Chapter 873: Brilliant Stars (15)

Peter returned to Stark Tower again; in the hallway, he called Coulson, but Coulson didn't answer, so he called Steve, and Steve's voice came through, sad and exhausted:

"Peter, I know you can't believe it—that's why Stark didn't want to tell you, for fear of hurting you—but I just saw the body…"

Steve's voice began to tremble. "Maybe you don't know, but Nick's long life depends on a special serum—it's different from my Super Soldier Serum. It doesn't grant super strength or regenerative abilities. Peter, Nick isn't like us—he's not a Super Soldier. He's just an ordinary man."

"A sniper bullet pierced his chest, shattering his heart. I saw the gaping hole in his chest, the fragments of his heart…" Steve's sorrowful tone made Peter have no choice but to believe him.

He knew Captain America wouldn't lie, wouldn't deliberately deceive him—and before, when he'd dealt with Nick Fury, his spider-sense had told him the man posed no threat.

That meant Nick Fury might be the King of Spies, but his physical condition wasn't much beyond that of an ordinary human—a single sniper bullet was enough to kill him.

Then Schiller's voice came through the phone: "Peter, don't overthink it. Go back to the lab. It'll be fine in a few days. We'll tell you when the funeral is."

"I told you they wouldn't let this go! I warned Nick not to go alone—but he insisted. You sided with him back then, and now look!" Stark's voice echoed in the background, equally angry and grief-stricken:

"Steve Rogers, you've lost another comrade! Now who are you going to blame? The world?"

"I told you long ago things wouldn't turn out as optimistically as you hoped. You all just sit there smiling like fools, while those people—the schemers—they're always ready to kill us, anytime, anywhere!"

"Enough, Tony. This isn't Steve's fault." Schiller's voice cut in; since he was close to the mic, Peter heard him clearly: "We did overlook the fact that they'd dare target Nick…"

"And there aren't many assassins who can strike inside Congress and escape cleanly—they're a veteran. And the one who hired him…" Schiller sighed faintly. "Before, the tension between S. . . . . . and the military was so sharp—we couldn't even convince anyone it wasn't the military."

Steve's voice rose again: "I'll go talk to them. I have to talk to them!"

"That's your reaction to this?" Stark's sarcasm returned. "Your old comrade just died right in front of you, and your response is to go talk to them? To negotiate with those traitors to humanity? Is that what you want?!"

"Alright, stop arguing. Let's figure out another solution…"

Peter's grip on his phone tightened until it cracked—before he heard the rest, the phone shattered in his hand with a sharp "crack."

As the shards fell to the floor, a mechanical arm landed beside Peter's feet, picked up the fragments, and tossed them into the trash. Peter turned—JARVIS placed a hand on his shoulder.

The mechanical mask's eyes flickered. Peter's voice trembled as he asked, "JARVIS, why did they do this?"

JARVIS shook his head gently; the sound of grinding mechanical parts was harsh. Peter closed his eyes, turned his head away in the dim hallway, and clenched his fist helplessly. "Every time I think things are getting better, something like this happens. I thought humanity had finally united. I thought we could work together. Was I just naive?"

The towering robot crouched down, its glowing eyes fixed on Peter. Through the flickering light, Peter slowly remembered something Nick Fury had once said to him during a conversation at S. . . . . .

"Peter, you must understand—we must seize this opportunity, this best moment. It might be humanity's only chance to reach the stars." Nick looked Peter in the eye. "We need more talent. It's not shameful—it's humanity's dream. No matter which universe they're from, all human beings think this way…"

Nick's eyes glowed with an unusual light. From his tone, Peter heard a sincerity utterly unlike his usual demeanor. "We don't have much time. We need more people to work toward this, don't we?"

"Director Fury, every research project follows a methodical process. Even if we sent ten thousand people to Mercury Base right now and laid all the foundations, we still have to wait for the construction components to be developed." Peter adjusted his glasses. "Science can't be rushed. Pushing for results too fast leads to mistakes—and the losses will be greater."

Nick took a deep breath. "Peter, I understand you. You're a researcher—you're naturally cautious. But you might need to try understanding the current situation…"

"What's wrong with the current situation? Isn't it fine?" Peter shrugged. "Everything's proceeding orderly. Whether it's national space tech development or Mercury Base research—just the other day, Dr. Dora told me another project was completed with excellent results."

Peter looked at Nick. "Director, you might be getting impatient. But if we keep developing steadily like this, humanity will eventually step into space, wander among the stars."

Nick walked back to his desk and sat down. "Peter, as a child of this new era, you might not know that humanity has come this close to this great goal before."

"In that era you don't know, we did even more. In that age of explosive progress in basic science, all of humanity dreamed of breaking free from Earth's gravity, soaring freely through the cosmos."

"Perhaps you've seen in museums those rusted rockets and toy space models—they weren't exceptions."

"I was born into a simple farming family in Alabama. The only toy I ever had was a little rocket you could launch by pressing a spring."

"It was simple—press the base, and it would shoot up a little. It didn't fly high, and the quality was poor. After a few launches, the paint peeled off completely."

Nick picked up his pen, mimicked a rocket launch, then let it drop onto the desk. "Like this. Pathetic, right? But back then, it was an incredible toy. My favorite."

"Later, I joined the military. During WWII, shrapnel from a grenade took one of my eyes—and I was injected with a serum that gave me a long life."

"During the Cold War, I served in the CIA. My main adversary then was the Soviet Union."

Nick leaned back in his chair, his single eye fixed on the ceiling. "You might find it hard to believe, but though they were my enemies, my own colleagues and department members believed half of humanity's future rested on them—and the KGB felt the same about us."

"We had to prove we were stronger than them—but we also admitted they were strong. You might not believe it, but much of the intelligence we gathered was used to praise the Soviets. Sounds unbelievable, right? Today you only see smear campaigns—but back then, it wasn't like that…"

"When their rockets launched successfully, we marveled, acknowledged their lead, then went to our own space department and assured them we weren't far behind."

"So today you launch a rocket, tomorrow I test equipment. In that peak of technological advancement, we used methods modern people can't imagine to launch devices that now seem primitive—and we cheered, proud of what we'd done."

"That was the closest humanity had ever come to the stars in tens of thousands of years."

Peter stared at Nick, stunned. He'd never imagined this S. . . . . . director—who always used slick, manipulative words to convince him to recruit labor from other universes—had this side to him.

He felt, at this moment, Nick resembled Steve. People of their generation always carried an astonishing vitality, unlike this era, worn down by apathy and punk cynicism. Back then, they held an unspoken conviction.

But Peter knew—their technology was nothing compared to today's Solar System development program. Now, they could effortlessly send equipment to Mercury and assemble it. No era in human history had achieved such feats.

Standing in the hallway, Peter admitted he'd once looked down on Nick's mindset.

He thought progress only moved forward, never backward. Technologically, it had advanced—humanity had steadily moved ahead. Why cling to nostalgia?

But now Peter understood what Nick was mourning. His point wasn't about how much scrap metal had been launched into space back then.

It was that Nick Fury, a native-born American, a soldier raised on American ideals, a top CIA agent, still longed for the era when the Soviet Union still existed.

That was almost unthinkable. It wasn't one great power dominating and brainwashing another—it was the collision of two great powers. Yet what he'd seen wasn't nationalist hatred. He'd seen the brilliance of human stars.

Peter suddenly understood what Nick was anxious about. In this moment, he realized he shouldn't have underestimated the wisdom of one who lived so long—the longer you live, the clearer you see human nature.

And he, Peter, had clung to illusions. He recalled: had he truly never grasped the essence of human nature? Perhaps not—he'd simply used technological progress as an escape from certain truths.

Now, the gunshot in Congress told him: escape is useless. Don't cling to empty illusions. No matter how strong your armor, no matter how sturdy your chest, it won't stop a bullet from the shadows—shattering your heart.

He put on his suit, adjusted his mask, stood before the window. Spider-Man paused, turned to JARVIS. JARVIS waved at him—like a farewell.

Spider-Man leapt out, swinging through the cold wind above New York. On the rooftop of Stark Tower, he let out a silent roar.

Dark clouds obscured the sky; the moon no longer shone bright. In New York, black clouds pressed down on the city.

Dark clouds obscured the sky, the moonlight no longer bright; in New York City now, black clouds loomed over the city.