Marvel MK: CH 167 – The Sky Bleeds Fire

Jack tore through the void-black sky toward New York, a golden comet of pure, unadulterated fury. The divine fire from his battle with Susanoo had burned away the upper half of his hanfu, leaving his scarred, toned torso bare to the unnatural twilight. Below him, the city was a strange paradox of order and chaos. He saw the crimson and gold streaks of Tony Stark's Iron Legion, a fleet of automated sentries flying in perfect, disciplined formations, evacuating civilians with a cold, mechanical efficiency.

But at the border of his own territory, a different scene unfolded. The people of the Golden Peach, protected by their shimmering, impenetrable barrier, stood and watched, their faces a mixture of calm and concern. And outside that barrier, the very same people who had been shouting and protesting just days ago were now banging on the invisible wall, their faces streaked with tears, their voices a desperate chorus of cries, pleas, and kneeling prayers to be let in. The barrier, which filtered intent, held them back, a silent, undeniable judgment on the fear and hatred they still harbored.

Jack saw it all, but his focus was singular. He saw the stolen Quinjet, a dark shape against the void, and the swirling, man-made hurricane that surrounded the Helicarrier. He plucked a dozen hairs from his head, brought them to his lips, and blew. A swarm of clones erupted from his breath, their forms solidifying as they shot off toward the city, their purpose clear. One group followed the Quinjet. The others spread out, a silent, watchful army in the growing darkness.

Jack then took a long, deep drink from his gourd. "Ahhh." He activated the Visage of the Phoenix.

Once again, golden flames didn't just lick his joints; they tore out from within, consuming his shoulders, knees, and elbows in a righteous, celestial fire. From the crown of his head, not one, but two long, scarlet feathers erupted, like the twin standards of a god of war. He took a breath, and a wisp of black smoke escaped his lips. He activated his Fiery Gaze, and his eyes turned to molten gold.

With a silent command, Zephyr gathered the wind beneath him, a living catapult of storm and cloud, and launched him. A trail of golden fire blazed across the sky as Jack, a living meteor, tackled Susanoo in mid-air.

He saw the Quinjet, carrying Loki, bank hard toward the distant silhouette of the Xavier Mansion. He sent a silent, psychic command to his clones: Follow it.

Then, he turned his full attention to the storm god. He unleashed a flurry of blows, a hurricane of scorched fists and fiery kicks. The void sky, the only light source in the darkened New York, was streaked with the squiggly, incandescent trails of their divine battle.

Susanoo, his own divine power a raging tempest, countered with an astral barrage of his own—a storm of phantom blades forged from pure kinetic wind. But Jack, with the memories of a thousand battles now stirring in his soul, saw the technique, recognized its flow. With Zephyr's help, he copied Susanoo's own Step of the Wind, becoming a ghost in the storm. He appeared above the storm god, his knee, wreathed in golden fire, slamming into Susanoo's face.

The stunning strike sent the god of storms hurtling upward. Before he could recover, Jack's phoenix feathers shot out, not as decorative plumage, but as prehensile whips of solidified fire. They wrapped around Susanoo's ankles, and with a vicious yank, Jack pulled him back down. He met the falling god with his foot, now a talon of molten gold, and drove it directly into Susanoo's groin.

He followed with a vicious, barehanded attack, a hurricane of scorched fists and clawed strikes. Susanoo, roaring in a mixture of pain and pure, unadulterated rage, managed to get a foot on Jack's face and push off, sending himself plummeting down toward the city below.

BOOM.

Susanoo landed in the middle of a deserted street, the impact cracking the asphalt in a perfect, spiderwebbed crater. He stood, his eyes blazing with a cold, empty fury, and activated his own divine form. "Visage of the Storm Body."

The air around him crackled. Four new arms, woven from crackling lightning and storm clouds, sprouted from his back. They grew, stretching and solidifying, then plunged into the skyscraper beside him. With a groan of tortured steel and shattering glass, they ripped a massive chunk from the building's facade.

A mountain of concrete and wire, a piece of a world that was never meant to fly, was hurled into the sky, directly at Jack.

Jack, still hovering in the air, watched the building-sized projectile hurtle toward him. He fell, dodging the initial impact, and began a frantic, gravity-defying dance, running side-to-side on the smaller chunks of flying debris, his phoenix feathers flailing around him. He used his feathers to redirect the largest chunk, and then, with a final, brilliant spin, they wrapped around the massive piece of skyscraper like divine cables.

With a roar that was a perfect, mocking imitation of Susanoo's own, he sent it flying back down. The god of storms was about to get a taste of his own destructive medicine.

…

Tony Stark's suit clamped shut around him, a second skin of gold-titanium alloy. He took off from the battered deck of the Helicarrier, a crimson and gold streak against the void-black sky.

The remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, along with Fury, Hill, and the visiting X-Men, watched the impossible duel unfolding in the heavens. A celestial storm, a god of thunder versus a phoenix of chaos, their battle painting the unnatural darkness with strokes of lightning and fire. The sight was terrifying, beautiful, and utterly humbling.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony’s voice was a low, awestruck murmur in his helmet as he flew towards the damaged engine, “remind me to never, ever make Jack and his people mad.”

On the bridge, the agents were stunned into a professional silence. Captain America took a step closer to a shattered window, his gaze fixed on the cosmic brawl. He turned to Fury.

“Is this why you made that weapon?” he asked, his voice a quiet, understanding thing.

Fury’s one good eye didn’t leave the sky. “Yes,” he admitted. “But I was never banking on that. I always believed he had Earth in his heart. He sees himself as a guardian of the Golden Peach, so as long as the Golden Peach is still on Earth, he will be its guardian. But my all-in was always with the Avengers. And today will show how much we need that initiative.”

Cap was silent for a long moment. Then, he nodded. “I’m in,” he said, his voice firm, resolute. “As long as I’m not tied with any government body.” He turned, his gaze meeting Fury’s. “Or be tied with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“The Avengers will move on their own,” Nick said, a silent pact sealed in the heart of a war they had yet to win.

In the relative quiet of the command center, Jean was working with Xavier, her mind a gentle, probing presence. “Professor,” she said, her telepathic voice laced with a cold, slick feeling of wrongness, “some of the agents, they…”

Xavier’s own mental presence stopped her. “It’s not the time, Jean. It would be a herculean effort to get rid of them. They are in too deep. For now, only believe who you’ve checked is clear.”

Jean understood. A cold, chilling realization settled in her gut. “Understood.”

Hank McCoy, who had been monitoring the Helicarrier’s structural integrity, looked up. “Where is Scott?”

…

In the ruined warehouse somewhere in New York city, amidst a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered grounds, Bruce Banner came to. He was himself again, the green rage a distant, fading echo. He looked down and saw Scott Summers lying beside him, unconscious, his body shielding him from a large, fallen girder.

“Kid,” Bruce said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Kid, are you okay?”

Scott groaned, his eyes fluttering open. “Ugghh… that’s gonna need weeks to recover.” He looked at Bruce, a grateful, pained smile on his face. “Thank you. I think you shielded me when we fell from the carrier.”

Bruce looked around, a dawning, familiar sense of embarrassment on his face. “Do you see my pants?”

Scott looked to his side. A pair of ridiculously stretched, but miraculously intact, purple shorts lay in a heap. “Oh, here you go.” He handed them to Bruce. “Good material, that. To be able to stretch that big.”

“Yeah, well, I made it specially for these kinds of events,” Bruce said, a wry, self-deprecating smile on his face. “Though, as you can see, it’s not perfect. It still tears sometimes.”

“I bet you the Alfar could make you a costume that will fit you,” Scott said, his own recent, bizarre Christmas adventure a strange, hopeful thought in the midst of the chaos.

BOOM.

A streak of golden fire shot past the gaping hole of the roof of the warehouse, the sound a deafening, sonic roar.

“What is that?” Bruce asked, his eyes wide.

Scott looked up, a mixture of awe and weary resignation on his face.

“It’s Jack Hou.”

…

Meanwhile, in Hong Kong, the void-black sky was a silent, terrifying backdrop to a city bracing for the unknown. The Zodiac divisions were arriving, a multinational force of meta-humans converging on the city.

Lei Ling, the Dragon Division’s own, flew high above the glittering expanse of Victoria Harbour, her wind manipulation keeping her aloft. “Comms check,” she said into her mouthpiece, her voice tight with urgency. “The jiangshi horde is starting to appear, guys. Ground level, Tsim Sha Tsui.”

From across the South China Sea, a voice crackled in her ear. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” It was Pearl Pangan, aka Wave, of the Philippines’ Rooster Division, her voice a determined promise carried over the waves.

Suddenly, a brilliant, red square portal tore open in the middle of the city square. From it stepped Lady Bright, her presence commanding, followed by the crystalline form of Luna Snow and the sharp, focused Ami Han. At Lady Bright’s side, her sentient magical totem, the General, grew to the size of a small building, its stone eyes scanning the surroundings.

“Check the perimeter,” Ami Han commanded the totem. “And crush every jiangshi you see.” The stone giant began to move, its heavy footsteps a promise of the destruction to come.

Lei Ling flew down, a wide, relieved grin on her face as she hugged Ami Han and Lady Bright. “Aunties! I knew you were coming here first!”

“I was informed by Jack Hou before the sky turned dark,” Ami Han explained, her expression grim.

“Wait, if you’re here, who’s guarding Korea?” Lei Ling asked, a flicker of concern in her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Lady Bright said, her voice a calm, reassuring thing. “We’ve already spread the one-day barrier spell Jack gave us for emergencies. Even if there are none of us there, it will be safe.”

“Guys,” Luna Snow’s voice was a sharp, warning note. “There’s something incoming.”

They all looked up and saw a grey silhouette flying toward them from the horizon. “Do jiangshi fly?” Lei Ling muttered.

As it drew closer, the familiar, sleek form of the War Machine armor became clear. Rhodey landed with a heavy, metallic thud. “I heard the whole of Hong Kong was evacuating,” he said, his faceplate retracting. “What happened? What about the other cities?”

“Jack said Hong Kong would be the gate,” Ami Han explained simply.

“Are you kidding me?” Rhodey shot back, his tone incredulous. “You believe him that much?”

“I owe him this much of a belief, at the very least,” she replied, her gaze unwavering.

As if on cue, the armies of Amatsu began to fall from the sky, shadowy figures coalescing from every dark corner of the city.

“Okay,” Rhodey said, his own skepticism vanishing in the face of the immediate, overwhelming threat. “Tony said I have to help.” His repulsors whined to life.

He fired a blast into the chest of an approaching Oni. The energy passed straight through it, the demon not even flinching. His shoulder-mounted minigun spun, spitting a hail of bullets that also passed harmlessly through the shadowy forms.

“What the hell?”

“Here.” Ami Han tossed him a small, folded piece of parchment, covered in glowing, golden script.

“What is this?”

Lady Bright, who was already in motion, her energized playing cards slicing through the air, answered him. “It’s a spell from Jack Hou. It anchors their spiritual forms to the physical plane. If you want to kill those things, you need it.”

Just then, a massive wave crashed over the harbor wall, and with it came Pearl Pangan, her trident gleaming. She leaped from the crest of the wave and drove her weapon into a Shinma demon. The trident passed through it, its divine energy doing nothing.

“Hold this in your pocket!” Rhodey shouted, firing another useless blast before tossing her a spare parchment. “I don’t know how it works, but it works!”

…

London was in a full-blown panic. Not only had the sky turned into a suffocating, starless void, but now a landmass of impossible, alien flora was stretching across the River Thames, its living vines and blooming, otherworldly flowers a stark, terrifying contrast to the familiar grey stone of the city.

From this new, strange land, a streak of wind shot into the sky. It was one of Jack’s clones, the one who had been teaching Wudao and Krakoa, riding his own clone of Zephyr.

“Alright, you tea-loving residents of London!” his voice boomed across the terrified city. “Evacuate immediately! This is not a drill! I know, coming from me, it sounds like a prank, but it’s not! That Venom knock-off will attack at any moment, and my disciples and I need the space to fight them!”

From the crowd below, a man in a track suit shouted back, his voice a perfect, indignant example of London roadman defiance. “Who the fuck are you, fam? Orderin’ us around like you’re the king?”

Before the clone could retort, a shadow tore through the ground at the man’s feet. A hulking, black-skinned Oni erupted from the concrete, its tusks sharp, its spiked club raised.

But before it could strike, a flash of saffron robes shot through the air. “HAH!”

Cheng Wudao landed with a ground-shattering thud, his monk’s spade a blur of motion as it decapitated the Oni in a single, clean strike. He shook the black blood from his blade and turned to the stunned Londoner.

“Amitabha,” Wudao said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that was far more terrifying than the demon he had just slain. “Titillate this monk, for we have an obligation to save lives. Be it even your worthless one. Ghehehehehe.”

Jack’s clone, watching from above, let out a delighted cackle. “Keke!” He then created a swarm of clones from his own hair. “Follow them!” he commanded the terrified crowd. “They will create pocket barriers and go around the city to make sure all of you are okay! Now go, all of you colonizers and immigrants!”

From the river, Krakoa’s voice, a chorus of a thousand rustling leaves, echoed. “Xixixixi! Master, can I land on the surface now? The river feels itchy.”

From every pocket of shadow, from the void-black sky itself, the armies of Amatsu began to pour into London. Oni, Shinma demons, and other nameless horrors. The police tried to help, but their guns were useless, the bullets passing through the shadowy forms as if they were mist. Jack’s clones multiplied, an instant army of one, holding the line, evacuating civilians, their playful chaos now a focused, life-saving purpose.

“Come on then, Krakoa!” the main clone commanded. “Cloak the city so no pocket of shadow can be a channel for Amatsu to send his armies!”

Wudao was a storm of saffron and steel. He moved through the demonic hordes, his spade a blur, his every movement a prayer of violence. He was chanting sutras as he fought, his voice a low, powerful mantra against the chaos. A Shinma demon, a creature of pure shadow, was about to attack a small, crying child. Wudao slapped it with the flat of his spade, sending it reeling.

His chanting stopped. His eyes, which had been focused and disciplined, now burned with a cold fury. “To harm the innocent,” he growled, the words a venomous promise, “is to defile the Dharma itself.”

He saw the terror in the child’s eyes, and something inside him, a carefully constructed wall of monastic discipline, shattered. He saw Tenzin. He saw a hundred lifetimes of suffering. And he was done with it.

“AAGGGHHHH!” he roared, his voice a raw, primal thing. The mala beads around his wrist began to glow with a furious, golden light. He was no longer a monk. He was a judgment of rage. He tore through Amatsu’s armies, a force of pure, righteous fury.

From a nearby rooftop, another Jack clone saw a spinning, golden disc of sorcery materialize in the air. He went to investigate and found Master Sol Rama himself, his hands already weaving a complex, binding spell.

“I thought the sorcerers wouldn’t get involved,” the clone said, his tone one of genuine surprise.

“It involves Amatsu,” Sol Rama replied, his focus absolute. “And don’t ask for more. We are here only to fight Amatsu, not Loki and Susanoo in New York.”

The clone’s grin returned, sharp and knowing. “Kekeke. I understand.”