Tony’s crushing defeat by Vikaarn, he was once again outdone—this time by his own AI.

Swinging from building to building on spider silk, Peter Parker was joyfully traversing the city. Thanks to his keen senses, he quickly spotted another figure dressed in red—Tony Stark, sprawled in the rubble.

"Whoa, Mister Robot, you look really cool!"

Landing in front of Tony Stark, Peter Parker dangled from his web. "You look even cooler if you talk to the camera."

"It’s Jarvis, my butler, you’re talking to."

"A robot butler?"

"No, an artificial intelligence butler. That’s important."

"Really? Artificial intelligence? That’s even cooler."

Peter Parker began pulling Tony Stark’s gold-and-red armor from the wreckage. As the mask retracted, revealing Tony’s face, Peter’s tone filled with surprise.

"Oh! Iron Man! Mr. Stark!"

"Yes, I’m Stark, and also Iron Man."

"Mr. Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you! But what are you doing here?"

Peter pulled off his own mask, his face lit with delight. He instinctively reached for a pen and notepad, hoping for an autograph, then realized he’d changed into his suit and had nothing on him.

"As you can see, I just had a big fight with some bad guy. Clearly, I won, but I took a few knocks."

Tony answered with absolute confidence.

"And where’s the bad guy?"

Peter looked puzzled.

"Can’t you see the ruins all around you? Wait, what are you doing here anyway? Who are you?"

"Peter Parker—a part-time reporter, part-time delivery guy, and a superhero."

"Alright, so you want to be a superhero too? But right now, you should be focusing on your studies."

"I think so too, but being a superhero is my dream. I’ve kept it well hidden—no one knows what I do."

Peter slipped his mask back on. "Well, except for you, Mr. Stark, and one other friend."

"Oh, I’m honored. But, Pajama Kid..."

Tony wore a look of pride. Peter’s admiration fed his ego. He was Tony, the proud Iron Man.

"Um... Mr. Stark, I do have a code name, you know. You can call me Spider-Man. I’d rather not get in trouble."

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?"

"I just don’t want my identity exposed." Peter wasn’t fond of Tony’s constant ‘Pajama Kid’ nickname, and he really didn’t want to be known as Pajama Hero.

Peter pictured tomorrow’s headlines: ‘Pajama Kid Defeats So-and-So,’ ‘Pajama Kid: New York’s Best Friend,’ and so on.

It was definitely not cool.

"Alright, let’s set code names aside for now. I have a question: What’s up with your pajamas? Did you make them yourself? And the webs you swing from—are those actually shot from you, or something else? And why are they the same red as mine?"

"Oh, yes, I made this suit myself. Like you, Mr. Stark, I like red!"

Talking about his suit, Peter grew excited—it was one of his proudest achievements.

"I have to say, compared to my armor, your red pajamas are really ugly."

Tony showed no mercy.

"Fair enough, Mr. Stark, it’s not my finest work. What really took effort was this."

Peter raised his wrist. "This web shooter—it’s a chemical fiber I created, extremely strong. When fired, it turns into webbing in the air, like this."

Tony spotted a small device on Peter’s wrist as the boy shot a stream of webbing across to a distant wall, where it instantly adhered.

"You designed that yourself?"

"Yes, I did."

Tony realized he’d discovered a genius.

"You said you’re part-time what again?"

"Part-time reporter, part-time delivery guy."

"Quit those jobs—they’re not for you. Come intern at Stark Industries. I see great promise in you."

"Really, Mr. Stark?"

Peter was thrilled.

"Yes—because I’m Tony Stark."

With that, Tony assembled the air-dropped components into a new suit right on his body. Ignoring Peter’s awe, he took off and soared away.

"Jarvis, how was my performance just now?"

"Fifty points, sir. The other fifty points were lost due to excessive showboating and forgetting that one component is still on its way."

"Why didn’t you say so earlier?"

"Because now isn’t too late."

"I really am going to replace you."

"As you wish, sir."

Amid the ruins, energy swirled around Grommash and Vikaarn, who paid no attention to the clamor of Zazzara and Captain America’s nearby brawl. The two sat hidden from view, occasionally thumping the wall or floor, slacking off in secret.

"Grommash, the boss can’t see us here, right?"

"I think so, Vikaarn."

"How long have we been shouting?"

"Ten minutes or so. Should we shout a bit more? Erika said we had to show a sense of tragic ferocity, but I don’t really get it."

"Oh, I guess the louder the better. You know, I’m an orc—roaring gives me a bonus."

"No wonder orcs always shout ‘For the Horde!’ in battle."

"Doesn’t your Alliance ever shout ‘For the Alliance’?"

"What Alliance? I’m a death knight now."

"Well, I’m still the Warlord of the Frozen Throne."

"—War—!"

"—Scourge—!"

Their cheerful exchange was anything but pleasant.

Because both had rather nasty personalities.

A minor disagreement arose between them.