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Marvel MK: CH 105 – The Curse of Silence
🕑 Added 2025-06-16 17:47:39 +0000 UTCXavier Mansion – West Wing Dormitory
In a room dimly lit by moonlight peeking through aged curtains, Tenzin sat cross-legged on his bed, hands resting gently on his knees, back straight despite the soft mattress. He hummed softly, a rhythmic chant that flowed not from memory, but from his childhood—the same sutra he once used to steady his heartbeat when the world felt too loud.
It didn’t come from Xavier. It came from before. From the temple. From the time when he was told his very existence offended the divine. But here... it was just a bedtime melody. He was nearly asleep—breath slow, heart still—when his door slammed open.
BANG.
A very grumpy, very pouty Gabriel Summers stormed into the room, arms crossed, eyebrows in full rebellion. “Scott said I can’t have pancakes.”
Tenzin opened one eye. “Well... it is already night time.”
Gabriel gasped as if struck by lightning. “THAT’S WHAT HE SAID TOO!”
He pointed dramatically. “Are you siding with my brother now?”
Tenzin held up both hands, alarmed but amused. “Ah! No, I mean... just that... it’s not good for your stomach to eat sweet things at night.”
Gabriel squinted, unconvinced. “Says who?”
Tenzin blinked. “My teacher. The abbot himsel—”
He stopped. Just like that. The name hung in the air like a bell tolling through memory.
Gabriel’s face softened immediately. He dropped the pout and walked over, sitting on the bed beside Tenzin, elbow on his knee. “Hey… It’s not your fault, you know.”
Tenzin didn’t respond at first. Gabriel continued. “You’re not cursed. You’re just you. If you’re cursed, then I’m cursed too.”
Tenzin looked at him, quietly. “That’s... not what I said.”
“I know,” Gabriel said. “But it’s what you meant, yeah?” He bumped his shoulder gently against Tenzin’s. “Let’s not let the monks—or the bullies—win, alright? You’re here now. You’ve got people. You’ve got us.”
Tenzin smiled faintly. Not the forced kind. Not the polite monk-smile. But real. “Yes… I’ll do my best.”
Gabriel grinned. “That’s the spirit.” Then, with zero warning, he threw up a mock high five—only to miss Tenzin’s hand entirely and smack him lightly on the bald head. “Pancake attack! Hahaha!”
Tenzin blinked, mock-offended. “Hey!”
Gabriel rolled onto his bed like a smug cat. “Let’s sleep. Big day of skipping class tomorrow.”
Tenzin chuckled softly. “Yes. Let’s.”
The two boys lay back in their beds, the silence folding over them like a blanket. Somewhere outside, wind rustled the leaves. Inside, for once, Tenzin fell asleep smiling.
…
High in the Celestial Heights. Silver mists swirl, lanterns hang from unseen trees. A marble veranda overlooks the temple courtyard below—where Jack confronts the abbot. Standing side by side, Nezha, the Third Lotus Prince: a roiling centerpiece of cosmic rebellion—spear in hand, the famous Fire‑Tipped Spear burning soft as his Red Armillary Sash drifted around him. His lips curled in rage. Erlang Shen, the Celestial Commander, one third eye open. His posture measured, calm as still water. They watched.
Nezha spat out his silken hair as he glared. “The fucking Monkey will take his first fragment.”
Erlang placed a calming hand on the jade balustrade. “Quell your fury, nephew. There is nothing we can do but watch.”
Nezha whirled on him. “You’re not tired of waiting? Month after month, he grows stronger—and now he will take a fragment. What if he gathers them all?”
Erlang sniffed, calm as a mountain stream. “And of what use these fragments—” He took a sip of a pale amber brew, the fragrance like dew on young pine. “—if he cannot merge them? It is cosmic ignorance to think accumulation ensures power.”
Nezha stabbed a finger at him. “You don’t believe what Laozi’s disciples whispered?”
Erlang swallowed more calmly. “I said I guard the balance. Not judge potential. And yes—I will resume my training.”
He folded his wings of robe and strode away toward the whispering bamboo. Nezha’s eyes stayed locked on Jack and the abbot. Below, he saw that tense moment: “I will give you our sacred relic if you bring him back.”
Nezha’s brow furrowed. He muttered—“What the fuck? You’re the guardian, not the merchant.” Jack’s fist slammed. The abbot quaked in his grip. But then Jack dragged the abbot to the wall, clutching him in a choking grip. Nezha’s blood raced. “Explain. From the beginning.” He narrowed his eye—and remained.
…
Jack’s tail flicked impatiently as he released the abbot against the stone wall, leaving him gasping and rising on unsteady legs. His eyes—all golden fire—locked tight on the elder monk’s bowed figure. “Explain. From the beginning.”
The abbot inhaled, steadying himself, sweat pearling along the line of his jaw. “It is all… from the late Abbot’s personal codex,” he began, voice low. “A manuscript only successors could read.” He paused, voice softening. “Within it is said: every eighty-eight years, the Seven Capital Cities of Heaven converge to form the Heart of Heaven. When the convergence begins, they hold the Tournament of the Heavenly Cities.”
Jack bared his teeth, staying quiet.
“It is an opportunity for all to represent their path in Heaven itself.” The abbot closed his eyes. “Participants—champions of each city—who enter the Tournament have a true chance to awaken enlightenment upon it’s sacred grounds.” He opened his eyes, looking at Jack with quiet conviction. “The manuscript states that even some spectators… may attain breakthroughs in the Heart’s light.”
Jack’s expression darkened. “So…this was just for immortality?”
“No—it was not—” the abbot began.
But Jack’s Golden Gaze flared, burning through him like a laser of truth. “Lies! All parts of your souls have been drooling for immortality—like ants drawn to sugar!” His arms spread wide, tail swiping. “You’re all the same—praying to become gods while ignoring the kid who is barely alive.”
The abbot froze.
Jack leaned forward. “Now say it to my face—that this is all for your fifth brother, and not for your own god-complex or eternal lives.”
The courtyard fell silent again. The air hung heavy with the aftershock of Jack’s accusation—his voice like a blade swung through karma itself.
The abbot finally raised his head. His eyes—red at the edges—locked with Jack’s golden ones. And for a moment, something cracked. He shouted—not in wisdom, but in agony. “So what if I want immortality?!”
He stood now, trembling—not in weakness, but from a storm of resentment long kept beneath prayer beads and incense smoke.
“Who among us can truly deny immortality?! You, a sage—a divine being—you don’t even feel the burden of time anymore! You stand above the world and lecture us for wanting to live?”
He pointed, breath short. “You speak of suffering like you understand it, but you’ve long surpassed death. You’ve forgotten the taste of fear. You call us ants—crawling to sugar—but you were born at the table.”
Jack’s tail coiled gently behind him. His arms folded across his chest. Eyes unmoved. Voice level. “And yet, for all your suffering, all your prayers and purity—you still gaze at Heaven’s gates like beggars in robes. You dress ambition in enlightenment. You call hunger holy. But your hands still reach for eternity.”
The abbot’s jaw clenched. “You think I wanted this burden?! My master died in my arms! He gave me no wisdom, only riddles. He gave Tenzin the key, and gave me a throne built from doubt.”
His voice rose like thunder under rotting clouds. “Every morning, I lead chants that no longer comfort me! Every night, I ask why he was chosen and I was not.”
Jack tilted his head slightly. “So now we approach the truth.” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “Not devotion. Not duty. Jealousy.”
The abbot stepped back, as if slapped. “I am human,” he hissed. “I bleed. I kneel. I pray. And in return, I am told to watch—watch as the cursed child is called chosen. I swallowed that truth for years. But now? You want me to pretend it doesn't burn?”
Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then burn.” His voice was quiet, but final. “You call Tenzin cursed. Then you chase him only when he becomes useful. You say he is your brother—but you left him to rot in the corner of your temple.”
The abbot’s fists clenched. “I protected him! I bore the guilt for our order. I kept the monks from exiling him. I carried him in silence.”
Jack’s expression sharpened. “You carried him? No. You buried him. You turned your silence into a tomb, and called it mercy.”
The abbot’s breath ragged. “I... I believed in our cycle. Our traditions.”
Jack stepped closer now. The courtyard seemed smaller. “And your cycle is rotten. Your tradition is fear wearing gold leaf. You let one boy suffer so the others could sleep easier. You traded his soul for your illusion of balance.”
Then Jack’s voice dropped to something colder than death. “You monks called it Samsara. Tell me, Abbot… If nothing lasts, why do you waste your life protecting illusions… If you knew this cycle only births suffering… Why do you still bow to it?”
The abbot stared. And for the first time—he had no mantra left to answer.
…
K’un-Lun – Outer Training Ground
The sharp crack of fists against wood echoed through the crisp mountain air. Danny Rand struck the training dummy again, and again, his knuckles already bruised despite the wrappings. Sweat glistened down his forehead. His breath came fast.
“This wasn’t what I pictured...” In another life—on another Earth—Danny would be in a suit, clicking through financial reports and sipping lattes on the 40th floor. Instead? BAM! He drove a combo straight into the center of the wooden chest, splintering it slightly.
From the side, a snap. Thwack. A pebble smacked the back of his calf. “Owww—! Master, could you maybe tell me instead of flinging rocks?”
From the stone steps, Lei Kung the Thunderer raised a brow. Then—snap—another pebble. Right to the forehead. “If your mouth is faster than your fists, Rand, maybe use it to fix your stance.” Danny shut up immediately, posture straightening. No more sass. Just discipline.
After an hour more, Lei Kung finally clapped his hands once. “Enough. Be here before the mists vanish tomorrow. Or we begin again from breathing techniques.”
Danny collapsed onto his back in the dirt. “Great... Fantastic. I don’t even have energy to complain.”
Lei Kung walked away without another word, robes swaying like windless banners.
The Next Morning – Mist Clinging to the Mountain Path
Danny was there early. Breath fogging. Back straight. Eyes steady. Lei Kung appeared beside him like a ghost carved from stone. “We begin with meditation.”
Hours passed. The sun rose higher. Danny’s robe clung to him with sweat. His legs trembled from holding the lotus posture so long. But something gnawed at him. Finally—he opened his eyes. “...Are we gonna have a tournament?”
Lei Kung’s brow twitched. “Where did you hear that?”
“Here and there. Whispers. Kitchen ladies. One guy said his uncle lost three teeth last time.” Lei Kung’s silence stretched.
“It’s none of your concern,” he said at last. “It will not be held for years.”
Danny blinked. “Then why is everyone so hype about it already?”
Lei Kung didn’t answer. He merely gestured to the stance board. “Return to your forms, Iron Fist.”
Danny exhaled. “Yes, Master.”
But as he lifted his hands into the dragon pose—He couldn’t help but wonder. If it’s not for now... why does everyone feel like it’s already begun?
