The development of the plot had taken an unexpected and heart-wrenching turn. Up to this point, everything had gone far beyond anyone's expectations.
The containment mission had clearly failed.
And yet, in the wake of this disaster, no one blamed James—the man at the center of the tragedy.
In the live broadcast, the world watched as he collapsed to the ground in despair. His eyes hollowed, his expression defeated, his entire body trembling as if the weight of the world had finally broken him. It was a sight that tugged painfully at the hearts of everyone watching.
Extraordinary Chat Group
[Steve Rogers]: James is a real warrior! It's just a pity he wasn't blessed by the god of luck...
[Tony Stark]: No, Steve, that's where you're wrong. Real warriors don't rely on luck. They rely on themselves—on grit, willpower, and strategy!
[Deadpool]: Well, that's a different tune from what you usually sing, Tin Man.
[Natasha Romanoff]: James did everything right... The mission was just too impossible from the start...
Wave after wave of despair swept through the viewers.
Why?
Why had James and his team fought so hard, accomplished so much, only to fail at the final moment?
Was it truly impossible for humanity to defeat anomalies like this? Were humans destined to lose every time they stood against forces beyond comprehension?
However, just when despair threatened to crush all hope, one person's eyes remained sharp—Nick Fury, director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Unlike everyone else, he noticed something… something subtle. In the broadcast, the massive black shadow—the anomaly—and the endless stream of demonic entities pouring into it, seemed to be engaged in some sort of final ritual. A descent. A summoning.
They were focused. Unbothered. Even as James made slight movements, they did not react. It was as if he no longer mattered. As if the anomaly already considered itself victorious.
But was that truly the case?
While everyone else saw a broken man crumpled on the ground, James's mind was anything but still. A storm of thoughts brewed in his head, unseen by the outside world.
Suddenly, something clicked.
An idea, buried deep in the back of his mind, began to crystallize. His mental fog began to lift. The overwhelming hopelessness that had driven him to the floor just moments ago started to ebb. Something had ignited inside him.
"A key can open a lock..."
The half-formed thought he'd been struggling to grasp suddenly sharpened with clarity. It hit him like a jolt of lightning. His eyes darted around his immediate surroundings, assessing what he had left:
Two bullets in his pistol.
A dagger with a chipped, bent edge.
A glass bottle on the ground not far away—still containing two-thirds of its strong alcohol.
And the floor beneath him: wooden.
He clenched his jaw.
It was enough.
He stared at these few pitiful resources, then raised his eyes to the enormous black shadow looming above. It was swelling—boiling with dark energy like a virus on the verge of bursting.
His gaze shifted to the altar again. It wasn't unfamiliar to him. During past containment assignments, he'd encountered similar structures and had tried dismantling them—though his efforts had been rushed and lacked understanding. Still, he knew enough.
He also knew that neither the shadow nor its demonic minions had paid him any attention since the ritual began. To them, he was less than an insect. Just background noise.
All the cryptic words spoken to him earlier were not genuine explanations—they were taunts. A victor mocking a loser, gloating about the insurmountable gap between them.
And yet… that was exactly what James needed now.
His collapse had not been defeat. It had been a momentary lapse—shock at the overwhelming horror. But it wasn't enough to destroy him. Not truly.
James had endured far worse—before and after joining the Foundation. All the pain, fear, and loss had brought him here. And now, standing on the brink, he remembered something.
"Go to the deceased and salute them."
The last words spoken to him by Baclay, his mentor and friend.
James whispered the words to himself again, lips curling into a tired but defiant smile.
This time, he smiled—not out of mockery or insanity—but out of sheer resolve.
So, when he suddenly leapt into action, the audience in the broadcast room could only watch in confusion as he began darting around the dark chamber like a headless chicken.
Clink. Clatter. Bang.
Metal scraped. Glass clinked. Furniture rattled.
The noise finally drew the attention of the black shadow.
It turned to see James—his hair disheveled, his eyes wild and unfocused, his limbs jerking erratically.
He staggered to his feet and then made a beeline for the door, tripping over himself more than once on the way.
Finally, reaching the wall where the door had once been, he froze.
There was nothing.
The exit was gone.
His last hope—gone.
He trembled. His fists clenched. Then, with a broken cry, he dropped to his knees and began pounding the wall weakly with both fists, like a man trying to escape a sealed tomb.
To the shadow, it looked like madness.
To the audience, it was heartbreak.
A hero lost. Trapped. Flailing in despair.
Many viewers turned away, unable to bear it. Some wept.
But not Nick Fury.
His eyes stayed locked on the screen.
What are you doing, James?
In the image, James shakily rose to his feet again. He leaned against the wall for support, breathing hard.
Then, methodically, he began feeling his way around the room.
His hands dragged along the walls, tapping, pressing, searching.
At his waist, the pistol and the chipped dagger were still secured.
But now, tied with a rope, was the glass bottle—still leaking its potent contents.
He hadn't stopped it from spilling.
It was dripping behind him, leaving a faint, wet trail as he moved—unnoticed by the demons.
Perhaps to others it looked like desperate panic. A man grabbing blindly at straws in the dark.
But Nick saw it differently.
And then… James stopped.
He turned to face the altar again.
Thump-thump... Thump-thump...
Nick's heart began to race.
Could it be...?
Could James really have found another way?
It seemed impossible. But...
What if?
The black shadow sensed something too. A shift.
It turned, sensing a presence at the center of the room.
There, standing on the altar—was James.
His shoulders squared. His head raised. His eyes—no longer wild—now burned with cold determination.
He was a man who had let go of life and death.
But more than his expression, it was his appearance that shocked everyone.
He was drenched in blood. His body covered in long, shallow cuts. Dozens of them.
Not a single wound was fatal—but they bled. A lot.
His face was ghostly pale from blood loss. Yet he stood.
The blood pooled at his feet, soaking into the altar.
And the altar responded.
It pulsed faintly. The blood spread along its carvings—filling the ancient grooves like rivers returning to a forgotten map.
James could feel the connection.
The altar was reacting to him.
It wasn't just a pedestal for the anomaly—it was a gateway, a conduit that could be turned against its master under the right circumstances.
And now, with the black shadow fully immersed in its ritual, its defenses were down.
James tightened his grip on his dagger.
He poured the rest of the alcohol over himself, over the altar, over the floor.
The scent of it filled the chamber.
He reached into his pocket. Two bullets.
One was all he needed.
He raised the pistol—not at the shadow, not at himself—but straight down, toward the soaked floor beneath the altar.
The moment felt frozen in time.
James whispered one final phrase under his breath.
"For the fallen... and for those still fighting."
Then, he pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The chamber exploded in a fiery blaze, engulfing the altar in an inferno of alcohol-fueled flames. The ritual was interrupted—abruptly severed.
The black shadow howled.
And James?
James vanished into the fire.
The broadcast cut out in static.
Silence gripped the chat room.
No one spoke.
Until, slowly... text appeared.
[Nick Fury]: Mission failed? No. This is just the beginning.
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