Begin from the original form of torture and become immortal

Chapter 1784 Rumlow

Jormungandr features many supervillains, including Tony's uncle Obadiah "Iron Monger," the Hulk's adversary Bronsky "Abomination," and "Big Boss" Dr. Samuel Stern.

But this is not enough.

A classic rival to Hydra is about to be born!

"Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes..."

The name lingered on his tongue for a moment, a complex light flashing deep in his eyes.

That brainwashed warrior, who possessed the deepest bond with Captain Rogers, was the perfect prototype to create Captain America's archenemy.

"Transform him into something like the Hulk?"

The tempting idea flashed through Chang Wei's mind—a berserk giant with the Winter Soldier's combat skills and ruthless efficiency, an ultimate weapon that had been brainwashed, twisted, and transformed into the very image that Captain Rogers vehemently desired.

"No, Bucky Barnes... He's the trump card, the last trump card, and now is not the best time for him to play."

Chang Wei's eyes turned cold and calculating again. "Fate, or rather, I, am currently in the deep sea, preparing an 'unexpected' gift for our great captain. A new opponent born in despair..."

His gaze locked onto Rumlow's face, contorted with fear. "Brock Rumlow... Captain of the S.H.I.E.L.D. special operations team, 'Crossbones'."

Chang Wei's lips curled up again, this time with a cruel expectation.

"You possess unwavering will, exceptional combat instincts, a deep-seated aversion to Captain Rogers' hypocritical moral code, and... an ambition that craves power. More importantly, you are currently in that abyss that breeds destruction and rebirth, on the very edge of the stage that Captain Rogers is risking his life to protect. The perfect position, the perfect catalyst."

Chang Wei leaned forward slightly, his eyes flashing with a fanatical light that was almost like that of a creator.

"Then, this opportunity is yours, Rumlow. Let me see what kind of... fangs you can forge in the furnace of death."

Rumlow's world is nothing but coldness, darkness, and boundless despair.

Tony Stark's gold and red Mark armor was once his only lifeline. That metallic hand, gleaming with the light of its thrusters, was once only inches away from him.

The hope of survival seemed within reach. He could even imagine being pulled into the warm armor, listening to Stark's signature, irritating yet strangely reassuring chatter, and then safely returning to the surface.

However, the deep sea is a cruel and capricious god.

A sudden, extremely violent deep-sea current, like an invisible giant's fist, slammed into the space between Stark's armor and Rumlow's escape pod.

The immense difference in power became immediately apparent. Stark's armor only shook violently, its thrusters blazing even brighter in an attempt to stabilize itself. But for Rumlow's flimsy, already battered escape pod, it was undoubtedly a fatal blow!
"Do not--!"

Rumlow's screams turned into silent bubbles of despair in the cramped cabin. He felt like a leaf caught in a hurricane, instantly swept away by the overwhelming undercurrent!

The cold alloy shell scraped violently against the rocks or metal debris, producing a terrifying, ear-piercing noise. Tony Stark's outstretched metal hand, in his dilated pupils, instantly became an unreachable point of light before being completely swallowed by the churning, murky seawater and the endless darkness.

"Damn it! Rumlow!"

Tony's anxious shouts came through the communicator, but the signal was interrupted by severe interference, buzzing like a dying mosquito, and finally disappeared completely. The golden-red light had vanished completely.

Darkness. Utter darkness. Only the faint, flickering, eerie green light from the emergency lights inside the escape pod illuminated Rumlow's face, contorted and deathly pale with extreme fear and oxygen deprivation.

He was like a living corpse trapped in a metal coffin. The bulkhead emitted a teeth-grinding, continuous "creak...creak..." sound, as if the immense power of the deep sea was slowly and steadily kneading this metal cage.

The immense water pressure seeped in through the deformed cracks, emitting a sharp hiss, and the icy touch felt like the fingertips of death slicing across his skin.

"Ugh..." Each deformation of the cabin was accompanied by a suffocating feeling of the internal air being compressed wildly, squeezing his lungs as if trying to force his ribs into his internal organs.

The instrument panel had long since malfunctioned, the cracked screen flashing meaningless gibberish. The temperature was plummeting, thick frost forming on the bulkhead, and the biting cold seeped through his combat suit, freezing his blood and marrow.

Despair, like icy seawater, instantly overwhelmed him. It was colder and heavier than the physical seawater outside.

"It's over..."

The thought struck Brock Rumlow's consciousness like a massive hammer blow, cold, heavy, and with a sense of finality that could crush everything.

Through his clouded vision, images from his life flashed back wildly: the stench of blood on the muddy battlefield seemed to fill his nostrils once more; the glaring reflection of the S.H.I.E.L.D. badge in the sunlight; the countless cold nights in the Hydra's darkrooms, climbing the ladder of power, paving the way with the bones of others...

He is "Crossbones," he is Brock Rumlow, a character who fought his way out of hell through sheer strength and extraordinary ruthlessness!
He had imagined countless endings—perhaps falling to the gun of a powerful nemesis, perhaps being assassinated by a traitor during Hydra's world-conquering celebration, or even being thrown into a dark, sunless dungeon after a defeat... but it should never be like this!

So frustrating, so utterly worthless!
He had infiltrated this damned base, buried 1,500 meters deep in the ocean trench, thinking it was the key to Hydra's rise and a springboard for him to seize greater power.

But what happened in reality? They stumbled right from the start because of that playboy Tony Stark!

That madman, under the absurd guise of "hygiene and safety" and "mental health," subjected him to repeated torture like a lab rat—mandatory neurological scans, invasive bodily fluid analysis, suffocating isolation and observation… Precious time was wasted in pointless examinations.

Stark's flippant yet precise methods of torture made Rumlow feel not like a warrior, but like a specimen waiting to be dissected on an anvil.

After enduring countless hardships until the order to act was finally given, he sprang forth like a lurking viper.

However, fate once again showed its malice.

Before he could even touch any core secrets, or even break the neck of a key figure, the entire base began to collapse under unimaginable terrifying force.

(End of this chapter)