"What are you doing?"
The deep, oppressive voice of the black shadow finally broke the silence, unable to hold back its confusion any longer. The audience watching the live broadcast were equally stunned. Their hearts pounded. Their breaths caught in their throats.
And James? He remained strangely calm.
His eyes were steady, his expression unwavering, as if nothing in the world could shake him.
At that moment, people across the world watching the broadcast felt as if they were looking at a different James—one who stared danger in the face without flinching. In his poise, they found a reflection of their own lost courage. In his unshakable demeanor, their own panic and despair began to dissolve.
Their collapsing mental states were suddenly jolted back into place.
Their focus sharpened.
In the flickering video feed, James spoke. His voice was calm, deliberate—resolute.
"When the heart loses the energy supplied by the body, but has not yet completely died, we can use the 'key' to unlock the cage."
He paused, the corners of his mouth twitching from the pain. Blood flowed freely from the wounds across his body. His frame shook from the strain, but he kept himself upright, refusing to collapse.
"But don't forget," he continued with a rasp in his voice, "in addition to unlocking the lock… the key can also lock it again."
The massive black shadow flinched slightly. Its brow furrowed, as if the realization was beginning to dawn on it. Its gaze shifted.
Then, everyone saw it.
The altar.
The colorful tiles that formed the altar's surface were shifting. They weren't fixed in place. In fact, they could be rearranged—like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.
Originally, from a bird's-eye view, the pattern on the altar had formed a circular shape. But now… that circle was turning inside out. Piece by piece, the puzzle was being reversed.
Tony Stark, watching from the Stark Industries control center, leapt to his feet in excitement. "Genius!" he shouted, accidentally knocking ornaments off the desk. They clattered to the ground, but Tony paid no attention. His eyes were locked on the screen.
"If arriving signifies the advent of destruction…" he murmured, "…then what does arriving anyway mean?"
He paused.
Then whispered to himself, "Sealed."
Back on-screen, James spoke again, as though he had read Tony's mind.
"Sealed. That's the answer."
The black shadow was no longer pretending to be calm. Its presence was tense, bristling with unease.
"That's nothing more than fantasy," it hissed. "Even if you say that, the ritual isn't complete. You don't have enough power—"
James interrupted it.
"I know. There's still no light source, right?" he said, staring the shadow down. "Just like the one you used before."
There was a brief moment of silence.
Then the black shadow chuckled, regaining a trace of composure.
"Yes. Light. The ritual needs sufficient light to succeed. And here…" It didn't finish the sentence.
But its meaning was obvious.
There was no light here. No sun. No flame. Just suffocating darkness.
Yet across the room, Nick Fury narrowed his one eye, staring at the screen. Watching James. He knew this man. Knew the way he thought. And deep down, he suspected—
Yes.
Sure enough.
James took several deep breaths, his face pale, but his eyes blazing.
He reached down and pulled a loaded pistol from the holster at his waist.
Then, without hesitation, he raised it and fired toward a seemingly unimportant corner of the room.
Bang!
The sharp crack of the gunshot echoed through the darkness.
No words.
No prayers.
Just action.
A second later, the sound of shattering glass rang out from the corner.
Crack!
A faint buzz followed.
Then—
Whoosh—
Blue flames erupted, spreading like wildfire. They expanded at an impossible rate, growing ten, twenty, fifty times their size.
Azure light bathed the chamber.
James squinted, eyes tearing up from the sudden brightness. It had been so long since he had seen light—real light.
The shadow paused. Its form trembled ever so slightly. Its voice—no longer calm, but shaken—spoke again.
"You… did this?"
James leaned forward, nearly collapsing onto the altar. Sweat poured down his face. Blood soaked his shirt. Yet through it all, he smiled.
"That's right. I did it—when you weren't paying attention to me."
He coughed violently, an unnatural flush spreading across his cheeks. He could barely remain conscious, but the smile stayed.
"I guess you should always watch out for ants. They might just bite you when you least expect it."
In truth, James didn't know whether his plan would work.
Just like before, he was gambling on a miracle.
But he didn't care about dying. Not anymore. As Barclay once told him: You're going to die anyway. So what the hell are you afraid of?
And just like before…
He'd bet on the right answer.
The altar lit up in full. Every symbol, every line, began to glow with renewed power. The circle—now reversed—activated the ritual, and brilliant firelight provided the missing energy.
The ritual didn't complete.
It reversed.
The seal worked.
Inside his chest, the cage of his heart unlocked. Those monsters—twisted, fused with the massive shadow—were now being forcibly torn away.
They howled.
They roared in protest.
But one by one, they vanished—withered into mist, dissipated by the light. Their freedom was stripped away. Their bodies were sealed once more.
Inside James.
Forever imprisoned in his heart.
The shadow—what remained of it—screamed in panic. It could feel its strength slipping away. It lashed out wildly, trying to halt the reversal. Trying to change its fate.
But it was too late.
In the live broadcast room, the world watched this moment unfold in real time. It was like watching the gates of hell slam shut—and the light of heaven breaking through.
Countless people cried tears of joy.
Countless others shouted in celebration.
Stark clapped involuntarily, pure admiration written on his face.
"As expected of you… as expected…"
But then…
He froze.
The applause stopped.
A terrible thought occurred to him.
James had sealed the demons inside his own heart.
What about… James?
Back in the ritual chamber, James had no time to consider the consequences. The swelling pain in his chest intensified. He felt as if his heart were about to rupture. Every whisper from the monsters echoed in his mind—every scream, every curse, a dagger digging into his sanity.
His fingers dug into the edge of the altar. His knuckles turned white.
He clenched his jaw and focused.
"You won't last much longer," the shadow growled, its now-mangled face reappearing beside him.
"You really think this reckless move will succeed?"
Its words were taunts now, no longer threats. Desperate lies wrapped in feigned confidence.
James didn't respond. His breath came in ragged gasps. His body trembled from pain and pressure.
"Why?" the shadow asked, its voice low and venomous. "Why would you do this? For him? That agent?"
It slithered closer, whispering like a devil in the ear.
"Think carefully. He's using you. All of them are. You're just a D-Class—a disposable number. A pawn they threw away for a chance at survival."
Still, James said nothing.
"They didn't even give you a proper name," it hissed. "Just a number—D-14134. Do you even remember your real name? Does anyone?"
That's when James looked up.
His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale—but there was a strange clarity in his gaze.
"Yes," he said quietly. "The Foundation records everything. When a D-Class dies, they archive both the number and the name."
"Whether it's D-14134 or my real name… both represent me."
He took a deep breath.
"And that's enough."
His tone changed—becoming steadier with each word.
Something within him was changing.
The pain that had felt like an ocean—surging, unrelenting—was now beginning to recede.
The audience in the live broadcast felt it too.
A flash of light.
Hope.
Courage.
James had faced death, darkness, and despair—and still, he stood.
Because even if the world forgot him…
He remembered who he was.
And that was enough.
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