The Mandarin had no real desire to entertain Tony Stark.
But with Clark only watching Tony with mild interest—and offering no explanation whatsoever—the Mandarin was forced to swallow his irritation and give Tony two patient lines:
"Observe a little more. You'll understand."
Tony Stark: "???"
If I could figure it out just by staring, why would I bother asking you?
Tony had learned some basic boxing—nowhere near helpless.
But compared to men like Antonio or the Serpent, fighters who'd survived true kill-or-be-killed battlefields, Tony's skills weren't even a joke.
If he stepped into that fight, they wouldn't need three moves—one punch would send him straight to the ER.
He kept watching with the naked eye, but aside from the street collapsing into even more craters, he learned absolutely nothing.
Clearly, the Mandarin had no intention of answering him.
But Tony still had one option—
"JARVIS, I'm not seeing anything. Did you?"
"Sir, according to on-site assessments and destructive-force calculations, Mr. Antonio's punching speed has increased by twelve percent. His striking power has increased by fifteen percent…"
"Three minutes ago, Mr. Antonio showed signs of physical fatigue. However, he is now recovering at an extreme rate. His strength has also ascended into a new tier…"
It was enough numbers to make an academic faint.
Tony wasn't an academic dropout. By the time JARVIS finished, Tony already had his conclusion:
"So… if your measurements are correct, that means Antonio broke through in the middle of the fight—he evolved? He got stronger?"
JARVIS chimed in with an affirmative tone.
Tony's mood lifted. Grinning from ear to ear, he glanced at the Mandarin.
"No wonder you were so eager to beg Clark for help. Turns out you realized your second-in-command was losing!"
The Mandarin didn't care at all.
"Principal Clark likely noticed long ago—Bloodfang had reached his limit. He sent the Serpent to act as his whetstone."
A helpless smile tugged at the Mandarin's mouth.
"And that serpent was sharp enough."
"Principal Clark," the Mandarin said, "in light of all that… will you allow me to take action now?"
At this moment, the Mandarin had only one thought left—this.
He had crossed the ocean, risked his life, even dared to assault S.H.I.E.L.D.
His obsession ran deep.
Shang-Chi lay unconscious on a stretcher nearby, his braid trailing over the fabric, still with no sign of waking.
The Mandarin stood close enough to reach him, yet until Clark gave permission, he didn't dare move a muscle.
…
Out on the battlefield, the stalemate finally broke.
The serpent-man's frontal combat ability was no joke. At the beginning, he had even managed to suppress Antonio in their exchange of blows.
But once Antonio shattered his limits, the tide instantly reversed.
With his surging strength, Antonio went from flagging to ferocious, unleashing a barrage of hundreds of punches in succession—so many that he blasted half the serpent-man's torso apart.
A ruptured eyeball and splattering crimson brought the duel to its final moment.
Heavily wounded, the serpent-man trembled with shock and fury. His remaining serpent eye brimmed with terror… and bitter, aching unwillingness.
He and Antonio stood at the same peak.
Then why—
Why was Antonio the one to break through, and not him?
With resentment twisting his features, his snake fangs parted wide, gleaming with oily black sheen—the venom, his deadliest weapon.
He only had one dose. Once he used it, his body would collapse into weakness.
But at this point, what did weakness matter?
This was his last gamble—if he was going down, he'd drag someone with him.
The serpent lunged, jaws snapping for Antonio's throat.
Antonio's cold expression didn't shift. Venom glistened inches from his artery—only for him to slip aside with impossible fluidity.
He hadn't only grown stronger.
His agility and explosive speed had also evolved.
Antonio's massive right hand clamped around the serpent-man's neck, every muscle bunching with lethal force.
Crack.
A crisp, bone-deep snap echoed. The serpent-man's body went limp, collapsing to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
The Serpent—the Ten Rings Gang's second-in-command—was dead.
Antonio released the corpse and threw his head back in a primal roar. His scarlet teeth darkened, the red fading into a gleaming black—two rows of razor-sharp obsidian fangs.
Perhaps Bloodfang Antonio needed a new name—Blackfang?
Then, slowly, the teeth lost their color, returning to their normal white. His swollen, battle-inflated muscles shrank, leaving him merely massive rather than monstrous.
You'd never guess how vicious he'd looked moments earlier.
…
And with that, Antonio's battle came to an end.
Clark looked at the Mandarin and laughed lightly.
"No wonder you've stayed in power for so many years. Your judgment isn't bad at all."
"You spotted the difference just from one evenly matched fight. Meanwhile, I've only figured Antonio out after years of working with her."
The Mandarin forced an awkward chuckle.
"About… Shang-Chi…"
His gaze flicked repeatedly between Clark and Antonio.
As Antonio returned to normal and walked closer step by step, the Mandarin grew more tense.
He was terrified—
Terrified Clark might wave his hand and pardon Shang-Chi on the spot…
Yes, some people considered Shang-Chi a hero who had abandoned darkness for the light.
But the Mandarin refused to accept that.
He didn't care what the world thought.
Shang-Chi… was another matter entirely.
Clark ignored him. He didn't answer, didn't reassure—simply let the Mandarin stew, watching the shifting panic on his face with mild amusement.
Then Clark turned toward the approaching Antonio, arching a brow.
"As we agreed, the braided one is your responsibility. I trust you'll make a decision that satisfies me."
Hearing the layered meaning behind his words, Antonio raised a brow and smiled.
After that blood-drenched battle, something in Antonio's aura had changed.
Colder. Sharper.
He didn't speak to the Mandarin. He simply walked toward the unconscious Shang-Chi, a thin half-smile stretching across his face—one that held no warmth.
When he reached the stretcher, he lifted his right leg and planted his boot onto Shang-Chi's thigh.
The man didn't move, still pretending to be unconscious.
Antonio's voice dropped.
"Still faking? Careful—I can make sure you stay unconscious forever."
Shang-Chi cultivated a force called qigong. A discipline with all sorts of odd uses—disguising his physical state among them. Faking unconsciousness was effortless.
It might fool outsiders.
It would never fool Antonio.
Others noticed as well, but they didn't care enough to comment. A coward pretending—hardly worth their breath.
…
Once exposed, Shang-Chi jerked awake, flipping upright like a startled fish—only to remain pinned beneath Antonio's boot.
He glanced nervously at the Mandarin. Seeing the old man bereft of any ability to fight, Shang-Chi's fear melted instantly into glee.
"Perfect! The old man's powerless now! Kill me? He should worry about himself!"
Beaming, he turned to Antonio.
"Sir, are you here to let me go? Don't worry, I'll praise you to every news station out there. You'll be a hero!"
Antonio dug a finger in his ear, flicked away some dust, then looked down at Shang-Chi with icy calm.
"No. I'm not letting you go."
"I woke you up because I wanted you to know one thing—"
"The one who's killing you… is me, Antonio."
"I don't want you dying confused. That's not my style."
His raised right leg swung upward—straight to a perfect one-hundred-eighty-degree height.
And then it came down like a falling mountain.
Shang-Chi's eyes widened, disbelief freezing him in place. A crushing force slammed down—a blow so absolute that he felt his skull burst like a ripe watermelon.
One final flicker of sensation told him that the same force rolled downward, pulverizing him from head to torso, leaving nothing intact.
His last shred of consciousness evaporated instantly.
From Antonio exposing his act to Antonio killing him—
Only a handful of seconds passed.
Clark watched it all with a gentle, pleasant smile, as though he'd seen nothing at all.
/-\
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