Chapter 24: Chapter Twenty-Three: Heroes Are Also Human (Part 2)

Strange swallowed hard, staring at Schiller’s gray eyes—he truly lacked the courage to refuse, for anyone with half a brain could see Schiller was no ordinary man.

Strange was dragged into the car, but he still said: “I need to warn you—I’m a doctor, not God. If your friend is already dead, no amount of threats will bring him back.”

Schiller drove with a blank expression. “We’re both doctors. I know this better than you. I came to you because I’m certain you can save him.”

Strange exhaled, but still frowned, stubbornly retorting: “You’re just a psychologist. Don’t make such definitive conclusions about neurosurgery.”

Before he finished speaking, he saw a ballpoint pen press against his forehead again—Schiller’s hands were on the wheel, yet the pen floated silently. Strange made a zipping motion across his lips, signaling he would say nothing more.

On the other side, Spider-Man stood at the operating room door, consumed by crushing guilt and self-reproach—he didn’t even want a fly to enter.

Yet Erica, Matt’s ex-girlfriend, had also crept silently to the operating room door.

Erica hadn’t come to kill Matt; quite the opposite—she’d learned of the gang’s plan even before Peter did. She’d been searching for a chance to warn Matt, but Matt left too quickly, and she only arrived after the incident.

Her feelings for Matt were complicated—they had been classmates and lovers, yet broken up over irreconcilable conflicts. This time, she’d accepted Kingpin’s contract to assassinate Matt, but she held back at every turn, never intending to kill him. Now, because she’d let her guard slip, Matt had been ambushed by someone else—how could she not be frantic?

Erica came from wealth and had seen the world. She knew Matt’s injuries were grave, his condition critical. Without supernatural intervention, he likely couldn’t be saved. She had to act—perhaps only the power of “Beast” could save Matt.

Erica used a ninja’s stealth technique to approach the operating room door. She paid no mind to the teenager standing there—after days of observation, she knew Peter was just a high schooler with no combat skills. She planned to bypass him outright.

But luck favored Peter—he possessed spider-sense, the most vital of his powers. His nerves were taut, his spider-sense amplified manyfold. The moment Erica neared, Peter spun and fixed his gaze on the empty corner—he sensed someone there. He swung his fist toward her.

Erica knew Peter’s strength exceeded normal limits and avoided a direct block, but his movements were riddled with flaws. He hadn’t been trained—he leaned too far forward, his legs too close together, his center of gravity unbalanced. Erica’s arm coiled around his wrist and yanked him forward—he instantly lost balance and toppled.

Erica tripped him with her foot, and Peter fell—but perhaps his anxiety unlocked his powers. As he hit the ground, he sprang up and clamped his arms tightly around Erica’s waist.

Erica was equally frantic. Both were furious, but she was a trained assassin of the Hand. The instant Peter embraced her, her free hand—holding a short blade—swung sharply backward.

The blade, edged with qi, sliced from Peter’s shoulder down to just below his last rib, nearly severing half his torso.

In an instant, unbearable agony consumed Peter, unleashing his full potential. He surged forward, hurling Erica across the corridor. She crashed into the far wall and lay motionless for minutes.

Peter collapsed too. He felt as if he were dying—the blade hadn’t just torn half his back; its qi had pierced his lung. With every breath, blood surged up his trachea.

For the first time, Peter felt such pain—the searing agony of torn back muscles nearly knocked him unconscious.

He was just a high schooler. The worst pain he’d ever endured was a few punches a few days ago—now, compared to this, it was nothing.

His entire back was nearly pierced; his lung was wounded. Each breath carried the taste of blood, each inhale a wave of agony. Tears welled involuntarily from his eyes, and a low moan escaped his throat.

He suddenly realized: heroes get hurt. They bleed.

And when heroes are hurt, they hurt terribly—no special powers spare them.

His healing ability eased him slightly within a few breaths. Through the frosted glass of the operating room, his blurred vision caught sight of the prone Daredevil.

Daredevil’s head tilted, eyes open—he was conscious, but couldn’t move.

Peter knew: Daredevil had no healing factor. He was dying.

He was just a blind man who knew martial arts. His spine was shattered. He must be in agony—more than Peter. Yet he made no sound.

Peter felt terror and despair—grief and fury at how fragile a hero’s life could be. Above all, crushing guilt and self-reproach drowned him.

A normal man without powers had fought underground fighters to save him. Yet when Peter heard the criminals plotting, he’d thought it none of his business and walked away—letting his friend, a true hero, suffer so terribly, nearly die.

Matt was the true hero. Peter was not.

This emotional storm made his spider-sense hum. In an instant, Peter’s powers surged to their peak. The turmoil within him surged—and the world before his eyes transformed.

Erica instantly activated her stealth technique and vanished. But Peter’s eyes burned red—he locked onto her position instantly.

The boy who had been clumsy moments before vanished. Then, a tremendous force slammed Erica into the wall. She spat blood, used her last strength to activate her stealth, and fled. Back at the hospital, Schiller saw Peter sitting dazed against a nearly shattered wall, his eyes red.

Strange stepped out of the operating room. The night was fully dark. Schiller stood opposite Spider-Man.

“Peter. I never imagined our meeting would be under these circumstances,” Schiller said.

Peter’s mind was sluggish. He didn’t understand Schiller’s meaning. Schiller knelt, meeting Peter’s eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t accompany you during your physical. As you see, I no longer work at this hospital.”

Peter’s awareness returned. “You—you’re the doctor.”

He remembered now—the doctor he’d been chatting with online.

Schiller said: “Yes. It’s me.”

Peter lowered his head in silence. “I must have disappointed you. I’m nothing like the person I showed you in our chats. I’ve made so many mistakes. I’ve nearly killed my friend.”

Schiller said: “I think you’ve already understood something.”

“Yes… yes…” Peter’s voice was hoarse. “I understand the greatest truth: pain is excruciating.”

“It hurts this much… yet he still does it,” Peter whispered. “He’s a hero. I’m not. Maybe I’ll never become one…”

Schiller’s voice remained calm. Peter heard no blame in it—only quiet serenity. “Perhaps you’ve realized: if everyone with power refused to save others, no one would come to save you.”

“Perhaps you think your life is bad now. But even this imperfect life was built by those willing to give.”

“Even the lives of beggars are possible only because Daredevil cleared the thugs off that street.”

“Peter. This may not be my place to say—but now, perhaps only I can say it,” Schiller said.

“With great power comes great responsibility.”

Spider-Man closed his eyes in silence.

At dawn, the darkest hour, Strange stepped out of the operating room, peeling off his gloves. “Congratulations. The surgery succeeded. There’s an eighty percent chance his nerves will fully recover.”

Hearing this, Peter let out a roar—as if emptying every emotion trapped in his chest. He leapt from the window, scaled the building’s wall, sprinted to the roof, and began racing across New York’s rooftops.

Then he saw the red-and-gold armor again, circling him as if guiding him somewhere. Peter followed it, leaping and sprinting until they reached the New York Television Tower.

The two stood atop the tower.

Peter tried to scream—but no sound came out. All his emotions were trapped in his chest. He was going mad.

Stark’s helmet lifted. Peter stared, astonished. “You’re Stark! Iron Man is Stark!”

“Not surprising, kid,” Stark said. “Who else but the owner of Stark Industries could design such armor?”

“But the news said you were kidnapped—taken to Afghanistan.”

“Yes. But do you want to know how I escaped?”

Peter looked at him. Stark pointed to his chest. “I built a power core. Installed it right here.”

“There’s still a miniaturized arc reactor inside.”

“In a cave in Afghanistan, I cut open my own chest and shoved a piece of metal inside. My blood soaked my pants.”

Just imagining the scene made Peter’s chest ache. “That must’ve been unbearable.”

“Of course it was,” Stark said lightly, but Peter heard the tremor in his voice—he didn’t want to remember that day.

“You have to slice open your ribcage with a dull bone knife, then stitch wires into your flesh.”

Peter’s spine chilled.

He’d never imagined: the playboy billionaire Stark, who seemed to live a life of endless luxury and ease, had endured such agony. He, too, had bled. He, too, had suffered pain few could endure.

"Though I call myself a genius, I'm fully aware. I know if a bullet hits me, I'll bleed out. If shrapnel shatters my heart, I'll die. If I lose a leg, I won't be able to walk."

“Yet I do these dangerous things. Am I chasing thrills?” Stark asked.

“I’m the richest man on Earth. I hold power most people can’t dream of. I have zero reason to wear this expensive armor and save ordinary people who can’t afford a single screw on it—let alone risk my life.”

Spider-Man closed his eyes. After a pause, he said: “…With great power comes great responsibility, right?”

Stark didn’t answer. He simply pointed to his heart.

Peter understood. He already knew his answer.

Facing New York’s sunrise, Peter and Stark stood atop the tower, watching golden light pierce the clouds, gilding every building in the city.

From today, Peter Parker, Spider-Man, understood one truth—

Heroes are human. They feel pain, bleed, suffer, grow lonely, and doubt themselves. The only difference between them and ordinary people is this: they carry a responsibility others lack, and an unwavering resolve to uphold justice until death.

No one is born immune to such agony. In darkness, they forge their armor from bones soaked in blood and pain. When dawn comes, they use those hardened bones to save the world.

Spider-Man stood for the first time on the tower’s iron frame. He hadn’t yet donned his suit. He wasn’t yet tall or strong. But his soul rose—straight, proud. The storm of emotion within him surged into power, spreading from his wounds through his entire body.

Facing the first ray of dawn, he thought: the morning has come—

It’s time to save the world.