Chapter 726: Eternal

"You're saying you want to turn that Kree ambassador into a serum?" Nick asked Shearer, frowning in the S. . . . . . office.

"That's right. I want to test something." Shearer, in a white lab coat, began pacing the room. "Do you remember what I told you before about resurrection? I suspect the Kree might be usable to create a resurrection serum."

After the single-universe reset, the earlier instruction Shearer had given Connors to remind Nick about the Kree never happened; the GH serum was never made, Coulson never died retrieving a special item, and never revived by injection.

Although Shearer retrieved the obelisk after the reset, it had lost its original function. At first, he thought Death had hung up the call, but upon reflection, many inconsistencies emerged.

If the obelisk truly was the result of a deal between Death and the Kree, would Death really abandon such a major client so easily? The Kree are one of the universe's great empires—their offerings of death and slaughter are immense. Would she burn the contract over Shearer's nuisance calls alone?

Last time the scale was smashed, Death was startled by Stark's sudden announcement of reviving the Soviet Union, but also because the Egyptian pantheon had declined. Yet now the Kree Empire is at its peak—would Death truly let go?

Or perhaps the obelisk was merely one of many phones—not important at all—and the true resurrection device still operates within the Kree Empire?

Did Death simply smash one phone, or abandon the entire business? Shearer felt he needed to test this.

Before the universe reset, Shearer witnessed Coulson's resurrection and clearly sensed Death's presence—meaning, at that time, Death and the Kree Empire still had a deal.

If he used the Kree ambassador as material to produce the GH serum and then used it to resurrect someone, he could determine whether Death and the Kree Empire still had a contract.

Nick fell silent, then said: "First, using a sentient being to make a serum…"

"You're not seriously suggesting you're having a moral dilemma?" Shearer asked, astonished.

Nick shook his head thoughtfully. "Don't be ridiculous. What moral dilemma? He's not human, and his attitude while detained was abysmal. Several of our agents have complained about it."

"I'm thinking about who should oversee this experiment—who needs to know, who doesn't. S. . . . . .'s composition is complex; we can't just launch a major experiment casually."

"I guess you'll let Natasha and Coulson know, and keep everyone else in the dark," Shearer guessed—but it wasn't really a guess, since Nick had already done this once, before the reset.

"No, I'm wondering whether Sharon Carter should know. After all, she's the niece of Peggy Carter, one of S. . . . . .'s founders. She should be trustworthy."

Nick stood up from behind his desk. "We don't have enough trustworthy personnel. Natasha and Coulson are obvious. Ward is yours—he counts as one—but he only charges ahead, no strategic mind."

"Hill is still viable, but she's been deployed. The Solar System Construction Project needs someone monitoring it; she won't be back anytime soon, and there's a mountain of paperwork no one is doing."

"If I had multiple copies of you, it wouldn't be a problem. But if I don't, I have to consider who'll handle the administrative work."

"What about that Mark I introduced you to?" Shearer asked.

He meant Moon Knight. After Mark left the CIA, Shearer had referred him to S. . . . . . he should've been working there for some time now.

Nick shook his head and sighed. "CIA agents are like that. Fine for field intel work, but you expect them to sit in an office and write reports?"

"Besides, Mark came from the CIA—he knows their agents best. He's probably playing hide-and-seek with CIA operatives in California right now."

Nick paused again. "But a resurrection serum is undeniably important. For preliminary tests, assign Natasha. Coulson will have moral reservations; once the full experiment launches, I'll hand it to him."

"What about Carter?" Shearer asked. He added: "I've noticed she's been acting strangely with Captain America lately…"

Nick slapped his forehead. "Good God, isn't Coulson enough? Do we need a female version of Captain America now? Who the hell will I get to do the dirty work?!"

Nick extended his hand. "I never interfere with my agents' personal lives. If they want to date, they date. If they want to marry, they marry. If they want to retire after starting a family, I won't stop them."

"But on one condition: they can't let their partner's inflated moral standards dictate their work. The vast majority of agents here do dirty work. And a dirty-work agent trying to date the most righteous man on Earth—the Captain America…"

"Forget it…" Nick finally sighed. "I'll have Natasha subtly warn her. S. . . . . .'s future successor can't be corrupted by Captain America."

Xiaoshuting

After discussing the serum experiment restart, Shearer stepped out of the S. . . . . . office, walked down the corridor, and just as he descended the stairs, he encountered Loki carrying a stack of files upward.

"What are you doing here?" Shearer asked, puzzled. Loki wore a suit and tie, as if he'd just left Wall Street.

"My visa expired. I came to renew it," Loki said, waving the documents in his hand. "S. . . . . .'s new rule: all non-human entities operating in the Solar System must obtain visas—including robots, and me."

"Odin helped us get one before, but it was temporary. Now Thor and I both need new ones." Loki shrugged. "Passports require race designation—they insist on writing 'Asgardian' for me. I hope I never have to change it again."

Shearer studied Loki's expression and noticed he no longer seemed bothered by this. If he'd looked beyond the universe, he'd already realized he was a Frost Giant.

Thinking of this, Shearer asked: "When you last returned to Asgard, did Odin say anything?"

Loki shook his head—whether Odin truly said nothing, or whether Loki simply refused to speak of it, was unclear.

Soon, they passed each other. After walking away, Loki suddenly remembered something, paused, then turned back.

"Oh, by the way—remember our agreement? When you land that deal, I'll treat you to a hot spring beneath Yggdrasil."

"That deal?" Shearer blinked at the phrasing, then recalled—it referred to the contract with Death.

During their first attempt to negotiate with Death, Shearer had worked tirelessly drafting proposals and pitching them. Loki had participated and indeed promised: once the deal was done, he'd take Shearer to the hot spring.

But the problem was—the deal was never completed.

Thinking of this, Shearer grew gloomy. Loki, seeing his expression, assumed he was overworked. He walked back and patted Shearer's shoulder. "Next Saturday, the Rainbow Bridge will pick us up. Stephen's coming too. We really need to get together."

Shearer nodded, then left S. . . . . .

Thinking of the unfulfilled deal, he recalled the contract he'd almost secured. Thinking of that contract, he remembered the cruel game designer who refused compensation after a reset.

On the ride back, Shearer pulled out his phone. "How's it going? Didn't you say you'd give them a lifetime memory?"

"What? You haven't found the place yet?" Shearer said, displeased. "You call yourself the world's most professional mercenary—that's why I hired you. If you can't find it, I'll find someone else…"

"I'm not rushing, but days have passed and you've made zero progress—I can't help worrying…"

"Clues? This isn't a puzzle game. Alright, alright… Let me think—he's a supreme being, existing within the universe, capable of manifesting in countless forms, manipulating the cosmos at will…"

"What?! I'm insane? …Stop talking nonsense. I'm a psychologist myself. My mental state is perfectly normal. Jargon? Fine—if you want to call it that, go ahead."

"Alright, keep looking. I hope you find it soon. My friend's anxiety is severe—if we get good news, it might help his treatment."

After hanging up, Deadpool dejectedly slammed his phone on the bar counter and muttered: "No clues at all—how's anyone supposed to find a place like that?"

"What's wrong? Is this mission hard?" asked the bartender, familiar with him.

Deadpool took a sip of his drink. "Don't even ask. Client wants me to punish a corrupt game company. I've checked every game studio in New York and along the East Coast—no one's had any operational scandals."

He sighed sadly. "My friend got terminal cancer because of it. Only when that corrupt operator pays the price will he feel warmth in his final moments…"

"Alright, stop crying. You'll dirty the counter again. This drink's on me." The bartender shook his head as he walked away. "Poor unemployed mercenary—this is the ninth this month."

Deadpool, pretending to cry, caught the bartender's movement from the corner of his eye. He quickly snatched the drink and downed it. The harsh liquor burned down his throat, making him cough twice.

But then he genuinely grew melancholy. He slammed the glass onto the counter. "What the hell is that crazy psychologist even talking about? Cosmic supreme? Controlling the universe? Where the hell do I find a place like that?"

Muttering the terms Shearer had given him, Deadpool slowly passed out on the bar counter.

Suddenly, he found himself in an unfamiliar space.

Deadpool opened his eyes, dazed. He looked down at his glowing belt, belched, and realized he stood inside a grand temple.

Half-asleep, he assumed he was dreaming—after all, how else could he have gone from a bar straight into a temple?

With that mindset, he toured the place like a tourist: towering Roman columns, blazing candlesticks, a lavish fountain in the center—all left Deadpool marveling.

But when he turned to look out the window, he saw no grassy meadows or forests—only a starry void.

He walked over, pressed his face against the glass, flattening his features. Suddenly, his eyes widened—he realized the twinkling stars weren't planets, but countless universes, each containing all things.

This was exactly what the psychologist had described—the domain of the Cosmic Supreme.

Deadpool snapped awake—but then remembered: it was just a dream. Perhaps his desperation to complete the job had caused him to dream this.

Since his real mission might never be completed, why not enjoy the dream? He began rummaging through his pockets.

Then he recalled: in dreams, he couldn't bring in his real-life surprise. But Deadpool never backed down from small setbacks—if he couldn't bring the surprise, he'd make one on the spot.

He patted his pockets—pulled out half a raw crab cake, found several moldy peanuts in his pants, a strip of seaweed jammed in his boot, and even a few dead mosquitoes trapped in the seams of his mask.

In dreams, logic didn't matter. He thought, and began gnawing on the crab cake. He had no taste or smell—eating these things posed no difficulty.

Of course, just as before, soon after swallowing it all, Deadpool's stomach began to ache.

Seeing his plan worked, his eyes lit up. He scanned the temple.

"Let's see… floor tiles? Too plain, too slippery—unlike the engraved dwarven tiles. Smell won't last."

"Roman columns? Too tall—smell dissipates. Benches? Awkward posture. Stairs? If he steps on it, that'd be perfect—but the trap's too obvious… Oww, my stomach hurts…"

"Hey! This fountain's perfect! Size and height are ideal—made for Deadpool! Quick, quick!"

"Pulu pulu pulu… Poom poom poom poom… Pulu pulu pulu… Poom poom… Ha! Much better!"

"Ah! Wait! Why isn't it done yet? Did the crab cake rot too badly? Oww… Oww… Too late—floor tiles it is…"

"My stomach!"

"Why does it hurt so much?! B—… B—… Forget it, columns'll do… Pululu pulu… Poom poom poom…"

When the entire temple was covered in filth, Deadpool finally pulled up his pants, grinning with relief. "Finally done…"

"Wait—if I'm dreaming… am I just shitting in the bar right now?!"

"No!"

"That's my only free drink spot!"

"Hurry! Wake up! I need to clean this up before the bartender comes back!"

"!"

With a *whoosh*, his belt flashed—and Deadpool vanished from the temple.

Meanwhile, Eternal, just returning home after a long day, found his cosmic temple transformed into a mountain of excrement.