American comic book: Absolute Spider-Man

He realized at a very young age that he was different from others.

It wasn't because he was smarter or stronger, but because while other children were chasing and playing, he would stand at the edge of the playground, look up at the sky, and ponder questions that had no answers.

"What's up there?"

"What's at the very top?"

"And above that?"

He wanted to know where the boundaries were. He wanted to know what lay at the end of all rules.

He began his search when he was a teenager.

I didn't practice at home; I actually went out to find practice.

He heard that there was an old man in the deep mountains who could hit people from a distance, so he took a 20-hour train ride and walked for two days to find the legendary "Taoist temple".

The old man charged him three hundred yuan and taught him a breathing method, saying that after three years of practice he would be able to feel the "qi".

He practiced for three years. And got nothing.

He then heard that there was a person in a certain province who could "communicate with spirits," so he spent all the pocket money he had saved for a year and took a train for a day and a night to get there.

The man told him to close his eyes, burned a pile of paper in front of him, muttered incantations, and then said, "Something is following you; we need to perform a ritual to drive it away."

He asked, "What is it?"

The man said, "I cannot say; heavenly secrets cannot be revealed."

He said, "How am I supposed to know you're not lying to me if you don't tell me?"

The man was silent for a moment, then said, "You're not sincere. Go back."

He didn't go back; he called the police.

It was only later that I learned that the "psychic master" had defrauded hundreds of people, involving millions of yuan.

He searched many places, from the black mountains and white waters to the ends of the earth, trying everything: Qigong, magic, talismans, spiritual practices, Tantra, yoga.

They're all scammers.

Some are scammers, some genuinely believe in their own ideas, but none of them are real.

He stood at the entrance of a dilapidated bus station in a certain city, clutching only a few dozen yuan in change in his hand, and suddenly felt particularly ridiculous.

What is he looking for?

He was looking for something that didn't exist.

At the age of twenty, he almost gave up.

He sat on the floor of his rented room, looking at the walls covered with notes and training plans—contradictory “techniques” he had learned from various “masters”—and felt that it was all meaningless.

"There is no such thing as being extraordinary," he told himself. "I am just an ordinary person, and always will be."

My mother pushed the door open and came in.

She didn't ask anything, she just sat beside him and quietly stayed with him for a long time.

Then she said something.

"When you do something beyond the ordinary, you are extraordinary in yourself."

He was stunned.

His mother smiled and patted his head: "You're already on your way, silly child."

He didn't sleep a wink that night.

It wasn't because he was confused, but because he suddenly realized—he didn't need to seek the extraordinary.

The extraordinary lies not elsewhere, but in the act of "transcending" itself.

If you can't become a god, then become someone more powerful than everyone else.

From that day on, he stopped searching.

He started walking.

He chose the most direct path.

Physical skills, combat, and cold weapons—but he was no longer satisfied with the "sports-oriented" training in the dojo; he wanted real, life-or-death techniques.

So he joined the army.

The military is a magical place.

It breaks a group of people down and then reshapes them into the same mold, with the vast majority being molded into qualified parts.

But he didn't.

He seeks his limits in every training session and then pushes them.

He added another five kilometers to the five-kilometer cross-country run, exceeding everyone else's limits.

In shooting training, he explored more than a dozen non-standard, but more lethal, shooting methods beyond the prescribed movements.

In combat training, he never followed the rules and his moves were never limited to what the instructors taught him. Every time, he was the one who stood to the end.

In the all-army skills competition, he left the second-place finisher far ahead in every event.

Shooting, hand-to-hand combat, cross-country running, wilderness survival, tactical simulation—first place in all events.

Overall, it ranked first among the three armed forces.

People started looking at him with a look he couldn't understand.

It's not respect, not admiration, but something somewhere between awe and fear.

He experienced the feeling of "overtaking" for the first time, a feeling that filled him with ecstasy and made him unable to stop.

……

When he received the news of his parents' death, he was overseas on a mission that could not be written down.

He didn't cry, and he didn't even seem very sad.

He just felt that the last two threads holding him together in this world had snapped.

Humanity collapses, and divinity rises from the ruins.

He abandoned his original name and gave himself a new one—Yahweh.

In Hebrew, this is a sacred name that cannot be spoken directly, meaning "I AM Eternal".

It wasn't arrogance, but rather his declaration to the world.

After being discharged from the military, he illegally crossed the border and spent three years building a mercenary group in one of the most chaotic corners of the world.

He named it "Heaven".

It wasn't because of faith, but because in his plan, this team would be his angels—victorious, absolutely loyal, and able to clear all obstacles for him.

He recruited from all over the world those who were abandoned, desperate, but still had fire in their eyes.

He trained them, fed them, armed them, and gave them goals.

He demanded their absolute loyalty and trust in him.

“Follow me,” he told them, “and you will become extraordinary beings.”

They did not let him down.

The name of Heavenly Kingdom quickly spread within the circle. Not the largest mercenary group, but definitely the most capable. They took on the most dangerous missions, went to the most chaotic places, and killed the most difficult people to kill.

He was always at the forefront of every mission.

It wasn't because he was brave. It was because he needed to prove—that he was still the strongest person in heaven.

He wanted everyone to know that he was insurmountable.

……

The mercenary group was just the first step.

He began to plot. Legal means, illegal means, and shady means—he used them all.

He acquired key nodes in the industry chain through shell companies; he infiltrated local government decision-making levels through his network of connections; he manipulated internal divisions within competitors through intelligence; and he eliminated those obstacles that could not be bribed through assassination.

What he wanted was to be above all power.

It took him ten years to do it.

The Kingdom of Heaven is no longer a mercenary group; it is a shadow—parasitic in every crack of the global power structure.

Outside of the inner circle of the Heavenly Kingdom Organization, no one knew of its existence, no one knew its size, and no one knew who its leader was.

He stood in the command center of the nuclear bunker, looking at the screens covering the walls, at the world he controlled, influenced, and dominated.

"This is the extraordinary," he said to himself.

……

They are coming.

It's not a single country, but the remaining parts of the government—those that haven't been infiltrated by him and are still resisting.

They labeled him a "terrorist".

The world's elite special forces have gathered together, with only one goal—him.

He was hiding in an underground nuclear bunker 300 meters deep, where the concrete and rock layers were strong enough to withstand a nuclear bomb.

An independent life support system is sufficient to sustain 100 people for 50 years.

They destroyed the air purification system, blew up the escape routes, and released poison gas.

"Yahweh." An unfamiliar voice came through the communication channel, "Your escape routes have all been cut off. Get out, or die in there."

He looked at his brothers behind him. Those who had followed him for decades, those who had fought their way out of a sea of ​​blood together.

"Come with me," he said.

They fought their way out.

The soldiers of the International Brigades were like paper in front of them, not because the soldiers were too weak, but because the Kingdom of Heaven was too strong.

Decades of war, decades of killing, decades of living on the brink of death—they are no longer human; they are the most efficient killing machines in the world.

One, then another, and yet another.

These world's most elite soldiers suffered heavy casualties; their bodies littered the passageways, and blood flowed like rivers, but they did not retreat.

The soldiers were still resisting, but their lines of defense had been torn apart.

The remaining soldiers huddled behind the last cover, their bullets almost gone, and there were hardly any men left.

He was only fifty meters from the exit.

As long as he breaks through, as long as he gets to the ground, as long as he disappears into the night—he wins.

Then he stopped.

Because the other side stopped firing.

It wasn't surrender, it wasn't a rout, it was giving up resistance.

The soldiers he had killed, who were left with only a few breaths, threw away their weapons.

Because their mission was accomplished.

They never came to kill him; they just came to force him out from underground.

In Chinese chess, this move is called sacrificing a piece to draw away an opponent's position.

They were fierce soldiers who had crossed the river, necessary sacrifices; without them, this army would not have survived.

Now, they are about to leave the central palace; their mission is complete.

They threw away their weapons.

The gunfire stopped, but the smoke still lingered, and the passageway was filled with the smells of blood and gunpowder.

Then--

A voice rang out.

Hoarse, off-key, squeezed out from deep in the throat.

They were not singing the national anthem of any country, nor the military song of any army.

"Arise, ye prisoners of hunger and cold! Arise, ye wretched of the earth!"

The second person joined, then the third person, and everyone who was still alive joined.

"My blood is boiling; I must fight for the truth!"

They come from different countries, speak different languages, and have different beliefs.

Just a few hours ago, they might have been "foreigners" in each other's eyes.

But now, they sing the same song.

"There has never been a savior, nor any god or emperor!"

He stood there, listening to the song.

The song was both poignant and unrestrained, expressing both reluctance to part with life and a sense of liberation upon fulfilling its mission.

He understood the emotions in the song, so he knew that he had ultimately lost.

He recalled a young man from many years ago, standing at the entrance of a dilapidated bus station, clutching only a few dozen yuan in change, feeling utterly ridiculous.

What is he looking for?

He was looking for something that didn't exist.

Later he found another path, which he thought led to the extraordinary.

He thought being extraordinary meant being above all living beings, and he thought becoming a "god" was the answer.

"To create human happiness, we must rely entirely on ourselves!"

He thought of his mother.

It wasn't when she passed away, but much earlier, on that night when she sat beside him, stroked his head, and said something that took him a lifetime to truly understand.

"When you do something beyond the ordinary, that in itself is extraordinary."

He thought that "surpassing" meant being above everyone else, standing above all others, and becoming that unshakeable, unique "god".

He understands now.

That's not what my mother meant.

"This is the final struggle. Let us unite for tomorrow, and the Internationale will surely be realized!"

He threw away his weapon.

It wasn't because he lost, but because he suddenly realized that the "extraordinary" he had been searching for his whole life was never at the end of the road.

Behind him.

In that dilapidated rented room, on a night when he had given up on everything and felt like he was nothing.

In my mother's words.

In the moment when all ordinary people stand together and sing the same song.

He stepped out of the bunker that was about to be filled with poison gas.

……

The night breeze felt a little cool on my face.

The remaining soldiers watched him emerge; they no longer had the strength to raise their guns. They simply lay on the ground, leaning against the wall, singing that song.

"You sang very well," he said.

Then the light came.

It wasn't the flash of a gun muzzle, but a light that surged from the horizon and engulfed everything.

There was no pain, no sound, only light.

At the end of the light, he saw his mother.

His mother smiled at him. Just like many years ago, on that afternoon when she sat beside him and told him, "You're already on your way."

"Mom," he said, "I've reached the top."

There's nothing on it.

The mother didn't speak, she just stretched out her hand.

He extended his hand.

The light swallowed everything.

……

he died.

He doesn't regret it because the concept of regret is simply not in his vocabulary.

He chose the path, and he reached its end; he got what he wanted—albeit only for a fleeting moment, and he ultimately died at the end of the road.

But so what?

At least he left, at least he made it.

How many people in the world never dare to take the first step in their entire lives?

He took the first step; he finished the journey.

This is enough.

In the light of the nuclear explosion, everything disappeared.

Including Yahweh.

Including his name, his ambition, everything about him.

But one thing has not disappeared.

At the end of the light, there was a child standing at the edge of the playground, looking up at the sky.

"What's up there?"

"What's at the very top?"

"And above that?"

No one answered him.

But he asked.

This is enough.

……

Peter woke up from his sleep and smelled the delicious aroma of Aunt May's lovingly prepared breakfast.

He's very hungry now, so he'll tear apart the food lying on the restaurant table like a hyena.

As he enjoyed his meal, Peter couldn't help but exclaim: Ah, another beautiful day.

It's been a week since Connors became Dr. Lizard, and he still hasn't shown up, so let's put that aside for now.

After we finished eating, a loudspeaker blared at the entrance.

Harry picked him up in Peter's Maybach.

Peter got into the car and greeted Harry and Ned. Then Harry stepped on the gas and drove towards Stacy's house to pick up Gwen and then go to Midtown High School.

The day was almost the same as usual, but after class today, Peter had something very important to do—go on a date with Gwen and confess his feelings to her.

Peter had already planned out the date in his mind.

First stop: George Washington Bridge.

He would go straight there after school, before sunset. There weren't many people on the bridge at that time, perfect for a stroll, for holding hands, for doing all the things he had only ever dared to dream about before.

Moreover, that's where Gwen died in the comics.

In the comics, Green Goblin imprisons Gwen Stacy on top of a bridge tower to lure Spider-Man there. While Spider-Man and Green Goblin are locked in a fierce battle, Green Goblin throws Gwen Stacy off the tower.

Although Spider-Man's web wrapped around Gwen's ankle, the momentum of her fall broke her cervical spine, causing her to die on the spot.

As for now, even if Norman really becomes the Green Goblin, if he dares to provoke Gwen, Spider-Woman will let him know what it means to have high damage from the left fist and high damage from the right fist. She will shatter the Green Goblin's soul with three punches. Gwen, I am Osborn.

Second stop, Junoon.

He made a reservation in advance at a Michelin-starred Indian restaurant in the Ironing area. The environment was quiet, the lighting was dim, and the dishes were exquisite.

Gwen had never eaten at this restaurant, nor had he.

But that guy from Yawei ate it, and from what I remember, it tasted pretty good.

Indian food, once it leaves India and isn't made by Indians, suddenly transforms from being bacteria-ridden to being clean and hygienic.

Of course, if you're not from India and dare to eat food prepared by locals in that land, then you'll have to wait and see what it's like to have your stomach attacked by excessive E. coli.

The third stop was Times Square.

We weren't going to see the neon lights, we were going to play the claw machine.

Spider-Woman plush toys have appeared in the claw machines in Times Square, and Peter plans to grab one from among the Avengers.

The fourth stop was the Rockefeller Center observation deck.

This is the point.

The Empire State Building was too tacky, the lines were too long, and—he was reluctant to admit it—the place always reminded him of some less-than-ideal parts of certain Spider-Man stories.

Rockefeller had a better view, and Peter had already booked the entire venue in advance, so the two of them could spend some quiet time together.

He mentally retraced the route to make sure he hadn't missed anything.