"What... what is this magic?" Norman Osborn, hovering precariously on his glider, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning breeze. He squinted through his amber-tinted visor, his mind racing. One second, he was about to turn those pesky police officers into Swiss cheese; the next, his high-velocity rounds were acting like they'd hit a brick wall made of invisible syrup.
He didn't have an answer. In his drug-addled, serum-enhanced state, logic was a slippery thing. He scanned the rooftops, looking for a hidden magnetic generator or a Stark-tech interference array. He didn't realize that the "interference" was simply the casual will of a man standing half a block away.
Huang Wen, still leaning against his car near the library entrance, had barely moved a muscle. To the average observer, he was just a handsome guy waiting for his girlfriend. In reality, his Divine Power—honed through countless battles and system rewards—was vibrating at a frequency that made Magneto look like an amateur playing with refrigerator magnets. If Magneto was a master of the violin, Huang Wen was the entire symphony orchestra, the conductor, and the architect of the concert hall itself.
Inside the library lobby, Belle paused, her arms cradling a stack of thick hardcovers. She wasn't just a pretty face; her own burgeoning mental powers picked up the jagged, static-like energy radiating from the man in the sky.
"Wen, is that... him?" she whispered, joining him at the glass doors. "He feels like a caged animal. There's no rhythm to his mind, just static and rage."
"Yeah, he took the wrong shortcut to power," Huang Wen replied, his voice low and rhythmic. "That's Norman Osborn. He tried to play God with a chemistry set and ended up with a demon in his head. But don't worry about him. Look up there—our 'interns' have arrived."
He gestured toward the skyline where two figures were currently perched on a stone ledge.
"Shouldn't you help them?" Belle asked, her brow furrowing with concern. "That armor looks heavy-duty."
"Nah, let them have their fun," Huang Wen chuckled. "Liang needs the live-fire practice, and Peter... well, Peter needs to learn that being a hero isn't just about the thrill. Besides, Liang already knows I'm covering the 'oops' moments."
High above the street, Huang Liang felt the vibration of his smartwatch. A brief, encrypted message from his Master blinked on the screen: [I'm at the library with Belle. Go nuts. I've got the safety net.]
Huang Liang felt a surge of adrenaline. He looked at the frozen bullets hanging in the air like a macabre art installation. "Master's really showing off today," he muttered under his mask.
Beside him, Peter Parker was practically vibrating. "Dude! Did you see that? The bullets! They just... stopped! Is that your Master? That is so cool. I need to learn how to do that. Do I need to sit in a waterfall for ten years? Because I can totally do three weekends if the WiFi is good."
"Focus, Peter," Huang Liang sighed, though a small smile tugged at his lips.
The two of them leaped from the ledge simultaneously. Peter went into a classic, stomach-flipping dive, while Huang Liang used a more controlled, tactical descent, his hand snapping a web-line to a streetlamp to break his fall. They landed softly on the asphalt, positioned right between the trembling police officers and the hovering Green Goblin.
The cops stared. They'd seen Iron Man. They'd heard rumors of a "Spider-Man" in Queens. But now there were two of them? One in the classic suit, and another in a black mask and a T-shirt that looked like it was bought at a convention.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Osborn snarled, his glider dipping lower, the engines growling. "Did Hammer send more circus performers to die?"
Peter took a step forward, his voice cracking slightly with excitement before he deepened it into what he thought was a "heroic" register. "Who are we? We're the answer to your mid-life crisis, Gobby! You're way too old to be playing with gliders and wearing lime green spandex. It's a fashion disaster!"
Huang Liang cringed. Here it comes, he thought.
"We are the Spider-Man Duo!" Peter shouted, striking a dramatic pose that involved far too much finger-pointing. "Your friendly neighborhood protectors! We're here to sweep the streets and take out the trash!"
He nudged Huang Liang with his elbow. "Your turn, Kung Fu Spider. We practiced this."
Huang Liang felt the heat rising to his face. He thanked every god in the heavens that he was wearing a mask. He glanced toward the library, knowing his Master was likely recording this for future blackmail material.
"Yes..." Huang Liang started, his voice flat and filled with a profound sense of regret. "We are the... good neighbors of New York. Don't make us tell you twice."
Back at the library, Huang Wen actually gasped, a hand flying to his forehead. "Oh, god. The cringe is physical. I can feel it in my bones."
Belle was giggling, hiding her face behind a book. "Is that your star pupil, Wen? 'The good neighbors of New York'? It sounds like they're starting a homeowners' association, not a superhero team."
"I didn't teach him that!" Huang Wen hissed, his ears turning red. "That's all Peter. Peter is a bad influence. I'm going to have to double Liang's meditation hours just to scrub that dialogue out of his brain. My reputation is in tatters, Belle. Tatters!"
"I think it's cute," Belle teased, nudging him. "They're teenagers. Let them have their catchphrases."
Outside, the "catchphrases" had effectively pushed Norman Osborn over the edge. The Green Goblin wasn't exactly known for his patience or his appreciation for witty banter.
"Neighborhood protectors? Trash?" Osborn's laughter turned into a jagged shriek. "I am the future of warfare! I am the pinnacle of human evolution! I'll tear those masks off your rotting corpses!"
He didn't go for the guns this time. He'd seen what happened to the bullets. Instead, he slammed a lever on his control console. Clack-clack.
Two heavy-duty pneumatic launchers under the glider's wings fired. But instead of projectiles, two high-tension steel grappling hooks shot out, trailing reinforced cables.
Osborn had learned his lesson after a brief, embarrassing skirmish with Ivan Vanko and Justin Hammer's drones. He realized that against agile opponents, spray-and-pray tactics were useless if they could just dodge. He needed to bring them into his "kill zone"—the range where his eight-fold human strength could snap bones like dry twigs.
"Come here, little bugs!" Osborn yelled as the hooks hissed through the air.
In Osborn's mind, this was a foolproof plan. He would snag them, reel them in, and use the momentum of the glider to smash them into the side of a building or simply crush their windpipes with his bare hands. It was a strategy built on the assumption that his targets were just "fast humans."
But Peter Parker wasn't human; he was a mutate with the proportional strength of a spider and a sixth sense that screamed 'Left!' before the hook even left the launcher. Peter did a mid-air backflip, the steel claw whistling inches past his chest.
And Huang Liang? Huang Liang was a martial arts prodigy trained by a man who could slap a god.
As the second hook streaked toward him, Huang Liang didn't dodge. He planted his feet in a perfect Wing Chun stance, his eyes tracking the cold steel. Just as the hook was about to latch onto his shoulder, his hand shot out like a viper. Using a "Seeking Bridge" technique, he didn't grab the hook—he redirected its momentum.
With a subtle twist of his waist and a burst of internal force, Huang Liang slapped the side of the flying hook, sending it spinning wildly.
"Is that all you've got, Gobby?" Peter yelled, now clinging to the side of a bus. "My grandma has better aim with her knitting needles!"
The crowd below, previously terrified, began to murmur. The police officers lowered their guns slightly, watching the "Spider-Duo" dance around the high-tech villain with an ease that was almost insulting.
"You... you arrogant brats!" Osborn screamed, his face contorting behind the mask. He veered the glider sharply, trying to use the cables to whip the hooks back around like flails.