Chapter 683: Buzzing Buzzing Buzzing (Part 1)

In the office of Arkham Hospital, Schiller, who had just arrived, was reviewing the registration information from the previous day.

Suddenly, his phone rang in his pocket, emitting a "buzzing" vibration; Schiller picked it up, held it to his ear, and heard Strange's voice.

"Schiller, the Sanctum Sanctorum is short-staffed—previously, we reassigned a batch of mages and customer service staff to handle deposit services, and now that insurance operations have launched, there aren't enough people to go around; every team leader is complaining to me about the shortage!"

Strange extended his arm and pointed sideways, saying: "Our top salesperson this quarter told me that if I don't give him more staff, he'd rather go back to prison than keep working here. The head of Team Three just called me—his people don't understand insurance sales at all; they nearly got scammed by a demon god…"

"Schiller, please, think of something! Every day delayed means one less day of revenue—if the year-end report looks too bad, Loki will mock me!"

Schiller slowly switched the phone to his other hand, writing a medical record as he spoke: "Short-staffed? Go find Nick. Don't come to me!"

He hung up immediately. No sooner had he set the phone down than it rang again—the buzzing sound made Schiller frown. He picked it up once more, and Nick's voice came through.

"Schiller, tell me, after all these years of growth, how come the Hydra has so few members? Guess how many agents they sent me last month? Less than thirty total!"

Nick clasped his hands together and patted them: "The United Nations set up a Solar System Development Program oversight team—twenty-two people total. I need to assign at least ten agents to it, right?"

"My base was damaged by you and needs repairs; the Sky-Carrier needs maintenance; the entire maintenance team needs at least thirty people!"

"We're launching full cooperation with Kamar-Taj; we need at least ten agents to liaise with the sorcerers."

"More importantly, without three hundred active agents, how am I supposed to request a thirty-thousand-person salary increase from Congress?"

"The entire Americas region of Hydra has barely a hundred members left—even if I'm now in charge, I can only spare ninety to S. . . . . . What do I do about the rest of the gaps?"

Schiller was about to reply when Nick said: "I heard Strange say you're of German descent—doesn't that help? Go back to Germany, inherit the little mustache's legacy, take over all of Hydra's assets—you could easily get five hundred capable people!"

Schiller took a deep breath and said: "Stop calling me."

He slammed the phone onto the desk, pulled out a pen, blew off the tip after uncapping it, straightened his posture, and prepared to write.

Suddenly, another "buzzing" sound came from beside him; Schiller whipped his head around and stared at the ringing phone.

He took a deep breath, slammed the pen onto the desk, and picked up the phone: "Whoever you are, if you know me, you know I hate receiving multiple calls in one day—don't call me again!"

He hung up immediately.

About two minutes later, a "crash" echoed as the glass behind him shattered; Iron Man flew in wearing his armor, arms crossed, and said: "Peter told me you hate answering calls, but I didn't realize your condition was this severe…"

Schiller glanced at the shattered floor-to-ceiling window, then turned to Stark: "What is it?"

"Peter hasn't been feeling well lately…"

Stark recalled what had happened last night.

Last night, Loki called him, saying Frigga was worried about Helen and wanted her to stay in Asgard for a few days. From Thor and Loki's descriptions, Stark knew Frigga was an excellent mother—at least far better than Odin.

Stark also knew Helen had stolen electricity because he and Pepper had been too busy lately to pay her enough attention.

But the Solar System Development Program was in full swing; they simply couldn't spare time. If so, letting Helen stay with Frigga for a few days wasn't a bad idea.

But recently, Helen had been playing constantly with Pikachu, and Pikachu always stayed with Peter—so Stark called Peter, asking him to bring Helen to the Sanctum Sanctorum.

Stark dialed Peter's number, but after several rings, Peter didn't answer.

Stark glanced at his watch—it was just past ten at night. It wasn't work hours, but for a young guy like Peter, he'd probably just turned on his game console, grabbed the controller, and was about to start a few rounds.

Besides, Peter had Spider-Sense—he'd feel the phone ring before it even rang and be right there waiting. Stark had called him countless times; he'd always answered instantly. Why hadn't he answered this time?

Stark frowned and dialed again. After two rings, the call connected—but a strange woman's voice answered: "Hello, this is the Parker residence. Who's calling?"

"Uh, hello…"

"You must be Peter's friend? I'm his aunt. He's asleep right now—I'm sorry he can't answer. Call back tomorrow morning."

Stark's brow furrowed deeper. "Peter's asleep? That doesn't match his usual schedule. Why is he sleeping so early tonight?"

Stark knew that when Peter stayed home, even if he didn't play games, he wouldn't sleep until at least eleven. He didn't need much sleep—four hours was enough for him to feel fully rested.

"He hasn't been feeling well lately," Aunt May said, her tone laced with concern. "Last night he didn't sleep at all. The night before, he was talking in his sleep. So lately he's been going to bed earlier."

Stark wanted to ask more, but considering that Peter's elder was also resting, he finally hung up.

The next day at noon, a pitch-black car parked at the entrance of New York University. Its dark exterior made it unobtrusive, so few noticed.

When Peter stepped out of the campus, one hand held his backpack, the other rubbed his eyes—he looked tired.

Suddenly, headlights blinded him; he frowned, annoyed, searching for who was flashing high beams in broad daylight. But when he turned, he saw Stark wearing sunglasses in the driver's seat.

Peter walked over, opened the door, sat in the passenger seat, and turned to Stark: "Why are you here? Is the Avengers doing something?"

JARVIS started the car; Stark drove as he spoke: "Same old routine—taking down Hydra, that sort of thing. By the way, Peter, when was your last physical?"

"Physical? I remember Dr. Schiller scheduled mine. We all went to the Elder Council Hospital. Uncle Ben even found a shadow on his chest, but thankfully it was just a minor inflammation."

"That was about a year… nearly two years ago?" Stark adjusted his sunglasses. "You need annual checkups to ensure your health. I assume you know that already."

"Uh, yeah…" Peter looked embarrassed. "The other day I talked to classmates—they all get family checkups every year. But we don't have that tradition."

Peter shrugged, offering a bitter smile: "Uncle Ben's company doesn't offer regular checkups. New York hospitals charge a fortune. Our insurance doesn't cover it, and even if we wanted to book, we couldn't get appointments."

"No problem. Now you're part of the Avengers, under S. . . . . . they'll provide you with a full physical. You can also apply for medical insurance for your family; Nick will approve it."

"Really?" Peter's eyes widened. "But Natasha said their insurance standards have been cut twice already."

"Still better than what you have now," Stark said, driving. Peter nodded without arguing, then asked: "So where are we going now?"

"To get you checked," Stark said, parking the car in the underground garage of Stark Tower. He opened the door. "You absorbed that faith energy and entered a hyperactive state. Since then, you've never had a full physical. We need to make sure the energy hasn't harmed you."

Peter nodded, half-understanding. He'd never fully grasped what faith energy was—he wasn't interested in mystical things, far less than in solar system research.

After entering Stark Tower, JARVIS arranged a physical for Peter. When the standard data appeared, Stark shook his head, pulled out his phone, and called Schiller:

"Peter's physiological condition is fine, but his brain scan shows slight abnormalities. I suspect it's psychological or mental—your department."

After a while, Stark walked out and said: "Peter, I've excused you from afternoon classes. You need to see Dr. Schiller."

"Late last night, I called your house. Your aunt told me you haven't been feeling well, sleeping early, and your brainwave readings do show some anomalies—not serious, but you should still see a doctor."

Peter stared at his own health data, frowning. He'd worked in the lab with Connors and Yin Sen, both holding medical doctorates, so he'd picked up some medical knowledge. JARVIS's physical included a brainwave test, which showed abnormal patterns during sleep.

Peter assumed it was due to the faith energy. Since he didn't understand what the power was, he followed Stark's advice and came to Arkham Sanatorium.

There, Schiller, Strange, and Charles were already waiting. With this medical team, no psychological issue in the world was unsolvable.

Strange first used magic to check Peter's soul state: "Perfect. His soul is healthy and normal—he's already shed the hyperactive state. Part of the faith energy is stored in his symbiote; the rest has been absorbed by his soul. No further effects."

Professor Charles also activated his ability to scan Peter's brainwaves: "There's a slight anomaly, but it's not a disease—probably just fatigue from poor rest. Sometimes, when beasts pull all-nighters in the lab, their brainwaves look exactly like this. Kid, have you been staying up late again?"

Peter shook his head: "No, I've been going to bed early lately."

"How's your sleep quality?" Schiller asked.

"Not good," Peter said, lips pressed tight. "I don't know why, but lately I have trouble falling asleep. Once I do, I dream constantly—but when I wake up, I remember nothing."

"Before, I'd feel fully energized after three or four hours of sleep—even going days without sleep didn't tire me. But lately, I need over six hours and still feel exhausted." Peter sighed. "Is university life just too tiring? But the material's so simple—I understood and memorized it without effort."

Peter's fatigue was obvious. His usual boundless energy had left a deep impression on everyone; now that he seemed weak, all of them tensed up.

"Peter, go to bed early tonight. We'll meet in your dreams," Schiller said.

Since his afternoon classes were excused, Peter went straight home after the appointment. Aunt May cooked him a good meal, but he had no appetite. Back in his room, he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.

Pikachu crawled out of his backpack. He saw Peter's brow tightly furrowed, his lips murmuring. They'd often slept together before—Pikachu had never known Peter talked in his sleep.

Looking into the furrowed brow, inside the mental space, in a room identical to Peter's bedroom, Schiller stood in the center.

A faint sound echoed around the room. Schiller strained to listen—but the sound vanished.

Schiller grasped the doorknob, opened the door—outside was darkness. Clearly, this room was Peter's subconscious world.

Schiller knew that in the subconscious world, bigger structures didn't mean stronger mental strength. What mattered was durability and detail.

In Peter's subconscious, this small room he'd lived in since childhood was extremely sturdy and rich with memories from his entire life—very healthy.

Schiller walked around the room several times but found no source of the sound. He listened carefully for a long time before realizing it was a peculiar vibration—but nothing in the room could produce such a sound.

lingdian.

Clearly, this sound was the cause of Peter's insomnia. Schiller hadn't found its origin, but he knew how to treat it.

He called into the air: "Professor Charles, mute all sound here. Put his dream into silent mode—no disturbances."

Charles, monitoring from afar, had also noticed the anomaly but couldn't locate the sound. He nodded and used his power to interfere with Peter's subconscious, blocking all noise.

In the real world, Pikachu saw Peter's brow finally relax. He shifted his posture, no longer tense, sinking peacefully into sleep.

Schiller had planned to study the sound's origin overnight, but it was already nine p. . past his bedtime.

He decided to sleep first, then ask Peter tomorrow if he'd noticed anything unusual.

Schiller lived permanently in Arkham Sanatorium. The top floor had a very nice bedroom. After changing into his pajamas, he lay on the bed and drifted into sleep.

But as soon as he entered his own mental sanctuary, he heard a familiar sound—a continuous vibration.

Instantly, Schiller jolted awake, sitting up. "What was that?"

"Spider-Sense," the gray mist said with certainty.

Schiller paused. "What? That sound was Spider-Sense? But earlier…"

"A weaker version," the gray mist replied. "Less intense, but longer-lasting."

Schiller hadn't forgotten—he too possessed Spider-Sense, though weaker than Peter's, lacking prophetic ability.

Schiller lay back down, his consciousness sinking into his mental sanctuary. He found the sound here even weaker than what he'd heard in Peter's mind.

Here, when he focused, he could discern it—like a string being plucked.

"Tap, tap, tap," accompanied by a faint "buzzing." It reminded Schiller of spiderwebs vibrating when plucked—and also of an annoying phone vibration.

Schiller closed his eyes, concentrated, and let the gray mist control his body, syncing his breathing and heartbeat to the rhythm, then began meditating on the image of a spiderweb.

Soon, within the rhythmic sound, he heard a faint female voice:

"Spider-Man… Spider-Man… wake up. This universe needs you. Come here… come to me…"

Schiller realized that if he fell out of sync with the rhythm or lost focus, the voice vanished instantly.

When he reached peak focus, for a fleeting moment, he felt he could communicate. He said:

"Who are you?"

"Totem… follow the totemic power… come to me…"

"Totem? What's a totem?" Schiller asked, feigning ignorance.

"The Spider Totem—the mystical force within you. Close your eyes, focus. You'll see a thread of silk leading here… follow it. We've been waiting for you a long time…" The woman's voice was ethereal and hollow, fragmented yet omnipresent.

Schiller let out two cold laughs, then said:

"Don't call me again!"

With that, he severed the connection, lay back down on the bed, rolled over, and prepared to sleep.

But as he was about to sink back into sleep, that "tap-tap-tap" and "buzz-buzz-buzz" sound came again.

"Come here… we're waiting for you… Spider-Man…"

Schiller snapped awake at once, looked up at the clock on the wall—it was 9: 0 p. . this was the sixth call he'd received today.

Schiller sat up on the bed, took a deep breath, and whispered:

"Wait for me. I'm coming."