Chapter 377

Steve also stepped over pebbles to the shoreline, standing shoulder to shoulder with Stark, watching the receding tide as layer upon layer of white waves surged, leaving behind intricate patterns; both remained silent, yet each seemed to know what the other was thinking.

At that moment, Strange flew in and said: "What the hell are you two doing? Stark, I just slipped onto a spaceship and ran two experiments—why did you blow this place to rubble?"

"And you, Steve—you knew that man with the dagger was dangerous, so why didn't you knock him out right away? What's your relationship with him?"

"And who was that guy glowing yellow? I was just getting into the fight, about to subdue him—and then he ran off?"

"Peter? What are you doing lying here? Why are you covered in blood? Oh, God…"

At that moment, Stark and Steve turned their heads simultaneously at the noise, both staring at Strange.

Strange froze at their gaze and said: "Why are you looking at me? Is there something on my face? … Hey, wait—why are you opening the cannon ports?!"

With a *whoosh*, the circular shield flew toward Strange, followed by a rapid crackle of bullets and continuous explosions; Strange dodged and jumped frantically as the two chased him, shouting: "You two are fighting—why take it out on me?! You're both insane!! Stop it!! I'm the Sorcerer Supreme!!!!"

After the group had run off, Peter slowly turned his head on the ground, gently pushed away the medical drone Stark had left, and spoke inside his mind to Red Bee: "Even if you've blocked my pain, that still hurt like hell, right?"

"You humans are the most self-destructive species I've ever encountered—you knew that dagger was razor-sharp, yet you still dared to get close?!" Red Bee sighed. "The symbiote is obligated to prevent its host from doing something this reckless. Supporting your actions violated over four hundred parasitic protocols—if Blue Spirit finds out, I'm in for it…"

"But the plan went smoothly, didn't it? Wait, let me check… They didn't notice me—where's the earpiece? Where did you put it?"

No sooner had Peter asked than a thin red, sticky tendril slithered into the pocket of his Spider-Man suit, pulled out a miniature earpiece, and shoved it into Peter's ear.

Inside S. . . . . .'s base, Schiller set down the communicator; Nick looked at him and asked: "Who called you? It wasn't Grant, was it?"

"No, it was another informant."

As they spoke, they walked inside, entering an office where instead of S. . . . . . agents waited a man dressed in an unusual manner—he wore a formal suit, had long hair, and two sharp goat horns protruded from his forehead.

Seeing Nick and Schiller enter, he pulled a hazy glowing orb from nowhere and handed it to Schiller: "This is the full final payment. Our deal is concluded."

"How were the Hydra souls?" Schiller asked him.

"Excellent—both in vitality and the power I can extract from them, far superior to ordinary humans. After this deal, I won't need to bother tricking weak, stupid humans for at least twenty years…"

"But couldn't you give me a discount? If we do this again next time, I'll be your biggest client…"

"Mephisto, your greed is the worst I've ever seen," Nick crossed his arms and said. "Because of your stinginess, we revised the contract sixteen times—and we haven't even charged you for drafting fees yet."

156n.

"Alright, I can unilaterally guarantee—if anything like this happens again, you'll be our first choice," Schiller said, holding the orb and looking at Mephisto.

The deal between Schiller, Nick, and Mephisto was simple: it involved the souls of certain Hydra members.

Since Schiller turned Arkham Sanatorium into a base for containing key Hydra agents, he first turned them into free labor, then extracted a fortune from clients of the Immortality Factor.

After taking over all Hydra operations in New York State, nearby Hydra leaders paid him protection fees to store their loyal forces in secure facilities; Schiller took the money and diligently moved the people into the sanatorium, though many died in transit, at least one-fifth made it.

The sanatorium's space was limited—the old bank building near Wall Street wasn't nearly as large as imagined; housing a few hundred people already left no room to spare.

So when the sanatorium was full, where should the agents be sent?

Schiller's answer was simple: sell them to S. . . . . .

But S. . . . . .'s space was also limited, while Hydra agents kept coming endlessly; when S. . . . . . filled up too, where then?

Schiller and Nick's answer was simple: sell them to Mephisto.

One fish, three meals. One sheep, three shears.

Mephisto's domain dimension had unique properties; to sustain its existence, he needed to draw power from souls. Among all beings in the universe, human souls carried especially abundant and precious energy, so he went to great lengths to trick humans into signing contracts.

Someone might wonder: why doesn't he just cause a disaster and harvest countless human souls?

Leaving aside Odin and the Ancient One's power—which, truthfully, were weaker than Mephisto's—the real reason is that upon death, human souls are meant to return not to hell or heaven, but to "Death," one of the Five Primordial Deities.

No one can defy this law—even if Mephisto caused a catastrophe, the dead would all go to Death, not to him.

The only way to intercept souls from Death is to have humans voluntarily sign contracts selling their souls to him—hence his painstaking efforts to deceive and ambush them one by one.

Now, Schiller and Nick offered a new arrangement: why should you, the busy Lord of Hell, personally sneak around Earth tricking people? Let us handle the trickery—you just sit in hell and wait for dinner.

Of course, there's a small courier fee involved—after all, S. . . . . . must extract intelligence from hardened Hydra agents and force them to sign demonic contracts, which takes effort.

Moreover, Mephisto judges soul energy by "sin" and "suffering," which perfectly matched Nick and Schiller's goal of identifying key Hydra members.

After contacting Mephisto, Schiller took him on a tour of Arkham Sanatorium; whenever Mephisto said a soul was tasty, Nick simply dragged the person away. If a devil deemed a soul rich in energy, how evil must that person be? His mind must be full of secrets.

Using this method, Nick also uncovered two Hydra leaders hiding among ordinary agents—they used the "Cicada Shedding" trick, claiming to bring subordinates for refuge, while actually hiding themselves among the crowd to evade purge.

S. . . . . . extracted valuable intelligence from them, including the location of the Winter Soldier's storage facility.

Mephisto's down payment went to S. . . . . .; the final payment went to Schiller. With the refined soul energy extracted by Mephisto in hand, Schiller returned to his office satisfied—and pulled out his umbrella.

He held the umbrella's handle, inspected it from all sides, growing more pleased, then placed the energy orb on the tip and said to his new umbrella: "I don't know what you like to eat, but I think this is good—try it."

Then he glanced at the security personnel list on his desk and added: "If you like it, there'll be more."

Before the cursed soul inside the umbrella could respond, a wave of discontent surged from the gray mist in Schiller's mind; Schiller soothed it: "You eat this? … What? You eat this too? Aren't you only supposed to consume emotions?"

"You want some too? Fine—you two split it evenly. Don't say I'm favoring one…"

A small tendril of gray mist extended from his arm, took a sip, then spat out: "Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!" Schiller laughed: "Looks like the symbiote can't eat this—don't want to give yourself a stomachache. I'll find you something else tomorrow."

The gray mist grumbled in Schiller's mind; Schiller sighed: "Alright, you can have a little wine—but not too much."

The gray mist let out a triumphant "Yay!" and happily went off to drink, seemingly oblivious to the soul energy in Schiller's hand.

Schiller shook his head helplessly, then noticed a wisp of black energy forming at the umbrella's tip, slowly seeping into the soul orb; soon, the orb shrank noticeably.

"Looks like you really like this—thank goodness. If you were as picky as the gray mist, stealing wine every day, I'd have a headache."

The cursed soul had no clear consciousness yet, so it didn't respond to Schiller—only followed instinct, continuously absorbing power.

At that moment, a knock came at Schiller's office door; Peter walked in, backpack in hand, still carrying a faint scent of blood, but his expression was bright. He placed the backpack on the sofa and said to Schiller:

"The plan went smoothly, Professor."

"They made up?" Schiller asked.

"Sort of—but they're both beating up Mr. Strange. Is that really okay?"

"It's fine—he's the Sorcerer Supreme."