Chapter 387: The Three Detectives (Part 2)

"From the very beginning, I was suspicious—why was it so convenient that he was attacked right when I was on the phone with T'Challa? Unless someone wanted to lure us there." Stark's voice was low.

"Even more coincidental—we arrived just as he was striking, and heard him shout 'Hydra.' Even if Hydra agents were stupid, they were still a spy organization; no spy group ever lets witnesses know who carried out a kill."

Steve also frowned deeply. "It does seem odd, but it could still be coincidence. What troubles me more is how much harder it's become to fight Hydra—this makes it even more suspicious."

"They're forcing us to unite—because if we keep gathering together, he can better manipulate our emotions, turn us against each other, and eventually spark war."

At this, the humans all felt a chill run down their spines. Steve slowly closed his eyes, exhaled, leaned back in his chair as if drained of all strength, and said: "... o you know how that world war began?"

Everyone fell silent. Clearly, this wasn't a question—anyone could guess the answer. Even the textbook explanation looked like a conspiracy.

"Wars among ordinary people still have room to stop. But between us? None. Once war starts, not just New York, but nations, continents—even Earth itself—could suffer catastrophic damage." Steve's face darkened with sorrow—he clearly remembered something.

"The Hive... Hydra..." Stark half-closed his eyes, but the visible part gleamed with sharp light—his weary face made the fire in his eyes burn even brighter.

Suddenly, Steve stood up. He glanced down at his battered, dusty uniform and his shield, dulled and scraped from battle. He stepped toward Stark, still lying on the ground.

Stark's armor was no longer pristine; its once-shiny metal was scratched and scuffed, some parts still smoking. A blood trail marked one temple—likely from the fall.

They stared at each other in silence, both finding the other's filthy, exhausted state absurd.

Steve wiped his face, then looked at his arm. "If this is the result of us fighting each other..."

He took a deep breath, shook his head, and continued: "I'm glad it ended this way—we're both still alive, no limbs missing, not too much blood lost, still able to stand..."

Steve bent down, as if to pull Stark up. But Stark rolled over, awkwardly dodging Steve's shadow, then slowly rose to his feet, stumbling a few steps before standing opposite him.

Face to face, they saw the same conviction and fire in each other's eyes. Stark still held his head high, looking down through half-lidded eyes. "I think I won. But it doesn't make me proud."

"We nearly turned a planet into rubble. If I woke up now and saw this Earth..." Stark's breath trembled, his voice dropping sharply: "I wouldn't even know how to seek revenge—because we're the ones who did it."

"I gave everything I had to prevent this." Steve clenched his lips. "Many others like me didn't just give everything—they gave their lives—to stop this from happening."

"If they truly plan to do this..." Stark raised his voice, "then I'll show them they picked the wrong people."

Steve met his gaze in silence. Then Stark raised his smoking arm, paused midair, and punched Steve's shoulder.

Both exhausted men collapsed.

The sound of their fall was dull, like thunder cracking through endless night and rain.

And beyond the thunder, there was light—hopeful, like dawn.

The projection screen froze on this moment. In Shearer's Mind Palace, the man in the black longcoat spoke slowly: "Perhaps this is exactly how your world differs from Gotham—here, there is night, there are rainy nights... but also lightning that splits the sky and brings light."

"I often think Iron Man and Batman are similar." The man in the white lab coat spoke, then shook his head. "But Batman doesn't have Captain America—or if he did, he'd never punch him the way Stark just did."

"My and that madman's plans are done. Now it's your turn." The black-coated Shearer turned to his side. The lab-coated Shearer looked at the ceiling. "What are you talking about? I don't understand."

"We're the same person. Still pretending to deceive yourself? Let me say it more plainly—how was T'Challa attacked?"

"Of course, it was Hydra's plot." The white-clad Shearer smiled. He paused, then added: "Though I did provide a little help. Just a tiny bit."

"Why are you targeting Hydra? Don't tell me you're some righteous good guy trying to help the Avengers defeat their greatest enemy."

"Of course not. Remember when I first went to S. . . . . . for psychological counseling?"

"I remember. All the agents avoided you. But that's normal. Was that reason enough to hold a grudge?"

*Jian Lai*

"No—they didn't come for counseling, I was happy to be left alone. But didn't you forget? They broke my office's smoke alarm, nearly soaked me in the rain—and back then, I didn't even have an umbrella."

The projection screen lit up again: inside Arkham Sanatorium's office, Shearer fiddled with a small device. Beside him lay an instruction manual and a pile of scattered parts.

As he clumsily disassembled the smoke alarm, he muttered under his breath: "Looks like someone installed an additional infrared sensor here—enabling them to remotely trigger every room's alarm..."

He roughly pried off one component, inspected it in his palm—saw nothing—then tossed it onto the table. The alarm in his hands was now completely dismantled.

Shearer turned, pulled a box of identical smoke alarms from under his desk, tossed the broken one into the trash. Inside were already seven or eight ruined alarms—none had died peacefully.

After dismantling every alarm in the box, Shearer reached the simplest possible conclusion: someone in S. . . . . . could control every room's smoke alarm. The incident where alarms suddenly triggered and sprayed water wasn't an accident—it was sabotage.

For the next two days, Shearer moved frequently through S. . . . . . sometimes chatting and smoking with Natasha, sometimes eating lunch with Coulson, sometimes discussing economics with Nick in his office...

One evening, Shearer returned to the sanatorium and wrote a name in a patient file: "Grant Ward."

A few days later, the file gained a string of names. Next to Grant Ward, an arrow pointed to John Garrett. Next to John Garrett, another arrow pointed to Alexander Pierce.

"I have no grudge against Pierce. Let him be Hydra. But why, before leaving S. . . . . ., did he go so far as to tamper with smoke alarms—installing a separate remote control system, then leaving it to Garrett, and a remote to Ward...?"

The lab-coated Shearer shrugged in his chair. "I know I'm unpopular. But that's no reason to drown me like a stray dog. Back then, I didn't even have an umbrella... Remember what you said?"

The black-coated Shearer turned to him. Both smiled knowingly. "When I have no umbrella, no one gets to rain."

The lab-coated Shearer leaned back, staring straight ahead, voice calm—as if describing something trivial.

"My work at S. . . . . . gave me access to Pierce. One day, I visited him, proposing a business deal—about vibranium."

"At the time, he didn't know about the new material, molten steel, about to be developed. No one else knew. When I told him, he immediately saw the opportunity—molten steel would replace vibranium."

"That meant if Wakandans learned this, vibranium prices would crash. They'd rush to sell their stock to offset the impact."

"Sure enough, Pierce contacted Erik, leader of Wakanda's second-largest tribe. He sent Klaue to negotiate. Erik demanded an outrageous price—no surprise. He wanted to get rich enough to overthrow T'Challa."

"I gave Pierce another suggestion: instead of exploiting the information gap to buy vibranium early, support Erik's rise, destabilize Wakanda, then control it. You know—like every African coup."

"Pierce had already thought of it himself. But he hesitated—he doubted Erik's loyalty. And disappointingly, he lacked strong mind-control methods. So I had to do it."

"I used Mad Wine to infiltrate Erik's subconscious, planting suggestions. He already hated T'Challa deeply. My role was simply ensuring he said the right things at the right time."

"That toxin..."

"You know it well. Didn't you just pull it out of Constantine's body? According to Constantine, the Cursed Soul is rare even in his world—no one here has ever seen it."

The black-coated Shearer adjusted his posture, leaning comfortably back. "Looks like we three accomplished something major together."

"In order: you wanted revenge on Hydra, so you engineered T'Challa's assassination—triggering the Hive-Hydra incident. That ruined my umbrella, so I engineered the alien civil war. Finally, that madman and the rain from another world sealed it all with a perfect ending."

The lab-coated Shearer leaned forward, picked up a glass from the coffee table, and poured wine for both himself and the other.

From behind the sofa, the two glasses clinked. The foam rose slowly as the room unfolded like a box.

A large hand placed a green-haired LEGO figure in the center of the room. The figure's head was a cylinder, its hands C-shaped.

A green-haired figure looked down at the box, where three LEGO men—identical except for clothing and hair color—sat side by side. He grinned.

"We're three great detectives, aren't we?"

————EXTRA NOTES————

It's still "Three Detectives."

The "detective" is "crazy."

Hehe