MARVEL: BUYING GODHOOD

Barely fifteen minutes had passed before the satellite phone rang again.

I glanced at the screen before answering the call.

“It’s done.”

Helen’s calm voice came through the speaker before the line went dead.

She hadn’t even waited for me to reply.

I looked at the phone for a moment before shaking my head with a small smile.

She really did know how I worked.

If she’d already called, it meant the money was ready.

There was no point wasting either of our time with unnecessary conversation.

More importantly, I still couldn’t believe she’d managed to arrange a billion-dollar credit facility in barely fifteen minutes.

Just how many powerful connections had she built over the past two years?

The thought lingered for only a second before I pushed it aside.

There would be plenty of time to think about it later.

Right now…

It was time to go shopping.

With a single thought, I transferred the billion dollars into the System.

The balance updated almost instantly, and without hesitating, I purchased the Magicule Body.

I’d just spent another billion dollars as casually as if it were a few thousand.

A few months ago, that thought alone would’ve kept me awake for weeks.

Now, I barely had time to acknowledge it before the purchase completed.

Warmth spread throughout my body.

It wasn’t painful.

Instead, it felt as though warm air was flowing through every muscle, every bone, and every vein.

My body suddenly became sluggish, and a wave of exhaustion crashed over me so heavily that it felt like I hadn’t slept in ten days.

Even lifting a finger seemed exhausting.

The sensation lasted only a few seconds before disappearing completely.

When it ended, the exhaustion vanished as though it had never existed in the first place.

My mind felt clearer than before, and although nothing about my appearance had changed, I instinctively knew something inside me had.

Diablo watched quietly before giving a respectful nod.

“Congratulations, Lord. You have unlocked the ability to use magic.”

I simply nodded in return.

“Stop the car.”

Without asking why, Diablo pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road.

Once it came to a complete stop, I turned toward him.

“Teach me.”

“As you command.”

Diablo spoke without hesitation.

“The curse itself is relatively simple. Gather your Magicules into a condensed sphere and place it inside the target’s body. For ordinary humans, I recommend positioning it near the heart, brain, or lungs. Once activated, the curse will destroy the surrounding organs and kill the target within approximately three seconds.”

I considered the explanation before asking, “Will it work on everyone?”

Diablo slowly shook his head.

“No, Lord. This version is only effective against ordinary humans. Superhumans possess bodies far beyond normal limits, and many of them also possess magical resistance or supernatural vitality. Eliminating them would require a far stronger curse and considerably more Magicules. However, there is no need to concern yourself with that yet.”

I nodded.

“For now, ordinary humans are enough.”

There was no point preparing for Kryptonians or Asgardians when my current problems involved businessmen, mercenaries, corrupt officials, and criminals.

“How many Magicules does casting the curse require, and how much does it take to maintain it?”

“There is no fixed cost,” Diablo answered.

“A curse is easier to weave into a willing mind. Those who trust you, fear you, or have already accepted your authority offer little resistance, requiring only a small amount of Magicules. The stronger their will to reject you, the more expensive both the casting and the upkeep become.”

I silently considered the implications.

My Magicule Body generated one hundred Magicules every hour, while my maximum storage capacity was one hundred thousand.

There was no way to calculate exactly how many people I could curse.

The cost depended on the target.

Someone who trusted me completely—or feared me enough not to resist—would require only a fraction of the Magicules needed for a defiant enemy.

The same applied to maintaining the curse.

The less resistance it faced, the less energy it consumed.

For my own people, the cost would be almost negligible.

That was all I needed.

A curse that grew more efficient alongside loyalty and fear was far more useful than one with a fixed price.

I looked out the windshield as a faint smile spread across my face.

“Alright.”

There was no reason to delay any longer.

“Let’s go meet our guest.”

By the time we reached the abandoned airstrip, nearly two hours had passed.

Most of the drive had been spent in silence, giving me plenty of time to think and practice.

Ironically, the thing occupying my mind wasn’t the interrogation waiting ahead but something far more ordinary.

Would I make it home in time?

I had promised Gwen and Helen I’d be back, and despite everything that had happened today, I intended to keep that promise if possible.

The car eventually rolled to a stop in front of an old aircraft hangar.

Diablo stepped out first and opened the door for me before leading the way across the cracked concrete.

Years of neglect had turned the once-busy airstrip into little more than rusting metal, broken windows, and weeds growing through the runway.

It was exactly the kind of place where nobody asked questions.

Reaching the entrance, Diablo pulled open one of the massive hangar doors.

The interior was dimly lit, with sunlight filtering through holes in the roof.

In the center of the warehouse, five men sat tied securely to metal chairs, their hands and feet restrained while cloth gags prevented them from speaking.

Around them stood twenty of Diablo’s men, positioned in a loose circle with rifles in hand.

The moment I stepped inside, every one of them straightened their posture.

“My Lord.”

I acknowledged them with a slight nod before shifting my attention toward the prisoners.

Borzoff’s POV

The instructions we’d received had been simple.

Whoever arrived with Sir Diablo would become our true master.

Naturally, I’d expected someone older.

A businessman, a politician, perhaps even another Russian.

Instead, a teenager walked into the hangar.

Recognition came almost immediately.

Chris Sterling.

If I remembered correctly, he was the sole heir to Sterling Mining after his parents’ deaths.

So that was why Sir Diablo had ordered us to gather every piece of information we could find on the Sterling family.

Chris’s gaze swept across the five prisoners before stopping on the man seated in the center.

“Gideon Malick.”

It wasn’t a question.

Chris slowly walked over until he stood directly in front of him.

“My first question is simple,” he said calmly.

“How do you know mutants exist?”

Malick remained completely silent.

Chris waited patiently, giving him every opportunity to answer.

Nearly ten seconds passed without a single word.

Finally, he glanced toward Sir Diablo.

No instructions were needed.

Sir Diablo stepped toward one of the four guards sitting beside Malick.

The terrified man immediately began struggling against the ropes, but it was useless.

Diablo grabbed his hand, spread one finger across the cracked concrete floor, and without the slightest hesitation brought his boot crashing down.

A sharp crack echoed through the hangar.

The guard let out a bloodcurdling scream as his finger was crushed beneath the heel.

Diablo looked at Malick, not the screaming guard.

“This is your warning,” he said in the same calm voice he always used.

“The next one won’t be so fortunate.”

The guard continued screaming, tears streaming down his face as he writhed against the restraints.

Several of the other prisoners lowered their heads, unable to bear the sight.

Malick didn’t even blink.

He simply stared straight ahead as though nothing had happened.

The silence that followed lasted nearly half a minute.

Chris sighed.

“I was hoping that would save us both some time.”

He walked forward until he stood directly in front of Malick before slowly crouching down.

His expression remained completely calm, but there was a trace of irritation in his eyes now.

“You know,” he said quietly, “people always think they have a higher pain tolerance than they actually do.”

Before anyone realized what he intended to do, Chris bent down, picked up the same bloodstained stone lying beside the guard, and took hold of Malick’s left hand.

Only then did Malick finally react.

He struggled violently against the ropes, trying to pull his hand away, but the restraints held him firmly in place.

Chris calmly pressed one of Malick’s fingers against the concrete floor.

For a brief moment, the entire hangar fell silent.

Then the stone came down.

Instead of the sickening crunch everyone had been expecting, a sharp crack echoed through the hangar.

Malick’s finger didn’t shatter beneath the impact; it came off cleanly.

For a brief second, the severed finger spun through the air before landing several feet away, blood splattering across the cracked concrete floor.

The smooth cut looked less like the result of a stone and more as though an impossibly sharp blade had sliced straight through the bone.

The entire warehouse fell silent.

Even my men froze.

Malick stared blankly at his hand, his mind unable to process what had just happened.

The severed finger lay several feet away, blood pouring freely from the cleanly cut stump.

Then the pain caught up with him.

A deafening scream echoed throughout the hangar, causing several of the bound guards to flinch instinctively.

Chris, however, paid the scream little attention.

His eyes remained fixed on the bloodstained stone resting in his hand.

For the briefest moment, genuine surprise crossed his face before he let the stone fall.

It struck the concrete with a dull thud before rolling to a stop.

“So…” he murmured, almost to himself.

“It seems I’m stronger than I anticipated.”

He crouched in front of Malick once more.

“I guess it’s time to confirm my theory.”

Before Malick could react, Chris grabbed his jaw and forced his mouth open.

Ignoring the muffled cries, he reached inside and, one by one, pulled out all four of Malick’s third molars.

Blood dripped onto the floor as Chris examined one of the teeth between his fingers.

A faint smile appeared on his face.

“Artificial molars.”

He tossed the tooth aside.

“So I was right.”

Chris looked directly into Malick’s eyes.

“From the beginning, I suspected you belonged to an intelligence agency. The problem is that S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t fit. I’m simply not important enough for them to station an agent around my family’s company, and if they had uncovered everything that’s happened over the past few days, they would’ve raided this place hours ago.”

His gaze briefly shifted to the artificial molars scattered across the floor.

“Hydra is different. Their agents operate in isolated cells and can’t report every unusual event without risking exposure.” His gaze shifted to the artificial molars scattered across the floor.

“And these confirmed it.”

Chris met Malick’s eyes.

“You’re Hydra.”