Chapter 875: Brilliant Stars (Seventeen)

Spider-Man! Go stop them! Don't let the monsters hurt New York citizens!

Gwen held Dr. Dora's body, her eyes red, and said to Spider-Man: "Go! Save them..."

Spider-Man's arms trembled, but after a brief pause, he swung down on his webbing into the battlefield between the two giant monsters.

Two nearly identical monsters, in their clash, had destroyed countless buildings; many people were trapped beneath rubble, screaming. Spider-Man moved the heavy debris off them, but due to traffic jams, ambulances couldn't get through, and the wounded couldn't be evacuated.

At that moment, sirens blared; several police cars sped down the adjacent street and stopped at the intersection where Spider-Man stood. Officers burst out, and one elderly officer with a gun waved his hand to his subordinate: "Hurry, clear the road, then go rescue people!"

Spider-Man turned back and saw, on the skyline, the two monsters chasing each other; dust clouds from collapsing buildings drifted like morning mist, dissolving in the wind.

As he hesitated—whether to plunge into the battle or stay and save lives—he saw the old officer running toward him; when the man burst through the smoke, Spider-Man recognized him: George, Gwen's father.

"Spider-Man, go ahead! There's chaos up there—you must stop them. We've got this."

Spider-Man glanced at him, then fired another webline and swung forward, until he reached the monsters' battleground—only to discover that George's "chaos" was a runaway train.

An obstacle on the tracks had disabled the braking system; the train, at full speed, hurtled straight toward the end of the street.

Pedestrians panicked, screaming as they dodged; when a red-and-blue figure landed on the train's roof, everyone shouted, "Spider-Man!"

But Spider-Man on the roof had no time to bask in the spotlight—the braking system was dead, the train kept surging forward with no sign of stopping.

If the train plowed through the building, not just the passengers but also people on the lower floors would be killed; Spider-Man knew he had to stop it.

Standing on the roof, he thought of using webbing—but if he anchored it to just one side, the train would instantly tip over. That might spare the building's occupants, but everyone inside would die; he knew that wouldn't work.

To halt the train, he needed to apply equal resistance on both sides—but he had no device capable of firing two weblines in opposite directions and connecting them; and now, there was no time to build one.

Crouching on the train's roof, Spider-Man ducked under a power line, shot a webline to the nearby building, detached from the train, and swung ahead faster than the train itself.

Pushing himself to full speed, Spider-Man soon matched the train's velocity, then overtook it, until he reached the level of the train's front.

Spider-Man leapt again, landing atop the train's cab, where the building's glass facade before him showed a dark sky and heavy, sinking clouds.

Spider-Man took several deep breaths, jumped down, and reached the outside of the cab. The engineer's eyes widened—he saw Spider-Man attach a second web-shooter to his other hand, stand on the cab's front, and raise both arms to fire webbing.

Two weblines shot out at incredible speed, like bullets, and instantly locked onto the building's wall.

Because the timing was perfect, no uneven force caused the train to tip—but the next second, as the weblines tightened, Spider-Man screamed in agony.

The junction point of the two weblines was Spider-Man's own body.

Spider-Man gripped the weblines tightly, muscles straining, forcing his strength—but he had prepared nothing; releasing that power was not easy, it was excruciating—he felt his body tearing apart.

But the good news: he felt resistance decreasing. The train was slowing—and no derailment, no rollover—soon it would stop smoothly.

The runaway train slowed to a halt. When Spider-Man released his grip, he gasped violently; it had drained over half his strength, and his arms felt numb—even the muscles in his chest burned as if on fire.

Cheers rose around him—but cut off abruptly, replaced by screams. Spider-Man looked up: the red monster landed, swung a chunk of debris, and hurled it at the green monster.

"Whoosh!" As Spider-Man swung away, pain shot from his forearm to his side, but he gritted his teeth, rescued pedestrians from the debris's path, then heard a "boom" behind him—another shop's kitchen exploded; fire spread instantly.

Flames climbed upward, nearly reaching the low-hanging clouds; thick black smoke darkened the sky further. As Spider-Man emerged from the charred shop, he heard thunder rumbling—New York was raining.

His suit was caked in soot, but he had no time to clean it; he swung up immediately and delivered a sharp side kick to the red monster's neck.

Such a strike should have been decisive—the red Hulk wasn't the real Hulk, lacking the original's immense power—but Spider-Man, nearly exhausted, kicked hard—and the red Hulk merely staggered slightly, then turned, grabbed Spider-Man's leg, and hurled him away.

Spider-Man landed on the ground; the rain grew heavier. He saw the puddle beside his head reflecting the fading glow of a streetlamp—the night was deep.

Steve's words echoed in his ears; he whispered: "Tactics... tactics..."

He rose from the ground; rain washed the grime from his suit, restoring its shine. Spider-Man leapt again, beginning his battle with the red monster.

Realizing he lacked the strength to clash head-on with the red Hulk, Spider-Man shifted tactics—now he focused on distraction and manipulation.

The green Hulk, fighting the red one, was clearly less lucid, lacking any real tactics; even with greater strength, he could only match the red Hulk evenly. But once Spider-Man entered the fray, the tide turned clear.

Spider-Man used tactics to pressure the red Hulk, forcing him to face the green Hulk's onslaught, combined with web traps and Spider-Man's agile ambushes—soon, the red Hulk was driven back step by step.

The red giant crashed to the ground. The green Hulk, in the rain, pounded his chest with both arms and roared: "Hulk!"

Spider-Man stood atop a nearby skyscraper, watching one military vehicle after another roll into the scene, their soldiers raising modern firearms—pointing at the Hulk, and at him.

This time, Spider-Man did not raise his hands, scream, or crack jokes as he usually did—he simply stood on the rooftop, looking down at the guns aimed at him.

He saw the red Hulk's body shrinking; General Ross, in military uniform, rose from the ground and shouted: "Capture the Hulk!"

"Capture that damn monster—and Spider-Man!"

"These unstable elements must be eliminated! These damn, super-strong monsters are humanity's enemies!"

Spider-Man said nothing. He stood silent in the deep shadows—the first time he had not stood with ordinary people.

This posture, looking down upon the masses, resembled the gold-and-red figure who often lingered atop Stark Tower.

The communicator on his suit buzzed—someone was calling him.

"Hello? Peter? It's raining hard—several houses on Forest Street lost power. Your uncle went out to fix them. The balcony on the roof seems to be leaking. When you come home, could you buy some tools? We need to fix it..."

"Yes, Aunt May. But I might be a while before I get back."

Standing on the rooftop, Spider-Man took a deep breath: "... still have to say goodbye to my friends."

"Oh, you're with your friends? No need to rush back—it's just small things. But if you're coming home for dinner, I'll start preparing now..."

He hung up, exhaled slowly, fired a webline, and vanished into New York's streets.

Back home, Peter wiped his soaked hair with his clothes—but as he stepped inside, he heard Aunt May scream: "Good heavens! Where have you been? Did you run home? Your hair's soaked! Come here, grab a towel..."

Peter took the towel silently, rubbed it over his head. Aunt May stood at the kitchen doorway, one hand on the frame, tilting her head toward him: "What's wrong? Did you fight with your friends? You didn't need to rush back—it's nothing serious..."

She wiped her hands on her apron and returned to the kitchen. Peter went to the balcony and saw standing water, and, due to the building's age, water seeping through cracks into his own apartment's wall.

"We should buy a standalone house," Peter said as he mixed waterproofing material. "In Midtown, on the street right next door..."

At dinner, Aunt May kept glancing at Peter, while Peter ate silently, no longer chattering about school as he used to.

After eating, Aunt May gathered her plate and said: "If you're upset, go sleep. Tomorrow, everything will be better."

Peter stopped, set down his plate, swallowed his food, and looked at Aunt May: "Aunt May, do you think I'm immature? Always seeing things too simply, always fighting alone..."

Aunt May carried her plate toward the kitchen, walking as she spoke: "Your uncle was the same when he was young. But now you've seen—he's always saying, 'A good man needs help.' But you're still young."

Sitting at the table, Peter wiped his mouth: "No. Maybe now is the right time to start."

On the balcony, Peter stared at the dark clouds over New York, the unceasing rain. He heard Shearer's words echoing in his ears.

Amid the noisy rain, his whisper vanished into the cold, damp air.

"The spider weaves a net—omnipresent, inescapable..."

"Spiders weave webs—a vast net, everywhere, from which no one can escape..."