Before the fighter even reached high altitude, several streaks of fire burst from beneath its wings, cutting through the sky with terrifying precision. A moment later, General Ross watched in stunned silence as a sphere of blue light detonated at the bow of one of the aircraft carriers. It wasn't just an explosion—it was something unnatural, a color and intensity he had never witnessed in any battlefield scenario.
Within seconds, the entire carrier began to tilt.
Across the fleet, sailors and officers stared in disbelief as the impossible unfolded right before their eyes. Blue flames flickered across the sea like ghosts, and in their wake, devastation followed. The three aircraft carriers at the center of the formation suffered catastrophic damage almost simultaneously, each one mutilated in ways that defied conventional weaponry.
The USS Bush had nearly lost its entire bow, as if a giant hand had simply torn away a quarter of the ship. The USS Nimitz was missing a massive portion of its starboard side, exposing a grotesque vertical cross-section that looked more like a surgical incision than battle damage. As for the USS Washington, it fared the worst—its entire bridge was gone, erased from existence in a single, merciless strike.
No one spoke. No one even breathed properly. Every witness swallowed hard, struggling to process what they were seeing.
And yet, this was only the beginning.
The fleet responded instantly, unleashing a barrage of fire the moment a dozen enemy fighters appeared on the horizon. Missiles streaked upward, anti-air systems roared to life, and the sky turned into a chaotic web of explosions. Still, nearly half of the incoming fighters survived the initial assault, weaving through the barrage with unnatural agility.
Some were hit, trailing smoke and sparks, but even as they spiraled toward destruction, they completed their final task. Before detonating mid-air, they unleashed every last super missile they carried.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The ocean erupted in a chain of devastating explosions as more than a dozen supply ships were swallowed whole by the unknown weaponry. Large destroyers followed, vanishing in flashes of blue fire that left nothing but debris and churning waves behind.
By the time the barrage ended, only one aircraft remained in the sky—T'Challa's specially engineered King's Mobility.
It was the old king's reserve craft, a masterpiece of Wakandan engineering, and even now, he refused to retreat. His missiles exhausted, he switched to the aircraft cannon, firing relentlessly until the last round was spent. When even that ran dry, he dropped low, skimming the surface of the sea.
Then he did something no conventional pilot would dare attempt.
Using the reinforced vibranium wings of his craft, he drove straight through the hull of a frigate, slicing into it like a blade. The impact sent shockwaves through the ship, tearing it apart from within.
Only then did the second wave of American fighters arrive—Rhodes and his squadron leading the charge.
But it was already too late.
The three aircraft carriers were sinking.
The ocean had claimed them.
From the cockpit, T'Challa spotted the incoming fighters and surged upward without hesitation. His movements were fearless, almost reckless, as he charged directly toward the formation. Explosions blossomed around him like fireworks, yet time and again, he slipped through the chaos, dancing on the edge of death.
Cracks spiderwebbed across his cockpit glass, threatening to shatter at any moment, but his expression never wavered.
He did not fear death.
…
President Obama arrived at the White House under heavy escort.
After emergency treatment, he slowly regained consciousness, his body weak and his mind clouded. His hand trembled as he reached out, grasping the hand of Vice President Hillary beside him.
"I had a nightmare," he murmured, his voice barely steady. "In it, we lost three aircraft carriers, dozens of warships, thousands of soldiers… our global dominance collapsed. It was… terrifying."
Hillary tightened her grip on his hand, her expression grim. "Hang in there, Guan Hai. Don't you dare die on me. Everything you just said—it's real. And I have no intention of inheriting the presidency under these conditions."
He froze, confusion flashing across his face before a sharp pain struck his chest. As his consciousness began to fade again, panic surged through him.
"Hurry… go to New York… bring in the Avengers…"
When Cohen received the news, he sat in silence for a long moment, genuinely taken aback.
He had expected losses on both sides, sure—but this? This was total devastation.
Under normal circumstances, conflicts like this would involve cautious probing, a few exchanges of force, and then some back-and-forth negotiations once both sides realized the stakes. That was how modern warfare between major powers was supposed to work.
But this?
They had gone straight for the throat.
Without hesitation.
Without restraint.
He let out a quiet breath before picking up the phone and calling the president, who had only just regained consciousness again.
Despite everything, Cohen respected one thing—the man had resisted the urge to solve the problem with nuclear weapons.
Not that he hadn't considered it.
If General Ross were still alive to serve as the scapegoat, launching a nuclear strike would absolutely have been on the table. But Ross was gone now, and there were still thousands of American soldiers on the Wakandan frontlines. Dropping a nuke would mean killing their own.
And once that happened, the public outrage—already simmering—would erupt into an uncontrollable inferno.
"Cohen," the president said hoarsely, desperation bleeding through his voice, "help me. You have to help me this time. If you don't… I'll go down as the greatest sinner in American history."
Cohen rolled his eyes slightly, leaning back in his chair. "Relax. In my opinion, you're not even close to that title. Someone else already claimed that spot long ago."
The man with the fallen cherry axe, the black-toothed butcher, the so-called founding hero.
"Mr. President," Cohen continued calmly, "the Avengers are an organization built on justice. Protecting people is what we do. It's not exactly our style to invade a foreign nation without cause."
"What do you want?" the president cut in immediately. "Name it. We can negotiate."
"That's not quite what I—"
"I said I'll give you whatever you want!"
Cohen clicked his tongue, feigning reluctance. "You're putting me in a tough position here, Mr. President."
He paused briefly before continuing. "Do you remember the demonic invasion of New York?"
"Of course I do."
"I've been planning to settle that score lately, on behalf of the people of New York. The problem is… I don't have the right tools for the job."
The president's voice hardened. "What kind of tools?"
"Weapons of mass destruction."
Silence filled the line.
Cohen smiled faintly. "Don't worry. I'm not insane. I'd only be using them in Hell. Who in their right mind would detonate nukes on Earth?"
The president exhaled slowly, then spoke through clenched teeth. "Fine. We still have several warheads slated for dismantlement under the treaty with Russia. I'll arrange for a few to be… redirected."
"Excellent."
Cohen nodded, satisfied. "There's one more small matter. The missions the Avengers are handling are getting increasingly dangerous. Some of them aren't exactly suitable for heroes."
"…Go on."
"I want to form a secondary unit. A 'D-Team.' Can you provide personnel support?"
"That's easy," the president replied. "I can assign you some of the most elite and loyal soldiers in the country."
Cohen chuckled softly. "No need to waste good men. This unit will be handling extremely high-risk operations. Casualties are… expected."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone turning colder. "Each month, select a batch of serious criminals—lifers, hardened offenders—and transfer them to me. Once they're in my hands… consider them already dead."
The president frowned. "What exactly are you planning?"
"I told you," Cohen said lightly. "Revenge against the devil."
There was a long pause before the president finally spoke again.
"…A lot of people are going to die, aren't they?"
"Quite a few."
"…Fine."
Cohen's lips curved upward.
If he actually sent those people into Hell, they'd be wiped out instantly. But that wasn't the real purpose of the D-Team. It was a test platform. He had already acquired the Hulk serum and ordered covert research to begin. Even if replicating Hulk himself proved impossible, creating something like Abomination soldiers?
That was entirely within reach.
And now, they needed test subjects.
Using criminals was practically a mercy.
"Anything else?" the president asked.
Cohen didn't hesitate. "Wakanda's vibranium."
The president's eyes narrowed. "How do you propose we divide it?"
Cohen met his gaze calmly. "How do you want to divide it?"
"Eighty-tw—"
He stopped himself mid-sentence, recalibrating. "Seventy-thirty. We take seventy."
Cohen raised an eyebrow. "Mr. President, do you really believe vibranium can compensate for the loss of three aircraft carriers and dozens of warships?"
The answer was obvious.
It couldn't.
The president's chest tightened, a bitter realization settling in. The era of unquestioned American dominance… might truly be over.
Cohen smiled faintly. "You don't actually think that, do you?"
The president looked at him, confused.
"The United States still has me. It still has the Avengers. Are we really worth less than three carriers?"
Cohen leaned back, his voice steady and confident. "Maybe you haven't realized it yet, but the Avengers have already become your greatest asset."
The president frowned. "But you refuse to fight wars or seize territory for us."
"We're a shield," Cohen replied. "As long as we exist, no one can harm the United States. Isn't that enough?"
He continued, his tone calm but firm. "If there are things we won't do, you can always find someone else. But when it comes to protecting your homeland, you'll never need to worry again."
The president fell silent, weighing the words carefully. An invincible shield first… the spear could come later.
"…Fifty-fifty," he said finally. "That's the best I can do."
"Deal."
Cohen agreed instantly.
The president blinked, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.
Did I… ask for too much?
Cohen, meanwhile, was more than satisfied. Splitting vibranium resources with an entire nation's research and military infrastructure was already pushing the limit.
With the negotiations complete, he gathered the Avengers.
Professor Charles, Colossus, Wolverine, Storm, Phoenix, Cyclops, Frank—and the rest.
Some of them were already questioning the situation, especially the professor. To them, this war felt unjust, unnecessary.
Cohen's answer was simple.
"We don't belong to the U.S. military. We don't belong to Wakanda either. We stand in between."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"We're going there to stop the war. To bring both sides to the table."
He paused briefly, then added with a faint smile—
"And to uphold justice."
....
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