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Marvel MK: CH 121 – The God of Messengers
🕑 Added 2025-07-16 14:37:27 +0000 UTCOn the highest peak of Mount Olympus, the air was thick with smug satisfaction. Zeus, King of the Gods, lounged on his throne of storm clouds, a wide, triumphant grin on his face as he gazed into the shimmering surface of a Divine Scrying Pool. The pool showed the chaos in Japan, the struggle of the Sorcerer Supreme, and the rise of a new, unpredictable power. For the first time in centuries, the world was interesting again.
Several other Greek gods were scattered around the hall, sipping nectar and eating ambrosia, enjoying the divine drama. But Hermes, the God of Messengers, sat still, a forced, uncomfortable smile on his face. He knew Jack Hou. He had seen the man’s chaotic spirit up close, had been slapped by the reality of his freedom. Jack wasn't just a player in a cosmic game; he was the one flipping the board over.
Hermes took a long drink of nectar, the sweet liquid doing nothing to soothe the unease coiling in his gut. He thought of the Alfar, his found family, now caught in the crossfire of a war they didn't start. It was Thor’s pride that had ignited the conflict with the Jotuns, and now every realm under Asgard’s banner was being dragged into the fight.
Hermes had been secretly funneling supplies and aid to the Alfar, a risky move behind both Zeus’s and Odin’s backs. But they were his family now. And they, in turn, were fiercely loyal to the strange, chaotic god who had saved their tradition. They still spoke of him, still crafted him gifts. They had even made him a new protection ring when he turned into marble, saying he would come back and would need it more than ever.
He couldn’t act now, not in front of his father. He could only watch, and wait.
He took another sip of nectar and glanced at his older brother, Ares, who was sharpening a spear with a grim satisfaction, clearly enjoying the distant spectacle of battle.
“Isn’t Alexander your daughter?” Hermes asked, his voice casual, almost bored. “Why did Father say the catalyst stemmed from a mortal, when she’s clearly not?”
Ares’s hand froze. He turned his head slowly, his eyes burning with a cold, divine fury. “I have no such daughter,” he snarled.
"Oh?" Hermes pressed, a slight, mocking smile on his lips. "Then why do you still maintain the curse you placed on her? Seems like a lot of effort for someone who doesn't exist."
Ares' knuckles went white on the shaft of his spear. He was about to rise when a sharp, silent glare from across the hall stopped him cold. Hera. The Queen of the Gods didn't need to speak. Her look was enough to remind Ares not to start a fight while his father was in such a pleased, gloating mood.
Hermes scoffed internally. ‘Hah. Think yourself so far above me, do you? You can't even freely slice my neck without your mommy's permission.’
The word echoed in his mind. ‘Freely.’
A sudden, jarring thought struck him. Am I free? I can run from Mount Olympus to Hades without breaking a sweat, but have I ever run there on my own will? It was always under the pretext of being the messenger, delivering a command, fulfilling a duty. He was the fastest of the gods, yet he was always on a leash.
It struck him then, the vast, cavernous difference between him and Jack Hou. Jack was free. Truly, absolutely, unapologetically free.
The nectar suddenly felt cloying, the ambrosia sickening. Hermes stood up.
Zeus's gaze flickered from the Scrying Pool, his good mood momentarily interrupted by his son's sudden movement. He was enjoying the show, watching Yao struggle with the immense burden of being Sorcerer Supreme, a burden Zeus himself had orchestrated. "Where are you going, Hermes?" he asked, a hint of annoyance in his tone.
Hermes turned, his face a perfect mask of filial duty. "I'm going to see Mother," he lied smoothly.
Zeus waved a dismissive hand. "Alright then."
Hermes kept walking, his steps even and unhurried until he was out of the throne room. But unknown to the gods he left behind, he was not going to see Maia. He was going to help Jack. He was going to repay a debt. ‘I do this for the Alfar,’ he thought, a new, defiant fire in his heart. ‘And for myself.’
…
The sky over Westchester tore open with a sound like ripping silk.
Zephyr, Jack’s loyal cloud, was no longer a gentle, drifting puff of white. It was a strained, desperate blur, its blue scarf flapping like a tattered flag in a hurricane as it screamed through the atmosphere at a speed it was never designed to handle. On its back, Jack Hou was a bloody comet, his black hanbok ripped and stained, his hair a wild, tangled mess. He could feel the exhaustion in his bones, the drain from the battle with Amatsu, and the frantic energy he had pushed into his cloud.
'Gotta get Zephyr a gift after this,' Jack thought, his mind a chaotic whirl. 'Maybe a tiny, angry thundercloud to chase. He'd like that.' But the thought was fleeting. They had to get back to Japan. Hopefully, Zephyr could handle the return trip.
He pushed that thought to the back of his mind as the X-Mansion came into view. He didn’t aim for the lawn. He aimed for the front door.
CRASH!
The grand oak doors of the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters exploded inward in a shower of splinters and twisted metal. Jack landed in the foyer, his disheveled state a stark, bloody contrast to the mansion’s pristine, polished interior.
Before the dust had even settled, a familiar sound cut through the air.
SNIKT.
Logan stood at the top of the grand staircase, his claws extended, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. “What are you doing here, bub?” he growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble.
Just then, the smooth hum of a wheelchair announced the arrival of the mansion’s master. Professor Xavier rolled in from the living room, his calm facade cracking as he took in the sight of Jack, soaked in blood and looking like he’d just wrestled a demon.
“Jack,” Xavier said, his voice laced with shock. “What happened to you?”
Jack looked down at his blood-soaked robes as if noticing them for the first time. “Oh, this blood?” he said with a cheerful, dismissive wave. “Don’t worry. It’s my blood.”
From the side, Scott Summers, who had rushed in with the others, stared at him, his face a perfect picture of disbelief. “Why would you say ‘don’t worry’ if it’s your blood?!”
Jack ignored him completely. His golden eyes, sharp and intense, locked onto Xavier. “Where is Jean?” he asked, his voice suddenly devoid of its usual manic energy. “I need to talk to her.”
The name hung in the air, heavy and charged. The entire room went still. Logan’s growl deepened. The easy camaraderie of the X-Men vanished, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension.
Jack saw it instantly. He saw the flicker of guilt in Xavier’s eyes, the pained look on Scott’s face, the protective anger radiating from the others.
He muttered, his voice a low, dangerous whisper that cut through the silence like a blade. “What did you do to Jean?” His golden eyes narrowed, burning with a cold, terrifying light.
“You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?”
…
Meanwhile, a streak of golden light tore through the heavens, a god running toward Earth. It was Hermes. He used his divine energy to search for the chaotic, unmistakable presence of Jack Hou. He found him. In New York. At a place called the Xavier Mansion.
With a final burst of speed, he dashed toward his destination, a messenger on a mission of his own making.
…
Jack kicked the medbay door open with a force that suggested he was expecting to fight a demon, not interrupt a check-up. He stood there, his blood-soaked hanbok a stark, dramatic contrast to the sterile white room, his face a perfect mask of cold fury.
Inside, Jean Grey was sitting on a medical bed, holding her upper arm, her face scrunched up, tears welling in her eyes. Beside her, Moira MacTaggert was just dabbing the spot with a cotton ball. The rest of the X-Men, who had followed him down the hall, peered in behind him, their faces still etched with grim, funereal concern.
Jack’s golden eyes narrowed, sweeping over the scene. He saw Jean’s discomfort. He saw the team’s tense, guilty faces. And his mind, fresh from battling a primordial chaos god, leaped to the most extreme, and to him, most logical conclusion.
“What did you do to her?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that made the instruments in the room hum. “Are you locking her up? Experimenting on her? Trying to suppress the Phoenix again?”
He took a step into the room, his killing intent a palpable, suffocating wave. The team flinched. Logan’s hand twitched toward his belt. Moira and Jean just stared at him, completely baffled.
“And that’s done,” Moira said finally, her voice calm as she applied a small cotton ball to Jean’s arm. “See? It didn’t hurt that much, right?”
Jack froze. His murderous aura vanished in an instant, replaced by a look of profound, utter disbelief. “…What?”
“It’s just my annual flu shot,” Jean sniffled, rubbing her arm. “I hate needles.”
Jack stared. He looked at Jean’s arm. He looked at the tiny cotton ball. He looked at the grim, funereal faces of the X-Men. Then he threw his hands up in exasperation. “Haaahhh, I can’t with all of you! You’re all standing around here looking like you just sentenced a primordial god to eternal damnation, and it’s just a flu shot?!”
He walked directly toward Jean, ignoring the still-tense team. “I need to talk to you,” he said, his tone shifting, becoming serious again. “In private.”
Moira, ever the professional, nodded and was about to walk out.
“No need,” Jack said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’ll be faster if I’m inside you.”
Jean’s face, which had been pale with confusion, instantly flushed a deep, burning crimson.
Jack groaned, running a hand down his face. “Not again,” he muttered to himself. He looked back at Jean, his expression one of pure, unadulterated annoyance. “I mean inside your soul! Your mind! Why does everyone always take it the wrong way?!”
Jean, still blushing, simply nodded, too embarrassed to speak.
Jack placed one hand on her forehead and the other on her neck, his touch surprisingly gentle.
…
The world inside Jean Grey’s mind had changed. The desolate, fractured void Jack had first entered was gone. In its place was a scene of quiet, pastoral beauty.
He stood on a dirt path surrounded by rolling green hills and fields of wildflowers. A gentle, warm sun hung in a sky of perfect, cloudless blue. In the distance, a simple, two-story farmhouse stood, its white paint slightly peeling, a tire swing hanging from a large oak tree in the front yard. It smelled of freshly cut grass and childhood summers.
Jack’s connection with her Qi, his guidance during the Phoenix battle, had given her the control she needed to not just mend her soulscape, but to build it into something that was truly hers.
“A farmhouse?” Jack said, his voice cutting through the serene silence.
Jean, who was standing beside him, her form solid and real in this mental space, pouted slightly. “It might not be as cool as your majestic mountain, but it’s my childhood home. The one I grew up in.”
“Ahh,” Jack said with a nod. “So, have you had a talk with the fire chicken yet?”
Jean’s face fell. She looked toward the horizon, where a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of red could be seen. “Not often,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “I try here and there, but she just… ignores me. And conversing with her feels weird. I can feel what she feels. She’s… lonely. But she doesn’t want to hear me at all.”
Jack reached out and softly patted her on the head, a surprisingly gentle gesture. “It’s okay,” he said. “The fire chicken is like that. She’s sealed, and thoroughly this time. She can’t even peer into your vision anymore, so this is her new tactic: making you empathize with her, making you feel sorry for her so you’ll let your guard down.”
He then started walking toward the distant red shimmer. Jean followed. They walked in silence for a while, the path taking them over a small, grassy hill. And there, in a valley below, was the prison.
Ten massive, crimson torii gates stood in a perfect circle, their ancient wood glowing with a power that seemed to hum. At the center, a figure of pure, cosmic fire was bound by chains of golden light, her form faint and flickering. The Phoenix Force.
“Well, well, well,” Jack said, his voice dripping with mock cheerfulness. “We meet again, fire chicken.”
The Phoenix’s head snapped up, her fiery eyes blazing with a weak but still potent hatred. “You… chaos incarnate… unnatural monkey,” she hissed, her voice a faint, crackling whisper. “How was it, turning to stone? Do you want your friends, everything you care about, to turn into one, too?”
Jack threw his head back and laughed. “Kekekeke! Sorry to break it to you, but I turned into marble. Get your facts straight.” He grinned, his eyes twinkling with malice. “And don’t even think that I don’t know your plan. Manipulating Jean with your cosmic loneliness? Tsk tsk. Very cliché.” He leaned forward. “Anyway, I’ve come here to offer you a deal.”
The Phoenix was about to retort, to spit another cosmic curse, but Jack cut her off.
“Ah, ah!” he said, wagging a finger. “Don’t even say you refuse. I know you’re lonely. I know you’re starving. You can’t even feed yourself from Jean’s hate anymore.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “So here’s the deal. I’ll unseal one of the torii gates. Just one. Enough for you to see the world through Jean’s eyes again. But there’s a catch.”
He leaned in closer, his grin turning sharp and predatory. “At least if I open one gate, you can still feed on the hate of regular people. All that delicious, ambient hatred for mutantkind? It’s an all-you-can-eat buffet out there. Better than starving in here, right?”
Jean was taken aback, her eyes wide with shock at Jack’s insane proposition.
Jack ignored her, his gaze fixed on the sealed goddess. He bent one knee, not in submission, but in the mock formality of a king addressing a fallen rival.
“So,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “Can we talk terms now?”
