Chapter 237

After eating, Thor had no time to wander; he still needed to keep looking for work, because he knew well that if he couldn't pay rent, Loki would happily throw him and his belongings out onto the street—and without his powers or weapons, he couldn't beat Loki.

Besides, Thor felt it was faster to find a job and earn money for rent than to fight his brother.

Although S. . . . . . had helped Thor obtain legal identification, he had no education or certifications, so finding work meant going door-to-door—and the only skills he possessed were car repair and manual labor.

More Zhenggui repair shops and warehouses both required work experience; since Thor had no resume to prove it, he could only search for jobs in Hell's Kitchen and the fringes of Manhattan.

He still wanted to find a car repair job, but the cluster of repair shops wasn't far from his old workplace, and after wandering around, he found himself back in that area.

He had planned to try his luck at the last few garages on the street, but just as he was about to enter, Thor noticed a man lying beside a shed piled with junk at the alley's end.

"Old White! What happened?!" Thor rushed over and realized the man lying beside the junk was none other than Old White, who had tried to warn him earlier that day.

Only when Thor stepped closer did he see Old White's face was bruised, struggling to breathe where he lay; he went over and helped him sit up. When Thor reached for his phone, Old White said: "Don't… don't call an ambulance…"

Thor hesitated, then put his phone back. Old White coughed twice: "Cough… cough, I'm fine."

Thor helped him up and asked: "What happened to you? Why are you lying here?"

"I didn't collapse here—I…" Old White turned his head slightly, his weathered face twisted with fear and hatred. "After you left, that bastard took out his anger on me—he hired two gang members to beat me and left me here…"

As he spoke, he shook his head dazedly, then suddenly remembered something. He struggled to sit up, fumbling in his pockets until he turned his shirt lining inside out and found it empty. "Of course… what was I even hoping for? He took every cent I had…"

Old White went rigid, as if hollowed out. Thor shook him twice, but he didn't respond. Thor took a deep breath and stood up—only for Old White's hand to grip his wrist tightly. From his lips came a few strained words: "No… don't go… don't provoke the gang—they'll kill you."

His throat began emitting short, ragged breaths. Thor crouched again, helping him steady his breathing. Old White said: "I always knew he was a bastard—I knew it. That's why I deserve this…"

"What he did to Benjamin, he'll do to us, Thor. Listen to me—don't go. He'll only be crueler to you. He might even hire someone to kill you. There's nothing that bastard wouldn't do…"

Old White closed his eyes. His voice was dry as a saw cutting through wood. "When he first opened his garage on this street, I was the only one willing to work for him—he was infamous, and I was desperate for money."

"He often withheld wages and cursed at people constantly. But people like me had no choice—we made him rich, yet ended up with nothing. Maybe I shouldn't have taken this job in the first place…"

"It's not your fault," Thor told him. "It's entirely that bastard's fault."

Old White's grip tightened. "It's my fault. If I hadn't stubbornly bought a truck to haul long-distance when I was young, I wouldn't have lost all the savings my wife and I had. I wouldn't have been unable to pay my son's tuition and forced him to drop out…"

"Thankfully, cough… thankfully, my grandson is doing well…" Old White said. "He's an excellent student. His teacher says he can get into New York University…"

"But… we can't even afford his living expenses."

Old White closed his eyes. Thor had never seen such sorrow on any human face before.

"You probably ended up here because of some accident too, didn't you? I can tell…" Old White's grip grew tighter. "You've had a decent education—or maybe you're a military veteran?"

"I can tell—you're different from the rest of us. You still have courage—or at least strength. But we…"

"Enough of this. Let me take you to the hospital." Thor crouched, helping Old White up—when suddenly, voices came from the intersection: "Go check on that old man. Don't let him die here—if he's about to kick the bucket, drag him to Hell's Kitchen. We don't have time to bury him."

Thor turned and saw several men at the corner, including the garage owner. The owner spotted Thor and widened his eyes: "Damn it, you actually dare come back here?!"

"It's him! He beat me up and stole my money! Tell your boss—if you teach him a lesson, I'll pay you double!"

Thor had no interest in disputing his lies—behind him, three gang enforcers had already closed in.

These three were shorter and less muscular than Thor—but the problem was, two of them held guns.

These gang enforcers weren't like the garage owner; at least they'd actually used guns before. They knew how to hold them with both hands and stabilize their stance. Even if Thor could disarm one, he couldn't handle the other.

But Thor had no choice. He turned and shielded White. As one gang member raised his gun, Thor lunged forward, tackling him to the ground, rolling instantly—then a flash of fire from the second gun, and Thor barely dodged the bullet.

But before he could grab the fallen weapon—*bang! —a spray of blood erupted. Thor turned to see Old White collapsed in a pool of blood, unable to even cry out. The garage owner now held a gun himself. "Looks like my aim hasn't dulled…"

Thor's blood boiled instantly. His arms trembled as he lunged forward and snatched up the fallen gun.

He had never properly used a human firearm. As he fumbled to load it, another shot rang out—pain exploded in his right shoulder.

*The Point Guard Is Here*

"Ugh…" Thor groaned quietly. Fortunately, battle-hardened as he was, the pain didn't distract him. He staggered sideways toward the pile of junk, dodging another shot.

Then—a sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by several heavy thuds. When Thor looked again, a figure with a cane stood on the street.

"Matt!"

Thor shouted: "Here! Come quick! Someone's been shot…"

"You don't have to tell me—I can smell it." Matt's calm voice came as he walked over to Thor, then realized Thor meant someone else. Old White had been shot in the leg. Judging by his breathing, Matt knelt beside him, placing a hand on his chest. "Call an ambulance."

"But…" Thor clutched his shoulder, speaking with difficulty. "He can't afford an ambulance."

"Is now the time to talk about that?" Matt looked at Thor. "You need to go to the hospital too. Call now."

When the ambulance arrived, the nurse looked at Thor and said: "Again you? And this…"

Matt told the nurse: "Don't waste time. Two gunshot victims. Get them on the stretcher."

On the ambulance, Thor still had the energy to chat with the nurse. He asked: "What's your name?"

The nurse glanced at him, remembering how he'd helped save lives, and replied: "I'm Jane. Jane Foster."

Thor winced but spoke clearly. Jane was surprised. "You got shot in the shoulder—you don't feel pain?"

"Pain? Yeah, it hurts." Thor's voice remained strong. "But compared to the wounds I've taken before, it's nothing."

Jane was even more astonished. "Before? You're not…?" She studied him again. "You're not some retired special forces soldier, are you?"

Thor didn't answer. He knew there was no need to explain his past—but Jane was curious. As a nurse, she could tell Thor wasn't pretending. He was truly tough.

When word reached the Asgardians at S. . . . . . that Thor had been injured, they couldn't sit still—they rushed to visit. To prevent chaos, Hill followed them.

At the hospital, Thor's bullet had already been removed. He lay on the bed. Fandral examined his wound. "Good thing it's not serious. The Allfather didn't even leave you healing powers? Doesn't he fear you getting hurt?"

Thor shook his head. "Go check on the room next door. There's a patient named White. See how he is."

"White? Who's that?"

"An… an old man. An unfortunate one." Thor swallowed hard, touching his own wounds, inhaling sharply.

After the other three left, Sif sat beside Thor's bed. "You look worn out. Why? I don't believe a minor wound could turn Asgard's bravest warrior into this."

"A minor wound? Maybe. Compared to the wounds I took in Sagittarius, this is nothing." Thor half-closed his eyes. "But I'm an Aesir. Old White is just a mortal—a human with no special abilities. He was shot in the leg too. He must be in agony."

"Why did he suffer this? I don't know…" Thor murmured to himself. Sif listened in silence.

"He's no general, no warrior. He never fought on a battlefield, never committed a crime—yet he endures this."

"The one who hurt him is his own kind. If anyone in Asgard did this, I'd…"

Thor fell silent, eyes shut. After a moment, he said: "Why do humans do this? I can't understand. Their lives are already so short—why waste time harming each other?"

"Why did the garage owner do this? I can't understand either. His cruelty had no cause—it was just blind, violent rage. I've never met anyone like him before…"

Sif poured Thor a glass of water. "The universe is vast. I suppose people like this aren't surprising."

Her voice was calm, like sacred hymns. In civilian clothes, the Valkyrie's fierce aura softened, replaced by the solemn, divine presence common to Asgardian goddesses.

"Are you disappointed?" Sif asked Thor. "Do you think Earth's people aren't worth saving? That even if you save them, they'll still kill each other?"

Thor clenched his lips, silent—but clearly, he accepted Sif's words. All along, he'd desperately wanted to regain his powers and weapons because he believed it was the honor of Asgardians—he thought he must return quickly to fight, to protect.

But now, he began to doubt it all. Stripped of his powers and weapons, he felt powerless. And the Earth—the very realm he once rushed to protect—these people spent their days delighting in harming each other.

As if everything he had been, everything he had done, meant nothing at all.

"Perhaps you haven't noticed, Thor. Years of war have changed you." Sif looked at him. Thor saw in her eyes a quiet sorrow.

"You always think of the results of battle—the victory, the glory. Of course, that's what a warrior should consider. But you won't just be a warrior… you'll be the king of Asgard."

"As a king, you must see not only the outcome, but the causes behind it, the processes that lead to it. Your strength won't be your only tool…"

Sif tapped her temple. Thor looked at her. In the room, only the soft drip of an IV broke the silence.

Night deepened. Clouds drifted across the sky, dimming the moon. Long after, a sigh came from the ward—like the lament of a brave warrior, or the longing of a young king.