Nuclear weapons don't just kill with heat and blast. They spit death in invisible rays. That's why they've earned another name—dirty bombs.
Even with Loki's Mask on, Li Feng's "nuclear reaction fireball" was brute-forced out of his own mana. The spectacle couldn't compare to a modern warhead. Truth be told, what he'd thrown would barely rate as the ragged tail of a low-yield device—if that.
But a nuke is a nuke. And because he'd modeled it off the disassembled warhead sitting in his suite, his fireball left a residue—radiation threaded through the air. It would ebb as the spellwork unwound, but who knew how long the world would take to digest his magic?
He tore the Mask off and stepped out of the Mirror Dimension, panic working his face even as reflex had him layering shields to keep the fallout out of his blood.
From the hotel roof he stared, hollow, as a column of fire lit the city like dawn.
Below, the blackout strangled traffic. Intersections became junkyards—rear-end pileups piling into more pileups. Police cruisers knifed through with sirens howling. Fire engines—"woo-OO-woo"—rushed toward the blast.
Las Vegas unraveled into noise and fear.
Li Feng threw on his Invisibility Cloak, misted into a curl of black vapor, and drifted higher, watching rescue crews sprint toward ground zero in nothing but turnout gear. He opened his mouth to warn them—there's radiation—but the words stuck in his throat and turned to dust.
He felt like a kid who'd stolen a few sweet potatoes to roast in the hills and set the whole mountain ablaze. The fire would only grow—everyone could see it—and he was terrified of the beating he'd get if anyone knew it started with him. So he said nothing and watched it spread.
From above, the blast wave had sheared buildings in a radial pattern, a fall like a flower opening in reverse. The flattened zone covered an area the size of a small town.
At the center, a crater a hundred yards across smoked under air that wavered with heat. Cars sagged into molten metal.
There were no bodies in the core. He didn't need to see them to know why. Vapor leaves nothing to count.
Li Feng raised both hands and stared, as if the palms might tell him this wasn't true.
A red flare skated across the corner of his vision. He clapped a palm to his cheek and, almost shyly, glanced at Kreacher, who floated beside him, eyes wide at the rising mushroom cloud.
The thought came hot and sour: Kill him. Very few people could tie this to him. Most would guess. Only Kreacher had watched him cast the fireball—and Kreacher would be going back with him to the Marvel world. If the elf let slip even a hint, the Ancient One would know exactly what he'd done.
No. Not Kreacher. He'd been loyal from the start. He wouldn't talk. Worst case, I seal his memory.
He let that decision out on a long breath. The red in his eyes receded.
Clarity stabbed in after it. Since when did "kill" become my first solution?
Kreacher had been watching his eyes, braced for the usual cuff for "talking back." He swallowed and said, small, "Master… the red was there again."
Li Feng blinked, lifted the Mask, and stared at it as the last days replayed in his head.
His fingers pressed hard into his temples. His pupils bled crimson, then snapped black-and-white clear, then bled again. He pitched and rolled in the air like a man fighting an invisible tide.
Hallucinations came with it. On his right shoulder, his conscience put on a halo and took the shape of Li Feng—then slapped him across the face with an enormous rubber sandal.
"Vegas is surrounded by desert," Conscience snarled between whacks. "You couldn't walk your happy ass out to some uninhabited dunes to test your toy? You lit one off in the city! Do you know how many innocents died? What about the ones who'll live the rest of their lives under a shadow? Stop staring and purify the radiation—now!"
"And Kreacher—he's followed you through hell, almost died for you—and your first instinct is to kill him to cover your tracks?"
On the left shoulder, Malice arrived with horns and a tail, arms folded, eyes on the burning horizon. He didn't swing a slipper. He smiled.
"The state will figure it out. Radiation, blast pattern—this was man-made. You've been buying nuclear texts by the armload; they'll notice. You can weather a manhunt, sure, but it's a nuisance. And habits don't change. Given time, they'll trace it to you."
"Also: Andrei bought you the books and secured multiple warheads. Your three physicists live at your elbow; they know you're a mage and how fast you're learning. They'll guess. In this world, you're locked in as the devil of Las Vegas."
Malice's eyes glittered. His voice went hungry. "So finish it. Take Vegas off the map. Then it reads like a real warhead, not a botched spell. The fewer survivors, the fewer stories. You're not staying anyway. Let this be a mystery. Mysteries fade."
The argument pounded his skull until it threatened to split, and that was when Kreacher flinched and snapped upright.
"Master—space ripples. A sorcerer is coming."
Li Feng's eyes flew open, wild. He turned toward the disturbance.
A figure stepped through the torn sky, black cloak snapping in the ash-wind, skin a bright, impossible green.
Loki.
"Of course," Li Feng muttered. "When it rains, it floods."
He couldn't beat him. Bargaining was a joke. He shoved a hand through the air and opened a portal to Edge City. "Kreacher—run!"
The elf didn't wait for the order to finish. He hauled Li Feng up by the arm and dove.
A god doesn't watch prey escape. Loki leveled a palm and sent a bolt after them—divine power braided with frost and witchlight. It marked and it froze. With luck, it would lock the portal in place—and the thieves in ice.
On the far side, Kreacher felt the magic closing and spun, throwing up a shield. The spell skidded, just enough, kissing Li Feng's side and hissing past into the dark.
The shield shattered like sugar glass. Ice knifed across Kreacher's right arm, and then the frost behaved like a living thing—snaking, seeking purchase, eager to turn him into a statue.
Li Feng looked once—half of Kreacher already glazed in blue-white. He caught the elf up, teeth clenched against a fresh surge of pain, and ripped open a Way between worlds.
"This makes twice," he said, voice raw. "Twice you've saved my life."
Crawling back into the Marvel world felt like dragging himself out of a grave.
Exhaustion was one thing; he could sleep that off. What hurt was the inventory check: single-strap bag on his shoulder, Loki's Mask in his hand…and Kreacher, both empty-handed and encased in a glossy block of ice.
He'd gone out with tents, enchanted clothes, a pile of gear. He'd come back with a bag and a statistic.
Massive loss. No refunds.
And what was he going to do—ask the Ancient One to march into the world of The Mask and file a complaint against Loki? If she learned what he'd actually done over there, she wouldn't help him; she'd ash him. Twice, for emphasis.
So he went full A-Q spirit, told himself it was "cash gone, calamity dodged," sat cross-legged in the sand, and began refilling his mana—pinging Janet in the Quantum Realm while he was at it.
Nothing. Even with his power and quantum reserves topped off, his mind stayed quiet. No reply. Maybe the quantum channel hadn't fully dissipated when he jumped back. Maybe Janet was simply…busy.
Fine. If he couldn't figure it out now, future-him would. He shook off the last of the dizziness and started circling Kreacher's ice.
After a while, he rubbed his chin, and a thin, guilty smile crept onto his face.
He'd written today off as "worse than taxes," but the ice told a different story. Loki's spell wasn't just a freeze—it was a tracker. The god hadn't imagined Li Feng would jump universes; there was nothing to track over here. But a tracker's magic lingers. And gods don't push that through with cheap energy.
Which meant the ice around Kreacher wasn't just cold—it was loaded with divine power.
On a normal day, he could have tapped and studied it before it bled into the ether. He knew Kamar-Taj's borrowing tricks well enough to siphon, but preserving raw godforce? Not in his toolkit.
Today was different. Today he had the Mask—an artifact built to soak and hold that very current.
He set the Mask against the crown of the ice-bound elf and, carefully, teased the godpower through the frost and into the artifact.
When the last of Loki's power left, the ice lost its spine. Desert sun did the rest. Meltwater sheeted across the sand. Li Feng tipped a few drops from the Fountain of Life onto Kreacher's lips, and the elf shuddered awake.
Kreacher blinked, eyes round, worry first and last. "Master…are you safe now?"
Li Feng, still feeling the Mask buzzing in his palm, froze a beat, then faked a smile. "That's twice you've pulled me out of the fire."
"It is what Kreacher is for." The elf's shoulders dropped with relief. "Master is everything to Kreacher. As long as Master is safe, Kreacher will do anything."
Li Feng looked away, the smile fading to something complicated. People were people—even sorcerers shaped like them. Kreacher had cared for him without complaint and had nearly died for him. Twice.
For a heartbeat, he almost scrapped a plan he'd once made for Kreacher's "future disposition." There was still meat and warmth somewhere under all the spellwork.
He rubbed his forehead and opened a portal. "Future me can argue with future me. Let's go home."
Back by the lake and the "little" cabin, he tossed the bag to Kreacher, asked for a beer, and stood at the water's edge, arms wide, breathing the quiet.
He lay back on the grass, a blade between his teeth, sun on his face—until Kreacher came trotting over with a beer…and a letter.
Li Feng squinted up. "For me or Banner?" He glanced at the cabin. "Speaking of—where is Banner?"
Kreacher shook his head. "A letter from Mr. Banner for you, Master. It was on the table—with a spare key to the RV."
"Gone, then." You leave the key inside, you're not coming back tonight.
He drained the beer, slit the envelope, read, and then burned the page to drifting ash.
Breakup. Needed a trip. Clear his head. The letter also helpfully marked every bug and wire he'd found in the RV.
The kicker sat in the postscript: be careful. General Ross had stepped off the parade ground and onto the campaign trail after Harlem. Politics. Li Feng was a novice there, but even he knew it was messier than soldiers and rifles. Ross's obsession with the Hulk could curdle into something uglier with a bit of power in hand.
Li Feng snorted. He wants a piece of me, tell him to get in line.
The ashes were still swirling when Coulson's cherry-red Corvette—Lola, not "Laura"—hummed up the drive.
Coulson parked smooth as a magician and climbed out.
"Agent Coulson?" Li Feng lifted a brow. "Aren't you supposed to be busy saving the world? What brings you to my scenic retreat?"
Kreacher hadn't bothered to hide. Coulson had heard rumors, but it was his first time seeing the elf. He offered a friendly smile, a small hello, and won himself a cautious nod before turning back to Li Feng.
"Truth is, I've been by every day this week." He angled his head, eyes dropping to the dust stippling Li Feng's shoes. "You've been back to the desert, haven't you? Within the last seven days."
"Yeah." Li Feng followed his gaze. "Learning something…with a lot of bang." He waved at the lake and trees. "Didn't want to scorch the view."
Coulson drew breath for the obvious follow-up. Li Feng headed him off with a grin. "Later. You're here for the planet-scale problems first, right?"
"I'll take that as a compliment to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mission." Coulson's smile thinned; his tone didn't. "When did you last see Bob?"
"Bob?" Li Feng sifted through the Rolodex. "Stark's place, I think. Fury brought him."
"Is he dead?"
"If he were, I'd be talking to the coroner." Coulson shook his head. "He ran. Looks like he couldn't take the surveillance. We traced him as far as Mexico."
"What's so bad about being watched—" Li Feng stopped mid-sentence, grimaced. "Forget I asked. You know your boss better than I do. Every time I remember my first encounter with him, I get hives. Guy practically audited my plumbing. Who watches a man take a shower?"
Coulson's face tried not to be a cartoon. He failed less than you'd expect. Li Feng kept going.
"So how was the Great One monitoring Bob? 360-degree cams in the toilet tank?"
"Ask Director Fury." Coulson resisted the eye-roll with visible effort. He pulled a small stack of photos from his jacket and handed them over. "My job is to find Bob."
"Mexico's a whole country." Li Feng spread his hands. "You know he's there; why come to me?"
"We don't know where he is there. And—" Coulson tapped the top photo. "You should see this."
Li Feng glanced—then swore softly. "Oh, hell."
Gone was the clean-cut operator in tac gear or a crisp suit. The photos showed a man with hair like a storm cloud, wrapped head to toe in a spinning spiral of black wind, as if something inside had torn the seams of his skin.
So that was why S.H.I.E.L.D. was on his doorstep.
Fury, you magnificent bastard, Li Feng thought. You spied on him until the demon came out. He looked from the picture to Coulson. "All right. Tell me everything you've got."