Peter hadn't known what to expect when he woke up in that cold, echoing place. There were no doors, no sky, just stone ancient, cracked, and humming with something too old to name. He wasn't alone. Two dozen strangers stood alongside him, just as confused. Some were silent, others whispered theories. A few just cried.
The structure was vast, cathedral-like, and wrong. Statues dozens of them lined the chamber walls. Warriors. Scholars. Priests. Each held something different: weapons, instruments, books, torches. But it was the central statue that drew their eyes. Towering, humanoid but distorted. A god not meant for worship but submission.
Peter had been trying to help. Trying to calm people. He wasn't Spider-Man yet not even close but he'd always wanted to be good. Do the right thing. Be brave. He found himself reading the inscription aloud from the tablet Mr. Song had discovered:
The Laws of the Karutenon Temple.
Worship god.
Exalt god.
Prove your piety.
He barely finished the first line when the central statue's eyes flashed red.
A searing beam lanced through the air. Peter flinched fell, really but it missed him by inches. Others weren't as lucky.
A soundless moment passed before the room filled with the smell of burning cloth. People were gone just gone. Their clothes left behind, smoking at the edges. Twelve in the first blast. Screams filled the space.
Peter realized, heart pounding, that "Worship" meant bow. He shouted it, barely able to keep his own voice steady.
Some listened. Others hesitated. A second beam swept across the room. More bodies vanished, more screams turned into silence.
They were being judged by laws they barely understood.
The second law, Exalt, triggered next. Peter noticed the statues with instruments didn't react to the violence. A few people tried running to the sides toward cover but the statues with weapons activated, slicing them down in brutal precision.
He yelled again, his voice cracking: "The instruments! Go to the ones with instruments!"
It saved some. But not nearly enough.
The survivors just eight of them now reached the circle of musical statues. Dozens had died in minutes.
An altar rose from the floor like it had always been there, waiting.
Prove your piety. And the third trial began.
Mr. Smith snapped first. He blamed Song for the deaths. For the rules. For everything. Panic and fury turned people into monsters. Smith charged at him.
Song didn't resist.
He offered himself to end the madness.
But then it changed. The altar didn't take sacrifices. It didn't want blood.
It wanted faith.
Statues began to move massive, armored warriors emerging from the shadows of the room.
At first, they didn't attack.
Peter realized they only moved when you didn't look at them.
You had to stand there. You had to stare them down. And they would stop.
Four cardinal directions. 20 warriors. Four watchers.
Only eight people. Then seven. Then six.
Every time someone ran through the slowly closing stone doors to escape, one flame above the altar dimmed and one less person was left to watch.
Peter shouted at the others, begged them to stay and cover the directions. "We have to keep watching them! If no one watches, they'll come!"
But terror was louder than reason.
People ran.
The statues crept closer.
Peter ran to cover the northern angle. A woman to his left took the west. A teen to the right faced south. But no one had the east.
The statue moved.
Peter turned too late.
Agony tore through him as the blade sliced through his arm just below the elbow. He screamed, staggered, collapsed to his knees. Blood painted the stone. His vision blurred. But he looked up, looked directly at it, forcing it to stop.
He didn't move again.
He couldn't.
His breath was shallow. Pain numbed everything but his grief. The others gone. Dead.
Only Peter remained.
Surrounded by scorched clothes. Still-warm blood. The silence of failure.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
He turned toward the altar. Something ancient stirred.
[Secret Quest: The Courage of the Willing — COMPLETED]
[Candidate Identified: Peter Benjamin Parker]
[A choice must be made. Refuse, and your heart will cease in 0.02 seconds.]
He wanted to say no. He wanted to curl up and disappear.
But he couldn't let that be the end. Not after everything.
"I accept."
And time itself bent.
A web—brilliant, complex, and otherworldly—unfolded behind his eyes. Power surged. Pain dulled. A new purpose settled inside him like a second soul.
Just three others made it out.
Peter didn't.
He remained in the Karutenon Temple, kneeling before the altar, clutching the bleeding stump where his arm had once been. Not yet a hero. Not just a boy.
But something else. Something beginning.
-
Far above, beyond the veil between myth and memory, the Spider-God Anansi, Great Weaver of Fates, stood before the Architect.
Her voice thundered:
"ENTITY OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN. WHY HAVE YOU SET YOUR EYES ON PETER PARKER? HE IS ALREADY MARKED FOR GREATNESS."
The Architect trembled. Not even the Ashborn had struck such fear in it.
"A great enemy is coming," it replied. "And he must carry this system, or all will fall. He fits."
Anansi narrowed her many eyes. She had intended Peter for something else. Something sacred.
A prompt materialized in her sight:
[Would you like to accept the memories of the Architect relating to the Monarch of Destruction?]
[Yes | No]
She chose Yes.
And what she saw changed everything.
On that day, Peter Parker became more than a survivor.
He became a bearer.
He would become a Totem.
And in time, the world would know the weight of the web he carried.