Tap.
Tap.
While hammering the metal into shape, he had a brief vision of an Asian man forging steel.
At first, he had always thought they were glimpses of another Peter Parker's life, one who had simply taken a different path. But after that encounter, the visions became much more frequent.
Tap.
Tap.
When he heated the metal and tempered it, he had another vision of the same man doing the exact same thing.
Now he understood how he knew all of this, how he instinctively knew what to do even though no one had ever taught him. He finally understood that feeling that every step in the process was the correct one.
Slish.
Slish.
Slish.
As he passed the blade through another machine, he polished it before sharpening it. Once he was finished, he carefully inspected it for any tiny fractures, cracks, or warping.
As he wrapped the handle with the cord, he experienced the same vision again.
With every vision, it felt less like learning...
...and more like remembering.
Looking at the katana in his hands, he approached a nearby tree stump. Taking the weapon with both hands, he shifted his stance. By pure instinct, he adjusted his posture and let out a slow breath.
His eyes closed for the briefest instant.
Then, with a single swift and precise slash...
...he cut through the stump.
The wood remained perfectly still for a moment before splitting diagonally and falling apart.
Smiling faintly, he returned the weapon to his personal laboratory, intending to continue improving it once he possessed enough knowledge for what he ultimately planned.
As he passed through the lair, his attention drifted toward the firearms training section.
He stopped.
Stared at the door for a few seconds.
Then stepped inside.
He approached one section and placed his hand against the security scanner.
The doors slid open.
Inside was nearly every type of weapon imaginable.
Grenades.
Submachine guns.
Rocket launchers.
Flamethrowers.
Grenade launchers.
Shock grenades.
Incendiary grenades.
Pellet grenades.
Smoke grenades.
And much more.
If both the Punisher and Deadpool ever saw this place, they would probably have very strong reactions to the sheer amount of weaponry stored inside.
There were even several mounted machine guns.
A white robot dressed in an elegant suit stopped inspecting one of the weapons before turning around.
"Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?" he asked, stepping behind the small counter.
"Good afternoon, Grievous."
He addressed the robot responsible for maintaining and inspecting the armory.
If someone wanted a weapon polished to perfection, Grievous was the one to speak to.
Cleaning, however, was only one of his many functions.
The robot possessed detailed knowledge of every weapon stored inside the room.
A true specialist.
"I would like a selection."
"I know you have a fondness for classic German firearms," Grievous replied as he walked toward one of the weapon racks.
"But I sincerely recommend an Austrian alternative."
He returned and placed two pistols on the counter.
"Glock 34 and Glock 26."
"Molded grip, extended magazine for faster reloading, and I believe you will appreciate the custom slide."
While Grievous continued speaking, Peter instinctively handled the pistol with practiced confidence, aligning his eye with the sights.
Satisfied, he ejected the magazine and smoothly reinserted it in a single motion.
Looking back at the robot, he smiled.
"The Glock 34."
"What else?"
"I would like something robust and accurate."
"Robust and accurate?"
Grievous' eyes briefly glowed blue.
"I have exactly what you need."
He retrieved another firearm and presented it.
"AR-15. Eleven-and-a-half-inch configuration, compensated using the barrel's ion welder, fitted with a Trinquincom scope, Mark Sixteen modification."
"For dessert, I would like something small..."
"...but memorable."
"Something that leaves a lasting impression."
"I have exactly what you are looking for."
Reaching beneath the counter, Grievous produced another pistol.
"Walther PPK."
As the robot politely prepared to explain its specifications, Peter raised a hand to stop him.
Grievous tilted his head.
Peter picked up the pistol.
It felt remarkably light.
Almost instantly, memories echoed through his mind.
How to hold it.
How to draw it.
How to fire it.
How to use it efficiently.
"Are they for everyday carry or for training?"
"Training."
With that short answer, Grievous inclined his head before handing him shoulder holsters for both the Walther and the Glock.
He also provided spare magazines, suppressors, and ammunition.
"In that case..."
"...you will also need these."
He placed several silver bracelets on the counter.
As he took the bracelets, he felt his spider-side being suppressed.
The bracelets were designed to temporarily disable his powers, helping him avoid relying too heavily on his spider abilities. He wanted to train in a manner similar to how Peter-616 had developed the Way of the Spider, the martial art he created after losing his spider-sense.
He thanked Grievous before leaving the room and walking toward a silver door. As soon as he placed his hand against it, the scanner activated and the doors slid open.
Before entering, he opened the Soundtracks folder and set it to shuffle.
Then he attached the suppressor to the AR-15.
The moment he stepped inside, the room was swallowed by darkness.
Gripping the rifle firmly, he began walking as the music started to play.
After taking only a few steps, the lights suddenly came on.
At the same instant, he heard the click of a trigger.
He spun around and fired.
Before the first target could shoot, a precise round struck him.
Without pausing, Peter fired a rapid succession of shots, striking nearby targets in the throat, head, and chest.
Turning sharply, he grabbed one attacker's arm and redirected the shot toward another target.
He drove a punch into one man's throat before wrapping an arm around his neck.
Jumping onto him, he locked his legs around the man's waist and used his own weight to drag him to the floor.
As they rolled, Peter ended up on top.
He twisted the man's wrist until the pistol dropped free, picked it up, and immediately used it.
Turning to his right, he shot down two more approaching attackers.
He rose to his feet, discarded the empty pistol, and continued down the hallway with the AR-15 in hand.
As he advanced through the corridors, he methodically cleared each room.
At one point, a bullet grazed his arm.
He had dodged just quickly enough to prevent a more serious injury.
Listening to the music, he felt something ancient stirring inside him.
Something old.
Something familiar.
He forced it back down.
He continued through the training course with measured precision, clearing every room, adapting to every situation, and improvising whenever the expected solution failed.
He moved through corridors...
...down staircases...
...through doorways...
...using whatever was available, and nothing more than necessary.
Eventually, he entered a poker room.
There, a man dressed in an immaculate black suit sat calmly with his hair combed to one side.
He showed no fear whatsoever.
For a split second, the man's face distorted.
Another face appeared over it.
The same man...
...but with a scar running over one eye.
Peter frowned.
A quiet growl escaped him.
"Le Chiffre," he whispered without realizing it.
He holstered the Glock and drew the Walther instead.
One shot.
Straight to the head.
As he turned, he noticed an older man.
His face distorted as well.
Unlike the previous one, however, this figure stirred only mild irritation rather than anger.
"Mr. White."
After holstering the Walther, he switched back to the Glock and eliminated the remaining players...
...leaving only the dealer alive.
He approached a pair of double doors.
The instant he pushed them open, he raised the Glock.
Before he could fire, a bald Asian man seized his wrist, preventing the shot.
Peter raised his elbow.
The man struck it aside before pinching Peter's wrist and forcing him to release the pistol rather than risk breaking his fingers.
Peter answered with a strike to the side of the man's neck.
The blow forced the man backward, crashing through a glass display cabinet.
The man countered with a left hook.
Peter blocked it with his forearm before grabbing him by the neck and driving him into another glass cabinet.
He yanked him forward, hooked a leg behind his opponent's, and threw him onto the floor, creating some distance between them.
The moment the man stood, both of them glanced toward a display containing several knives.
Without hesitation...
...both lunged toward it.
Glass shattered.
Each grabbed a knife.
When the man lunged to stab him, Peter deflected the strike with the back of his own blade before instantly counterattacking.
Within seconds, they became locked in a rapid exchange.
Attack.
Block.
Counter.
Attack.
Block.
Counter.
Peter suddenly noticed another attacker approaching from behind.
Without hesitation, he threw his knife.
The blade buried itself in the man's chest.
Using combat techniques that surfaced in his mind like scenes from an old film, Peter executed each movement with practiced precision.
The fight escalated from fists...
...to knives.
One slight miscalculation left a blade buried in his shoulder.
Using the surge of adrenaline brought on by the pain, he intensified his assault.
One opponent after another fell.
Every strike landed on a vital point with swift, precise efficiency.
Spinning around, he narrowly avoided another knife aimed at his back.
He ripped the blade from his shoulder.
Gripping it with both hands, he drove it into his final opponent's weak point.
Letting out a slow breath, he picked up a pistol from the floor and pushed through the double doors.
The environment instantly changed.
The armory became an elegant restaurant.
Before taking another step, he grabbed a nearby coat and draped it over his bloodstained shirt.
Then he walked deeper inside.
As he passed between the tables, the diners turned to stare.
A few drops of blood still stained his face from blows he had not completely avoided.
Now more than ever, he knew he needed to improve.
His sixth sense still had not fully developed.
Passing a large wooden support beam, he noticed a blond man dressed in an elegant suit.
Once again...
...the face distorted.
It became that of another blond man.
This one bore a scar stretching across the entire left side of his face.
"Ernst Stavro Blofeld," Peter whispered unconsciously.
The moment the name left his lips, his teeth clenched.
A memory surfaced.
A dead woman.
An old man.
His anger rose.
He drew the pistol from beneath his coat.
Raised it.
Pulled the trigger.
Click.
Click.
"No bullets."
"Bravo."
His voice remained completely emotionless.
A bodyguard slammed a pistol against his shoulder before punching him across the face and driving him into a pillar.
As the man attempted to choke him, Peter disarmed him and immediately turned the weapon against its former owner.
Drawing the pistols from his waist, he began eliminating every armed attacker while using the body as a shield.
One bodyguard closed the distance and swung a serving tray, knocking both pistols from Peter's hands.
Peter shoved the corpse aside.
The guard grabbed Peter's coat sleeve and spun him around.
Peter slipped out of the coat in time.
He caught the sleeve around the guard's neck and began choking him with it.
At the same moment, he drew another pistol and shot an attacker hiding in the corner before diving behind a pillar for cover.
Using a nearby mirror's reflection, he fired blindly around the pillar.
Three men fell.
Then several more.
When the pistol finally ran dry, he hurled it into the face of an approaching attacker.
Using the brief opening, he rushed forward and took him down.
He snatched up a wine bottle and smashed it.
Another attacker shoved him across a table until he crashed onto the floor.
Peter grabbed two porcelain plates and used them as improvised weapons.
When one shattered, he kept the largest shard and wielded it like a knife.
After exchanging several more blows...
...he seized another firearm.
Within moments...
...the final attacker fell.