While the entire scene was frozen in stunned silence due to Peter's shocking performance, Peter himself looked as if nothing had happened. He calmly looked up at the Vulture circling in the sky.
"Next, it's your turn!"
The moment their eyes met, Vulture felt an instinctive shiver run down his spine. It was as if he could see the faint shadow of the Grim Reaper standing behind Peter.
Gulp.
Vulture swallowed hard. Coming back to his senses, he gave a violent flap of his wings, dumping every single steel feather stored in his rig in a desperate, chaotic barrage.
And then... he turned and bolted. He had made a decision.
To hell with the Sinister Six! To hell with Kingpin's reward! What's the point of having money if you're not alive to spend it?
What? You're asking if running away will offend Kingpin? Offending Kingpin only meant he might die. Staying here to fight this monster meant he definitely would die.
Fly! Fly like the wind! Get out of New York! Away from Fisk, away from the Arbiter—the sky is the limit!
Vulture flew with everything he had, pushing his thrusters to the redline. He flew until he could no longer hear any commotion behind him. Only then did he allow himself a sigh of relief.
"I should be sa—huh?"
From the corner of his eye, he noticed something black silently tailing him. What the hell? He took a quick glance and nearly had a heart attack. The thing following him wasn't a person; it was the Arbiter's glider!
The moment that thought crossed his mind, a voice crackled from the glider's onboard speakers:
"Surprise, motherf**ker~!"
Holy crap! High-tech unmanned flight?!
The self-proclaimed inventor "Vulture" had never hated the progress of technology more than at this exact moment. Cold sweat matted his bald head, but he refused to give up. He gritted his teeth and pumped himself up.
It's fine! It's just a glider with a heavy machine gun. Watch me outmaneuver this hunk of junk!
Vulture dove into a series of aerial acrobatics.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
The heavy machine gun on the glider spat tongues of fire. Vulture dodged and weaved through the lead rain. Although bullets grazed his arms and legs—sending sprays of blood into the night air and even taking off a chunk of one foot—he burst into a maniacal laugh.
"I did it! I'm doing it! So what if you have a machine gun? You can't hit my vitals!"
Just as he was gloating internally—
Biu~!
A bolt of brilliant blue electromagnetic pulse shot out. The energy blast instantly punched through his metal wing assembly and his entire chest cavity.
Looking at the gaping, cauterized hole in his chest, Vulture's eyes bulged. It was then he heard the Arbiter's relaxed, lazy voice drifting from the glider again:
"Laser weapons, old geezer~"
Dammit... I hate high-tech!
With one final, bitter thought, Vulture's vision went black. His body fell like a shot bird from the high altitude. But before he could hit the ground and endanger any pedestrians, the glider swooped down and caught the corpse.
Those metal wings were prime material for a sacrifice; Peter wasn't about to let a "cooked duck" fly away.
"Done~!"
Through the sensory feedback from the Wheel of Fortune, Peter confirmed Vulture was dead, and the wings had been recovered.
He glanced back at the roof where Gwen was surrounded by Bullseye and the remaining three. Out of genuine care, he asked:
"Miss Ghost-Spider, are you sure you don't need a hand?"
"No!" Gwen answered instantly. "I said I'd take on four, and I'm taking on four!"
"Fair enough!" Seeing Gwen's determination, Peter didn't push it. "Then I'll go check on how Tony is doing!"
With that, Peter used Moonwalk (Geppo) to step into the air and glide away.
As for whether Gwen would lose to Bullseye's group? The answer was a resounding no. After two weeks of his personal "hell-training," there was no way she'd lose to these small fries.
Besides, even if he wasn't right there, the Wheel of Fortune was already heading back—and his Stand had a degree of autonomy. If she really got into trouble, the glider would intervene.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
In the high atmosphere, explosions continued to ring out. The battle between Iron Man and the Iron Monger had reached a fever pitch!
However, the tide was visibly turning against Tony. While the Mark III's performance was superior, Tony's pursuit of "aesthetic perfection" meant he hadn't packed enough heavy ordnance. As time passed, his missile racks ran dry. He was down to repulsors and his unibeam.
The Iron Monger, however...
As a war machine built by a literal arms dealer, Obadiah hadn't cared about beauty. He cared about "overwhelming firepower." The Monger was essentially a walking ammo crate. After weathering the initial storm, the Mongers' advantage in sustained fire became clear.
"It's ironic, isn't it, Tony?" Obadiah sneered, his confidence restored. "You wanted to rid the world of weapons, yet you created the best one! And now... you're going to die by a weapon of your own design because you hate them so much!"
Just as Obadiah was savoring his villainous monologue and Tony was debating whether to lure the Monger into the freezing high altitude, a lazy voice broke the tension.
"Oh~ really?"
Both Obadiah and Tony froze. They turned their heads and saw Peter "walking" through the air as if he were taking a Sunday stroll.
"Sir, detecting an anomalous scenario. I suspect a virus is once again attacking my core heuristics!" Jarvis reported.
"Shut up!" Tony snapped, instantly canceling the self-diagnostic.
It was too rude to question "Big Daddy" like that. "Jarvis, from now on, do not report any anomalies related to 'The Arbiter' or Peter Parker."
"Then, sir, what should we do now?" Jarvis asked blankly.
Tony's face broke into a relaxed grin. "What else? Just watch Big Daddy work!"
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