Book 2
In the second season of "The Guardian Of The Multiverse," the aftermath of the Infinity War has left everything in ruins. The once-defeated Guardian is on the path to recovery, and time has flowed differently within the enigmatic Nexus Of Kno...
(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)
Ace came out of the circle like a thrown daystar, white-gold steps stitching the air behind him in a dotted line only speed could read. The lunar surface, now a bowl was a cathedral of wreckage now—glassed ribs, bowed pillars, red rock turned to brittle sugar by too much heat. Wind dragged smoke in long, tired flags.
Across the basin, Peter's body stood where the dust had settled as if he'd been set there by a careful hand. The Iron Spider's mask had learned new geometry—sleeker, meaner; the lenses squinted with a predator's patience. The symbiote stayed close to the plates like ink pretending to be steel. AM rolled Peter's shoulders once—casual, proprietary.
Ace didn't answer the posture with words. He let the flame compress to a lean skin over his bones—no bloom, no spillage. Kenbunshoku narrowed to a corridor a fighter could live in. Haoshoku tightened behind the ribs like a belt pulled two holes past comfortable. Busoshoku flowed to the joints and sat quiet, waiting to be asked.
He cut distance on the diagonal, not a straight line, boots kissing glass and leaving prints like bright coins. Web-lines flicked his way—thin, mean—but he shaved them with flame so cleanly the ends sealed before they fell. A stinger prodded the air to test range. He ignored it. The only answer he gave was speed.
Ten meters vanished. Five. At three, he pivoted heel-toe and turned the run into a leap—a coil that unspooled from the hips, white-gold wreathed around his knee like a sun with somewhere specific to be.
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Contact was church-bell, gunshot, and two hands slamming a heavy lid all at once. The lenses starred. The mask concaved then snapped outward, symbiote reinforcing with a rubber-black snarl. AM's head rolled back; his feet left the ground; he rode the force into a back-arch any acrobat would sell a year for.
Ace didn't chase the skull. He rode the knee down, bounced, and put a forearm across the collarbone to turn momentum into a pin—then took his own hand off the lever at the last inch. Not the throat. Not the heart. He could feel restraint as heat blisters along his temper.
AM landed not like a man but like a spring released. Palms brushed glass, toes bit into a slope; the whole frame rewound. The Iron Spider legs snapped partway free, braced for torque. Ace saw the setup a beat before impact and still had to respect it.
The counter came from the ground through the ankles, hips like a battering ram, shoulders stacked. A classic made ugly by speed.
