Chapter 101: The Troubles of Growth (Part 2)

Schiller stood beside the hospital bed, where a patient without arms lay unconscious; Dr. Connors adjusted the machine and said, “The serum the military injected into them was imperfect—it likely damaged their nervous systems.”

He sighed and said, “Whether he’ll wake up is still uncertain.”

“Was he one of your former comrades?”

“No, I never saw him on the battlefield, but he was still my comrade—we both went to war with the same belief.”

Stark stood silently on the other side of the bed; he was sensitive to others’ emotions, yet he always felt Connors was calm, as calm as the sea before a storm.

Stark wondered: if it were him, would he spare no means to retaliate against those who inflicted this pain and rage?

Stark had never imagined he would one day stand in his enemy’s shoes and try to understand them.

This perspective shocked him deeply, for he realized that the so-called “villains” he once despised, if placed in their position, might not have done any better.

This was something Stark had never anticipated—he had always believed himself invincible, but now he saw that his arrogance might have been built upon a vacuum of privilege others had created for him.

Over this period, he had personally felt the hardship of living without Pepper’s care, without Obadiah’s protection, and having to handle everything alone.

He struggled to learn how to care for himself while simultaneously navigating the machinations of various factions—methods he once loathed, he now had to learn, and even use, whether he liked it or not.

Only now did Stark realize: perhaps he had lived all his life in a cradle; after all these years, he might have only just stepped out of infancy, stumbling awkwardly into the real world.

Schiller asked, “What are you going to do? Robert is dead, but the Tarthu officers haven’t vanished—they still firmly believe in their super-soldier theory, and once they discover the Extremis data has been leaked, they’ll spare no effort to eliminate everyone involved.”

“After all, if the data you hold is exposed, it could shake the entire military system’s credibility—even officers outside the Tarthu faction won’t allow this to happen.”

“I’ve been prepared for a long time,” Connors said. “I’ve prepared to be silent.”

“Do you think I’d avoid the military and somehow leak these files?” Connors shook his head. “I knew long ago it would be useless.”

“Those people always find ways to make ordinary people believe what they’re told to believe, and erase everything they shouldn’t believe—even if I could convince some people it’s true, people are forgetful.”

“Just like what happened to us: when we went to war, everyone cheered for us, called us heroes—but when we returned, the cold stares and discrimination didn’t soften because of our past glory.”

“We were gone from society for only a short time, and they forgot us. Forgetting is terrifying—it can turn white into black, and erase even the deepest crimes of the past.”

“I’ll keep waiting. I’ve waited a long time already—I’m not afraid to wait longer.”

“I’ll wait until they can no longer erase my name from history, and then I’ll expose everything.”

Connors’s tone was calm, yet everyone could feel a power in it—perhaps the accumulation of anger, the crystallization of vengeance.

When midnight came, Schiller was just about to sleep when he received Stark’s call; Stark said, “I need to book two hours of psychotherapy.”

“You want me to yell at you again?”

“I’m serious—I’ll pay the fee.”

“You still owe me for last time.”

Stark, speechless, stamped his foot. “I’m on your rooftop right now—if you don’t come up, I’ll have JARVIS activate the emergency wake-up protocol.”

After a moment, Schiller stood at the rooftop’s edge; Stark stood beside him in his armor. Schiller asked, “Has anyone ever told you that whenever you sneak out at night in your armor, it’s like you’ve written across your face: ‘I’m a homeless dog no one wants’?”

“I’m paying for psychotherapy, not to be insulted.”

“I’ll say it again: people don’t get insulted because they don’t demand two hours of psychotherapy from their therapist at two a.m.”

“I’ll pay you overtime—whatever you want.”

“You seem to use only this armor and your wealth to mask how deeply insecure you truly are.”

Stark fell silent.

“Every time you come to me in armor, it’s like telling me your situation is too complicated—so raise the price.”

“No wonder you always hike your fees.”

Stark hesitated, then opened his helmet. “Do you think I should do something? I mean… about Connors’s situation. I can’t stand what the military’s doing with that program. As a hero of justice, shouldn’t I teach those soulless devils a lesson?”

“Just say it—you want to help Connors.”

“I’m not trying to help him. Why would I help that giant lizard who turned my building into a mess?”

“I just want justice. Don’t you think anyone who saw that program would feel the same?”

“You can admit it: Connors’s actions shocked you. You never imagined someone would endure such darkness, waiting endlessly for a light that may never come.”

“You realized his way of seeking justice is different from yours—that justice isn’t only about putting on a metal shell and publicly beating criminals.”

“You’re deeply moved by it.”

“Alright, I admit…” Stark sighed faintly, closed his eyes, and said, “I can’t imagine what belief drove him to keep developing those serums. When he was alone in the lab, didn’t he feel despair? Didn’t he feel helpless?”

“When I faced pressure—even with my genius mind, even with the entire Stark Corporation and the world’s greatest wealth—I still felt… it was unbearable. No one beside you, fighting alone, not knowing when it would end.”

Stark’s throat moved. “From the moment Connors learned of the program to when he developed the lizard serum—it must have taken years. Did he just live like that? Did he stay sane through all that?”

Stark had experienced such despair: Obadiah unconscious, Pepper struggling to hold things together, Stark alone in the lab through countless nights—loneliness poured out like a black tide from the abyss; he could only numb himself with alcohol to avoid wondering when his solitary boat would ever reach shore.

But he knew Connors had drifted like that for years. Unlike Stark, who still had hope, Connors had no boat at all—he clung to a rotting plank, adrift through countless storms, knowing the sea likely had no shore, yet refusing to let go.

Because Stark had felt it, he knew how unbearable that loneliness was; he realized no amount of intelligence could brew a cure for such suffering, and he had no superiority to look down on those struggling in such agony.

The Great Luo of All Worlds

“I think you always claim to be Peter’s elder—in age, yes, but perhaps not in some ways.”

“What do you mean? I am his elder—I went to his school’s parent meeting just two days ago.”

“I mean, perhaps in some ways, you should learn from him.”

“Learn from him? That idiot boy?” Stark sneered. “What’s there to learn? Learn how he beat up a rude jerk and then trembled? If it were me, Stark Dad would’ve made that trash regret ever being born…”

“I mention Peter because there’s another name you’d rather not hear.”

Stark opened his mouth. “I’ll just ask Peter myself. Don’t give me another suggestion—or I’ll cut your fee.”

He snapped his armor’s faceplate shut and flew off. Schiller shook his head.

He thought: the growth of these superheroes unfolded before him like a richly detailed painting.

Only when he actively participated in this process did he realize: these people were indeed superheroes—but they were also ordinary people. Peter, Stark, Spider-Man, Iron Man—all the same.

Their transformations weren’t captured in a few comic panels or lines of dialogue—they grew through tangled, inextricable troubles, too complex to untangle, too endless to describe.

Their moods, their emotional shifts, every doubt, every resolve, were filled with intricate, bizarre thoughts—like the subtle, countless changes every ordinary mind produces.

This made Schiller understand: the moving stories, the heroic sacrifices, the unwavering beliefs he’d seen in films and comics weren’t born that way.

These superheroes were like steel forged by countless hammer blows; Schiller saw the forging process—the sound and vibration of each strike, the sparks rising from violent collisions—each one fueling their souls, more vital than any mundane life could offer.

Until one day, their hearts turned to shining gold, and the process of forging became legend.

If readers of these stories saw only the heroes’ glorious, noble sides, Schiller, the reader lost within the tale, preferred to record the small, mundane struggles of their growth.

To record their laughter, anger, joy, sorrow, partings, reunions—as ordinary people—so that when the legends were forgotten, traces of the heroes who were never heroes would remain.

To preserve the answer: greatness is born from the ordinary, and will always return to it.