The Mandarin stood frozen, stunned.
A moment ago, he'd genuinely thought Antonio was about to let Shang-Chi walk free.
After all, those two had no real grudge between them—not like the deep, festering hatred the Mandarin carried in his own chest.
He had secretly resolved to pour the last scrap of his life force into a surprise attack, hoping to take Shang-Chi down with him.
But before he could so much as gather that resolve, Antonio handed him an unexpected miracle.
He stared at Antonio, at a loss for words.
Antonio's expression didn't shift. He only glanced his way, eyes as steady as ever.
"Don't thank me. I don't need your gratitude. Killing Shang-Chi wasn't for you—it was for the conviction I carry in my heart."
"In this life of mine, the thing I despise most is people who betray trust and throw away their bottom line. When I meet someone like that, I take them down."
Antonio turned to Clark.
"When the old headmaster was still around, he hated seeing things handled this way. But my hands… weren't always under control. Now that you're the headmaster, Clark, I don't have to go against my nature anymore."
"Though…"
"I'd rather the old headmaster were still alive—nagging me, scolding me, driving me crazy."
For a man built like Antonio, even he couldn't hold back the wave of emotion rising in him.
That morning, the Sand King had knelt at the cemetery the entire time. Antonio had stood at the gate for just as long. No one knew what had been going through his mind.
…
The Mandarin fell silent.
For the first time—even though he had never met Jonathan Kent—he felt an unexpected urge to speak with the man, to understand who he was.
He was deeply curious about the old man who had already passed.
After a long while, the Mandarin lifted his head again. His spirit brightened strangely, unnaturally—that fleeting spark before the end.
He turned to Clark and made a request:
"Could I speak with Antonio alone for a moment? There are some final things I'd like to say."
He pointed toward the guardroom, empty now and quiet.
Clark nodded.
He had always been generous with the last wishes of the dying.
If the Mandarin hadn't marched his men to invade Saint Kent Academy, the two of them might never have been enemies at all.
But greed was greed—and the Mandarin had been greedy enough to covet Saint Kent Academy itself.
Even after eighteen years in the Marvel world, Clark's heart still followed the principles he grew up with:
If others don't provoke me, I won't provoke them.
But if someone comes for me, I won't repay evil with kindness—I'll eliminate the threat swiftly.
…
…
Tony Stark swept his gaze over the devastated grounds and the long line of Ten Rings goons tied up in a neat row, clicking his tongue in disbelief.
"Who would've thought the Mandarin would actually fall here of all places?"
He shook his head, amazed.
No one could have predicted this.
If he hadn't witnessed it with his own eyes, Tony would've thought it was an April Fool's joke.
He turned to Clark.
"So what's your plan now? The Mandarin biting the dust here is going to send shockwaves everywhere. Want me to step in and shut down the media storm before it hits?"
Clark shook his head.
"No need. And even if you stepped in, you might not be able to stop them. For sales and ratings, those media outlets will do anything."
Tony grew visibly anxious.
"Then what? If we let this blow up on its own, I guarantee you: by tomorrow morning there will be more reporters outside your school gates than actual students."
"At that point, you might as well shut the academy down and rename it the World's Hottest News Factory."
Clark rubbed his chin.
"You're not wrong. This is a real problem. Since the Stark Group can't suppress the media, I'll need someone who can."
He cast a distant glance toward another building, his expression carrying a faint, knowing smile.
Tony raised a brow.
"Someone with more pull than the Stark Group? Now you've got me curious."
"Take a guess. I'll give you a hint—the organization has ties to your father, and you've definitely crossed paths with them too."
Tony's face fell instantly. The answer was obvious.
Who else had that kind of influence?
No one but S.H.I.E.L.D.
Jean walked over, looking none too pleased. She shot Tony a glare.
"You still have a mountain of problems waiting for you, and you're here chatting away?"
This time, she didn't kick him out outright.
He had come to help, after all.
Even if he didn't actually manage to help, the effort counted for something—and it softened Jean's attitude.
Tony replied:
"I've handled most of my issues already. Nothing left worth worrying about."
Jean raised a brow.
"So you've cleared everything up? Found the mole? You cause chaos all over the place, and just when things get interesting—your own house goes up in flames."
Tony let out a bitter laugh.
"I didn't want it to turn out like this… but people's greed is bottomless. Doesn't matter how big the favor was in the past."
He sighed.
A cup of rice earns gratitude; a sack of rice earns resentment.
Howard Stark had given Obadiah every opportunity back then—Howard was the reason Obadiah held the status he did.
Tony had trusted him just as deeply, and this was the payback he received. It chilled him to the core.
Clark had already reached his own conclusion: Iron Monger wasn't happening.
Once Obadiah's crimes were uncovered, jail was only a step away.
The man didn't even get the chance to resist.
In the original timeline, Tony's panicked escape had left the Mark I suit abandoned in the desert, eventually falling into Obadiah's hands—leading to the creation of the Iron Monger.
But with Clark's involvement, none of that would occur.
The Mark I was safely stored in Tony's lab now, one of his prized treasures.
Anyone not close to Tony would never even catch a glimpse of that metal relic.
And now that Obadiah had been exposed, Tony would never give him another shot at rising again.
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