Cohen quickly synced with the system, digging into the meaning behind the newly acquired title. The explanation appeared plainly, almost mockingly simple.
Hammer God: Gain the love and recognition of all hammers and hammer-type weapons.
He stared at it for a second, then exhaled slowly.
Case closed. The system was definitely holding a grudge against Thor.
But the real issue wasn't the sarcasm—it was the practicality. Before Odin's death, that title actually had some value. After all, it revolved around a hammer. A very specific hammer.
Which meant that right now, this so-called four-star reward was barely any better than a three-star one.
Not good enough.
Cohen made a decision on the spot. From today onward, he was going to study a thousand different ways to take down Nick Fury. That first diamond-tier reward had to reach five stars, no matter what.
With that thought locked in, he didn't hesitate any further. He stepped forward and leapt off the mountain peak.
Instead of falling, his body lifted.
He cut through the air like a wild goose, gliding smoothly as the wind rushed past his face. The sunlight warmed his back, and for a moment, everything felt effortless.
Flying was… incredible.
The land stretched endlessly beneath him, mountains and plains unfolding like a living map. From this height, the world looked small, distant, almost insignificant.
A surge of pride rose in his chest, unbidden but undeniable. He was thousands of feet above the ground, while everyone else remained stuck below in the dust.
That difference alone was enough to stir something deep inside him.
…
Russia.
Inside a rundown apartment building, the walls were cracked, the paint peeling, and the air carried the faint scent of dampness and neglect. Cohen stood outside one of the doors, dressed sharply in a tailored suit, his posture calm but deliberate.
Today wasn't about destruction.
Today was recruitment.
He knocked.
The sound echoed dully against the worn wood, flakes of old paint drifting down with each tap. For a long moment, there was no response.
He knocked again, patient but firm.
Eventually, the door creaked open.
A large man stood there, unshaven and reeking faintly of alcohol. His eyes were sharp despite the mess of his appearance, scanning Cohen like a scavenger sizing up prey.
"Who are you looking for?" he asked bluntly.
Cohen smiled politely. "Hello, my name is Cohen Wang—"
"I don't buy insurance. Get lost."
The door slammed shut.
The smile froze on Cohen's face. He looked down at his suit, adjusting the lapel slightly, annoyance flickering across his expression.
Seriously? Did he look like a salesman?
He took a breath, then knocked again.
The door swung open almost instantly this time, irritation clear on the man's face. "I said go away. Try the door across the hall. Don't make me say it again."
He started to close the door.
Cohen's hand shot out and caught it.
"Ivan Vanko," he said calmly, his tone dropping just enough to carry weight. "If you close that door again, I'll shove your head so far up your own ass you'll forget what daylight looks like."
The shift was immediate.
Ivan's expression twisted with anger, his body tensing as if ready to strike. But then he noticed something.
Cohen's hand.
It wasn't just holding the door.
It was embedded in it.
The wood—old, hardened ash—had splintered under his grip, fingers sunk deep into the surface like it was soft clay.
Ivan inhaled sharply.
That wasn't normal.
That wasn't even close.
Cohen withdrew his hand slowly, the damaged wood creaking as it released him. His smile returned, easy and relaxed.
"Take it easy," he said. "Who told you I sell insurance? You've got a serious stereotype problem. I could just as easily be in real estate."
Without waiting for permission, he stepped inside.
The apartment was cramped, cluttered with scattered tools, scrap parts, and worn furniture. A small television flickered weakly in one corner, while a simple camp bed sat against the wall.
On it lay an old man, thin and pale, his gray hair matted against his head.
"Who are you?" Ivan snapped, following him in. "You're trespassing. Leave now or I call the police."
"Shut up."
Cohen's voice cut through the room like a blade.
For a brief second, something flashed across his face—something cold, predatory. Ivan felt it immediately, a chill crawling up his spine. The words he was about to say died in his throat.
The old man stirred, eyes opening slowly.
Cohen walked over and sat beside the bed, looking down at him.
"Anton Vanko," he said bluntly. "You still alive, or what? If you're breathing, say something."
Compared to his son, Anton was composed. His gaze was steady, even if his body wasn't.
"Who are you," he asked quietly, "and what do you want?"
Cohen leaned back slightly. "Name's Cohen Wang. I came here to give you an opportunity."
"What kind of opportunity?"
"A chance to get even with Howard Stark."
Anton's eyes flickered. For a moment, he actually laughed—dry, broken. Then it turned into coughing, harsh and uncontrollable.
"He's… dead," Anton rasped.
Cohen smiled faintly. "There's a saying where I'm from. A son pays his father's debts."
The laughter stopped.
Anton studied him carefully now, his gaze sharpening despite his weakened state. "Who are you?"
Cohen raised a finger.
A faint red glow ignited at the tip, electricity crackling softly around it like a contained storm.
"I'm King Cohen."
Silence settled over the room.
Anton's expression shifted—shock, realization, then something heavier. He took a slow breath, his shoulders sagging.
"I don't have much time left," he said quietly. "If you're serious… take my son. He's a genius. Better than I ever was."
His voice softened slightly.
"He shouldn't die in a place like this. Take him away. Give him a future."
Cohen glanced back at Ivan, whose expression had completely changed.
Fear. Uncertainty. A flicker of something else.
He smiled.
"You're not dying," Cohen said casually. "Not unless Death's already signed your name. And even then, I might still have a say."
He stood up.
"I want both of you."
…
In a cave somewhere far away, Tony Stark looked like hell.
His face was smeared with soot, exhaustion etched into every line. Over the past few days, the terrorists holding him had grown increasingly frantic. Something had them on edge, pushing them harder, faster.
They drove him relentlessly, forcing him to accelerate his work.
Finally, after days of near-constant strain, the suit was complete.
Hidden from the camera's view, Ethan helped him piece it together, locking each segment into place with careful precision.
Footsteps echoed outside.
"Ethan! Stark! Where are you? Don't hide!"
Neither of them answered.
The guard outside grew impatient. The lock rattled, then—
Boom.
The acetylene tank placed behind the door detonated, blasting the entrance open.
Inside, Ethan moved quickly, activating the system. The power-up sequence began, the progress bar inching forward on the screen.
Outside, shouting grew louder.
Time was running out.
Ethan adjusted his glasses, voice steady despite everything. "We don't have enough time. We need more."
He turned to Stark.
"I'll buy it."
Stark's eyes widened. "Stick to the plan! Don't—"
Too late.
Ethan had already grabbed a rifle and rushed out.
"Ethan!"
The progress bar crawled forward.
Almost there.
Almost—
Several terrorists burst inside, weapons raised. In the dim light, they didn't notice the armored figure in the shadows.
Then the system came online.
Power surged through Stark's body, the suit activating fully. His anger ignited instantly, burning through exhaustion and fear alike.
He stepped forward.
One strike sent a man flying. Another shattered a rifle mid-swing.
But something felt wrong.
If they were already inside—
Then Ethan…
Rage exploded.
Everything came flooding back. The attack. The helplessness. The humiliation. The constant pressure.
Kill.
Kill them all.
His movements grew more violent, more brutal. He advanced step by step, each strike fueled by everything he'd endured.
Then—
A voice.
"Hey, Stark. Long time no see."
He froze.
That voice.
The figure he'd been thinking about for days stood right in front of him, waving casually.
"Relax," Cohen said with a grin. "You're saved. I already took care of the terrorists. You're free."
Stark stared at him.
For a second, nothing registered.
Then something inside him snapped.
It was like building tension for days—only for it to collapse at the exact wrong moment. Like everything was ready to explode, only to be cut off just before release.
The frustration was unbearable.
It had nowhere to go.
Half an hour later.
Ethan stared at the aftermath, his expression completely blank.
"Stark… he actually… dismembered them… that's… excessive."
Cohen waved it off. "It's fine. Pretty standard, honestly."
He paused briefly, then added with a straight face, "He just cut them up neatly and burned the pieces. Nothing unusual."
Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Cohen smiled faintly, but a thought crossed his mind.
That hallucinogen Jiu Zhu had given him back then…
Did she mention side effects?
He clicked his tongue softly.
He couldn't remember.
Maybe it was nothing.
Still, when Stark got back home, it might be worth introducing him to a good psychiatrist.
....
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