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Marvel MK: CH 139 – The Eve of the Tournament
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 13:43:21 +0000 UTCTime on Peng Lai flowed like a gentle, misty river. The quiet months of training and preparation had passed, and now, with the tournament just two months away, the island was a hive of festive, purposeful activity. It was July.
The women of the island were weaving intricate, colorful tapestries, their threads shimmering with a soft, magical light, ready to adorn the city for the coming convergence. The men were clearing the vast plains, preparing the grand arena where the open tournament would clash. In the highest chambers of the Cobra temple, the elders were gathered around a massive, celestial map, their voices a low, serious murmur as they planned for the impossible: the merging of the Seven Capital Cities of Heaven. This event, which happened only once every eighty-eight years, was not just a tournament; it was a sacred, cosmic alignment.
"Decorating is useless," one of the oldest elders grumbled, his voice a dry, papery rustle. "The other cities will merge with our own. The landscape will be unrecognizable."
"It is a grand event," the youngest elder countered, his voice full of a youthful, zealous fire. "And we should treat it as such! It is a matter of pride!"
While these old geezers bickered, Jack Hou was engaged in a far more important task: entertaining children. He stood in the middle of a bustling marketplace, his body a fluid, shifting canvas of transformation. He turned his head into that of a roaring tiger, his arms into the powerful wings of an eagle. He was not training for battle; he was putting on a show.
He then saw a young boy, no older than five, stubbornly kicking a large, ceramic jar of pickled vegetables, much to the distress of his mother.
"Don't kick it!" the mother scolded. "You will lose your leg if you do it again!"
Jack, as if on cue, saw his opening. He walked toward the child, and with a subtle, shimmering ripple, one of his legs transformed into a short, wooden stump. He hobbled over, a look of profound, tragic sadness on his face.
"I used to like kicking jars like that, too," he said, his voice a wistful, mournful sigh.
The child looked at Jack's stubby, wooden foot. His eyes went wide. A horrified scream escaped his lips, and he ran crying to his mother, apologizing profusely for his jar-kicking transgressions.
Jack, his good deed for the day done, was already gone. He transformed into a white dove and flew away, a silent, feathered agent of chaotic discipline.
As he soared over the island, he saw him. Zhu Pang She was on the plains, training, his massive form a blur of speed and power as he moved amongst the giant pigs.
Jack, still in his dove form, had a brilliant, terrible idea.
He flew down, landing behind a small hill, and with another shimmer, he transformed. He was now a pig. A giant, black-bristled pig, indistinguishable from the others.
'Kekekeke,' he thought to himself, his mind a swirl of unholy glee. 'I bet he will be crying when he is defeated by a pig. Kekekeke.'
Pig Jack then began to walk calmly and purposefully toward the unsuspecting Fat Cobra.
…
The clone in the vast, sun-drenched snow desert of Russia snapped awake. He hadn't been sleeping. He had been thinking. For two months, he had sat motionless in the snow, his mind a spiraling, chaotic vortex of a single, unsolvable question: How could he, a monkey, hibernate? The thought had consumed him, twisting into a philosophical pretzel that had completely detached him from time.
He closed his eyes, reaching out into the shared mindscape. "How long has it been?"
The chorus of voices that answered was a mixture of shock and profound annoyance. "What the fuck is wrong with you? It's been another two months! You've just been sitting there!"
The Russian clone's internal monologue was a flat, detached thing. "I don't know. It seems I'm… losing a grip."
"Just dissipate for now," another clone's voice advised, a rare note of concern in its tone. "You're done looking at the Russian solar desert, right?"
The clone opened his eyes, looking out at the endless, blinding white. "Well, I guess. It only snows here."
"Goodbye, then."
And with that, the clone's form wavered, losing its cohesion. He dissolved not into smoke, but into a cascade of long, black strands of hair that were instantly caught by the wind and scattered across the Siberian snows.
…
Meanwhile, the other clones around the world were beginning to feel something.
A clone meditating in the Amazon felt eyes on him from the high canopy, but when he looked, there was only the silent, watchful gaze of a jaguar. Another clone, perched atop the Great Pyramid of Giza, felt a prickling on the back of his neck, a cold spot in the blistering sun. He turned, but saw only the endless, empty desert.
At Machu Picchu, two clones tried to debunk the feeling. They stood back-to-back, guarding each other. Yet, the feeling remained. It was as if something was standing directly behind the other, a perfect, unseen shadow in their blind spot.
In the penthouse of the God Tree, J, the clone who had stayed with Natalie Beckman, rubbed the back of his neck. The feeling was stronger here. More focused. He felt two distinct figures standing directly behind him.
He spun around.
Natalie stood there, a warm, loving smile on her face, holding two cups of coffee. She was alone.
J let out a long, shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her hair. But even as he held her, the feeling persisted. A cold, alien presence at his back.
"Nat," he whispered, his voice muffled. "Can you see something behind me?"
Natalie, ever practical, didn't question the strange request. "Pick me up a bit."
He was much taller than her. He gently lifted her up so she could see over his broad shoulders. She looked out at the sprawling, peaceful cityscape of the Golden Peach, the sun glinting off the windows of the God Tree, the streets below moving with a calm, purposeful energy. She let out a soft, relaxed exhale.
"Yes," she said, her voice a warm, gentle thing against his ear. "It's a beautiful city. It's so peaceful." She leaned her head against his. "Enjoy it. You did all that, you know."
He let her down, and she walked toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. J followed, and Natalie wrapped her hand around his arm, leaning against him as they looked out at the city they had built together. J smiled, a genuine, loving expression on his face.
But his eyes, unseen by her, were still trying to look back. Because the feeling never went away.
…
The walk home from the office was different now. Alexander Aaron—or as she now thought of herself, Phoebe—moved through the bustling Tokyo streets with a quiet confidence she had never known. She wore her salaryman suit like a uniform, but on the inside of her left forearm, hidden beneath the crisp white cuff of her shirt, was a small, elegant tattoo of a sword—a private, permanent reminder of the life that had been torn away and the new one that had been gifted to her.
She had been promoted last week.
It all traced back to the day she woke up. After the battle with Amatsu, after being a vessel for a primordial god, she had woken up in a sterile, white hospital room. Strangely, while in the coma, she had a dream. She was standing on a vast, endless plain of shallow, mirror-like water. Her reflection was not her own, but that of a small, lonely child.
Then, a brilliant light had descended from the sky. It was a woman made of pure, living fire. Phoebe could see her figure beneath the flames, a form of impossible beauty, yet there was something achingly familiar about her.
"Rest well, child," the being's voice had echoed, not in her ears, but in her soul. "You were brave, resisting the voice of Amatsu at your last moment. For that, I grant you a blessing upon this land. Your journey under the sun will put that blessing upon you."
Before she could ask more, Phoebe woke up. She looked around the hospital room, then out the window. Cherry blossoms were in bloom. It was spring. She had missed Christmas.
But by her bedside, there was a neatly wrapped present. On it was a note, written in a messy, chaotic scrawl.
———
To my daring and brave Phoebe,
Yes, you can use that name now. Believe it or not, I created a cockroach clone to see the written curse that was put upon you by your dead-beat father. Long story short, I got it, and with the help of Hermes, I erased it. So use that name from now on.
Your favourite monkey, J.H.
———
Phoebe had started to cry, a wave of profound, soul-deep relief washing over her. A nurse, seeing the comatose patient had woken up, had rushed in, calling for a doctor. As the nurse checked her vitals, Phoebe opened the box. Inside was a small, soft plushie of a monkey holding a tiny golden staff. Tucked beside it was another note.
———
I got the hospital bills covered, so enjoy your stay. I already told the staff to bring you some good food, so enjoy.
J.H.
———
Now, months later, that same monkey plushie sat on her desk at home. Phoebe smiled at it. Her life had been turned upside down, and true to the fiery goddess's words, when the sun was hitting her, she seemed to be blessed.
The first time she realized it was during a job interview. She had been a nervous wreck. As the candidates were called, she ended up being the last one to enter the room. The only seat left was the one directly in the path of a bright, warm sunbeam pouring through the window. The other candidates had clearly avoided it, not wanting the heat and the glare to add to the pressure. But as Phoebe sat down, the warmth of the sun on her skin didn't make her sweat; it calmed her. Her mind, which had been a frantic mess of anxiety, became clear and focused. She had nailed the interview.
Now, in her new job, her cubicle was right beside a window. Her work was phenomenal.
She took a shower, then brought the monkey plushie with her to the kitchen as she cooked, setting it on the counter. She ate her dinner with it sitting on the chair opposite her, and then she watched a movie on her laptop with the plushie propped up on the pillow beside her, until, finally, she fell asleep, a quiet, peaceful smile on her face.
…
In K'un-Zi, the city of the Crane, the air was as sharp and cold as the snowy peaks that surrounded it. Here, there was no joy, no festive preparation. There was only the quiet, ruthless pursuit of power.
The Crane Mother, her face a mask of ancient, unyielding ambition, watched as her Crane Daughters, their forms ethereal and graceful, offered themselves to her champion. Davos, the Steel Serpent, sat cross-legged in the center of the training hall, his expression one of cold, focused hunger. One by one, he absorbed their chi, their life force, a river of pure, mystical energy flowing into him, feeding the serpent that coiled around his soul.
The Crane Mother smiled. He was the perfect weapon. The first son of Lei-Kung the Thunderer, a master of the Iron Fist technique of K'un-Lun. He had been so close, a candidate for the Iron Fist itself. But there had been one obstacle he could not overcome: Wendell Rand-K'ai, the son of Yu-Ti.
Defeated, shamed, but unyielding, Davos had defied the elders. He had challenged the dragon Shou-Lao in his cavern and, despite his loss, had gained a sliver of the Iron Fist's power, the dragon's mark a permanent, burning scar across his left eye. Banished from K'un-Lun, he had met his demise on Earth, a broken, forgotten warrior.
But the Crane Mother had sensed his undying ambition, his bottomless well of resentment. She had picked up his body, revived him, and given him a new purpose. In exchange for his life, he had become the champion of K'un-Zi.
Now, as Davos sat, cultivating the stolen chi of her daughters, his power growing with every passing moment, the Crane Mother's smile widened.
"Yes, my child," she whispered, her voice a cold, sharp thing. "The tournament is two months away. Make sure you kill the Iron Fist." A slow, cruel laugh escaped her lips. "From what I have heard, this era's Iron Fist is Danny Rand. The son of Wendell Rand."
She looked out at the frozen peaks, her eyes burning with a hatred that was centuries old.
"Ahahaha, Orson Randall's ward's son. Just you wait, old man. I will make sure your grandson's death is a painful one. Hahahaha."
…
In the sacred, timeless city of K'un-Lun, the air in the training courtyard was still and heavy with concentration. Danny Rand moved through his forms, his fist glowing with the golden, otherworldly light of the Iron Fist. Beside him, Lei-Kung the Thunderer stood like a statue, his ancient eyes locked on every move, his expression a mask of stern, unwavering focus. And with every move, he saw a flaw.
"I have already manifested my chi, Master," Danny said, his voice a frustrated gasp as he finished a complex sequence. "Surely the stance is not that important in the face of chi manifestation."
Lei-Kung did not answer with words. "Attack me," he commanded.
Danny, eager to prove his point, gathered his chi. His fist became a golden comet as he punched, a blow that could shatter steel. But Lei-Kung, without a single flicker of his own chi, simply moved. He dodged the punch with an effortless, fluid motion, his hand a blur as he parried, not the fist, but the chi itself, redirecting its flow. He then slammed Danny to the courtyard floor, the young Iron Fist landing with a surprised grunt.
"That is your chi," Lei-Kung said, his voice calm and even, "in front of one who has mastered their technique."
Danny groaned. "Oww."
Lei-Kung walked to a low stone table, poured two cups of tea, and sat. "Come," he said. "Rest for a bit."
Danny walked over, taking the cup of tea with a wince. "Master," he said after a long, thoughtful sip, "should I even join the tournament? It hasn't even been a year since I manifested my chi."
"No," Lei-Kung interjected, his voice firm. "You must. You never knew this, but your grandfather, Orson Randall, once forfeited his spot in the tournament. I cannot say more than that, but I will warn you: he made a powerful enemy of the ruler of K'un-Zi, the Crane Mother. I do not want K'un-Lun to have another enemy among the Holy Cities."
Danny looked down at his own reflection in the still, dark surface of his tea. "But my technique… it's about ninety-five percent there, right?"
A rare, faint smile touched Lei-Kung's lips. "Go back," he said simply. "We start over."
"Whaaaattt?!" Danny exclaimed, his exhaustion and frustration finally boiling over. "But I… I just…"
Lei-Kung just looked at him, his gaze unwavering, his silence a more potent command than any shout. Danny shut his mouth, holding back his protests. He stood, bowed to his master, and began his training all over again, his movements now a little sharper, a little more focused, as he worked late into the night.
