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Marvel MK: CH 102 – Duck, Baijiu, and Dharma
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 04:30:56 +0000 UTCThe sound of metal clanking rang across the stone yard of Kamar-Taj, sharp and final. A sling ring spun once, then fell flat onto the earth, its weight heavier than its size should allow. Karl Mordo stood frozen, eyes tight, jaw tighter, hand twitching where moments ago it had been ready to strike.
At the center of the courtyard stood Jack Hou, tail lazily swinging, hands behind his back. He was barefoot. Grinning. Relaxed. Unbothered. “KEKEKEKEKE... You’d think by now you sorcerer types would figure it out.” He pointed casually at Mordo. “The Mirror Dimension? Cute. Really. But when you’re fast enough to dodge, it’s just another hallway with a fancy paint job.”
Mordo gritted his teeth. “No sorcerer can train against a god.”
Jack tilted his head, fake-pensive. “Aww, Mordy. You sound like a devout acolyte scared of cosmic authority. Weird… for a disciple of the Vishanti.”
Before Mordo could respond, a voice—ancient and amused—cut through the tension.
“That’s enough, Jack.” The Ancient One had arrived, robed in gold and patience. Yao stood on the edge of the courtyard, gaze level, eyes filled with galaxies and tea leaves. He knew Jack well enough by now. One more sentence and the monkey king would’ve started monologuing about the Vishanti’s hidden third cousin or why Oshtur might be into tentacles.
Jack turned to him, still smiling. “You know,” he said with mock sincerity, “you can always come to me if the Vishanti ever get too bossy. I don’t charge much. Just eternal loyalty and a call-in portal.”
Yao chuckled softly. “I can’t say anything to that, Jack.”
“Why?” Jack said, crossing his arms. “Because you borrow their power? Or because they’re Elder Gods and they’ll give you cosmic hives if you talk back?”
Yao gave him a measured look.
“Careful. You may understand your godhood now. But, doesn’t mean you can mock Elder Gods like they’re insignificant beings. I won’t always be around to clean up your mess.”
“KEKEKEKE... I know.” Jack looked at Mordo, who still hadn’t moved. “So... can I take his sling ring now, or what?”
Mordo’s jaw clenched hard enough to pop. He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. From the side, Yao reached into his sleeve, pulled out his own sling ring, and tossed it to Jack. It sailed through the air like a sacred coin. Jack caught it without looking. “KEKEKEKE. Thanks.”
He plucked a strand of hair, flicked it, and from the air beside him a clone blinked into existence. This one was… visibly unimpressed. Slouching. Half-lidded. “Uggghhh. Can I do it tomorrow?”
“No,” Jack said, handing over the ring. “Now, dumbass.”
The clone squinted. “Wow. Even Hitler loved himself more than you love your own clone.”
“Shut up. Go.”
The clone sighed like a tired art student and floated lazily onto a waiting Zephyr, the cloud puffing grumpily under him. He rose into the sky and vanished into the golden skyline.
Jack stretched, hands behind his head. “Haaaaah. Well... been nice, Yao. I think it’s time I move on.”
Yao nodded slowly, his expression warm but unreadable. “Where to, then?”
Jack turned toward the setting sun. The wind picked up. His robe fluttered gently behind him. The sky blazed in pink and fire-orange. It was the perfect cinematic moment. A destined wanderer. A journey renewed. And then—“Cunt Long.” Jack said it without shame. “I’m finally going to Cunt-Long.”
Yao closed his eyes. Mordo groaned audibly. Somewhere, a student in the shadows dropped his book. Jack laughed as he stepped toward the edge of the courtyard. “Or is it K’un-Lun? Bah. These celestial city names all sound like body parts.” Then he whistled for Zephyr, and the cloud curled into view like a loyal partner. Jack jumped on. Gone.
…
Sokovia.
The clouds above were always gray, as if even the weather had signed a non-disclosure agreement. Deep beneath one of Hydra’s lesser-known blacksites—a labyrinthine maze of concrete and flickering overheads—sat a cellblock built not for criminals, but for anomalies.
Inside one cell, cloaked in soft red glow from hidden suppression fields, sat Wanda Maximoff. She held her hands out in front of her, fingers trembling slightly, as she focused on a floating spoon, wobbling in the air. The spoon twisted—Then clattered to the ground. She exhaled.
In the cell beside her, her twin brother Pietro zipped from wall to wall like a silver blur in sneakers too tight and a psyche too restless. He hummed a broken tune, whistled the same five notes over and over, tapping out drumbeats on every surface he could reach.
“You’re making it worse,” Wanda muttered.
“I’m keeping us awake,” Pietro said, mid-dash. “They want us dull. Numb. Tame. Not happening.”
They had stopped asking questions months ago. They didn’t know who was running the lab. Only that if they weren’t better tomorrow, they might be gone the next day. So they trained. Quietly. Endlessly.
Then—BANG.
The silence shattered like glass. The cellblock door burst open, and the air changed. Not colder. Not hotter. Just... heavier. A pair of guards dragged a woman, kicking and screaming, her red hair matted with sweat and fury.
“LET ME GO, YOU FUCKING CUNTS!” Her voice was ragged. American accent. East Coast edge. But behind the rage was something else—something fractured. She struggled like a rabid dog in human skin.
Then—halfway across the corridor—she stopped screaming. And started weeping. Like someone flipped a switch inside her skull.
The guards didn’t blink. Just shoved her into the empty cell beside Wanda’s, activated the suppression field, locked it, and walked out.
Silence. Only the sound of her sobbing. Wanda barely glanced over. Pietro paused for a moment—but then resumed pacing. The woman wailed. Then stopped. Then chuckled. Then cried again. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.
Then—“SHUT UP,” Wanda snapped, finally fed up.
The woman went quiet. Then laughed low and slow, the way a flame flickers just before flaring up. “Who do you think you’re talking to, girl?” the woman snarled. “I could kill you in a second if it weren’t for this collar.”
Wanda’s stare turned cold. “Well. You can’t. So shut the fuck up.”
A tense beat passed.
Then, the woman whispered—voice like broken glass being arranged into a threat. “Mary Walker.” Wanda squinted. Then the voice turned deeper. Meaner. “Remember that name.” A pause. Then—“Because it’ll be the last person you see… on your death.”
In the next cell, Pietro stopped pacing. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t speak. He just looked at Wanda, and mouthed without sound. "She’s crazy."
…
Mainland China.
Somewhere above the Pearl River Delta. The clouds rolled soft and thick beneath the crimson hues of dusk. On their surface walked a barefoot immortal.
Jack Hou, half-god, half-chaos incarnate, rode atop Zephyr, his sentient cloud mount, like a couch surfer between heavens. His hands were behind his back. His tail coiled gently in the breeze. And he was sighing. Loudly.
“Where the fuck is this Cunt-Long supposed to be?” He leaned over Zephyr’s edge, eyes lazily scanning the endless sprawl of city lights. “For something with ‘Long’ in the name, I thought maybe it’d be within the Great Wall of China. KEKEKEKE.”
Zephyr quivered beneath him, shifting form into something mildly judgmental. Why not use your Golden Gaze? the cloud seemed to ask.
Jack sighed again, stretching his arms above his head. “Ahhh, buddy... we’re on a journey. It’s no fun seeing the world in its naked truth every second. I like the illusion of it. The smells. The grime. The lies. I like what we’ve done to this Earth.” He pointed down at the twinkling lights of a crowded district. “Look! It’s Chinatown!”
A pause.
“Or... as the Chinese would say… a town. KEKEKEKE.”
He tapped Zephyr’s cloudy nape with his foot. “Let’s go down and feel it out. See where it takes us, yeah?”
Zephyr obeyed. The god descended not from the clouds above some palace, but from a dim alleyway, tucked between neon signs and the warm clang of a distant hotpot kitchen. He stepped down from the sky like he was hopping off a public bus. New country. New people. New noise. And Jack didn’t speak a word of Chinese.
He stood at the mouth of the alley, robe fluttering under the streetlamps. Music played from nearby vendors. Car horns blared in slow, resigned arguments. The city breathed in chaos, and Jack smiled.
Then, he closed his eyes. Slowed his breath. Dimmed every sense but one. Hearing. And in that moment, the barrier spell etched into his body unfolded silently across the city. A translucent dome. Expanding. Drifting. Tapping into the collective murmur of human speech.
It wasn’t magic in the traditional sense. It was language-through-osmosis. God-level eavesdropping. Hyperlinguistic pattern mapping.
Within seconds, his mind became a city. A vendor shouting: “Best dumplings this side of the Yangtze!” A teenager on the phone: “I swear she ghosted me after one date!” A drunk uncle singing off-key in a karaoke bar: “Yaooooooo Minggggg—!”
A pickpocket cursing under his breath. A child asking for milk tea. Hundreds. Thousands. Each word another droplet in the river of culture. Jack stood in the eye of it, absorbing tone, rhythm, syntax, and semantic fields—until the spell stabilized. He exhaled. Opened his eyes. Saw a young couple walking past, holding hands.
“晚上好,” Jack said with a warm smile.
The couple looked over, nodded politely. “晚上好。”
They kept walking. Jack grinned. “Oh... it does work.” He looked down at his own hands. “Combining my barrier spell with my senses can do that, huh?” He giggled. “KEKEKEKEKE. I’m a goddamn Rosetta Stone.”
…
It was past midnight in the side alley restaurant known to locals only by red lanterns and the sizzling sound of perfection. Jack Hou, half-god, full-chaos, leaned back in his chair, a glistening leg of Peking duck held triumphantly between his fingers. He took a massive bite. “UUMMM—Mmmmmm. It’s good. Another one, please.”
A very concerned waiter approached, sweat lining the edges of his hat. “Sir... you’ve already had fifty ducks.”
Jack chewed thoughtfully. “Hmmm. You’re right.” He swallowed. “I need to diversify my palette.” He smiled. “Give me twenty of every dish on the menu.” The waiter blinked. Jack simply waved him off like someone ordering extra napkins.
Half an hour later, half of the dishes filled the entire patio. Roasted pork belly, soup dumplings, mapo tofu, century eggs, hand-pulled noodles, fried mantou with condensed milk...
And Jack, in the middle of it, radiant with joy like a child who inherited a buffet. But as he cracked into a second bowl of soy-glazed beef tendon, his eyes flicked up. Across the street—A bald man, robed in faded saffron, sat in full lotus, unmoving, eyes half-closed in what could only be deep samadhi.
Jack froze, duck halfway to his mouth. “Interesting... it seems I’m cursed to keep meeting bald men.” He ticked them off with his fingers. “Fisk. Xavier. Nick. Yao. And now... this guy.” The monk sat still. Not watching. Not reacting. Just present.
But Jack’s contemplation broke as a parade of food arrived at once, the waiter now too afraid to argue. Jack rubbed his hands together. “Well. Let’s enjoy the authentic stuff first, shall we?” He ate. And ate. Until the stars above blurred, and his robe now carried the scent of five regional spice profiles.
Then—Baijiu. Aged. Illicit. Glorious. Jack cracked open the bottle, poured himself a cup, then tilted his head back. “Ahhhh... nothing beats good Baijiu. Even gods get thirsty.”
Then, slowly, he poured a second cup. Set it down on the seat across from him. Didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. But he knew. The monk was now there, standing before the table. He had arrived without sound. Without ripple. As if the air itself had folded him in place.
Jack spoke first. “Here. Drink.”
The monk folded his palms in Añjali Mudrā, a soft bow of gratitude. “Amitābha. Benefactor, please understand… the Dharma forbids intoxicants. This one must decline with respect.”
Jack grinned. “Then why come to a restaurant? C’mon. Pork belly? Caramelized ribs? You’re already sin-adjacent, might as well dive in.”
The monk bowed again. “This one does not judge what arises in others. Only that which arises within.”
Jack waved it off. “Yeah, yeah. So... what? You came here to proselytize? You gonna teach me the Eightfold Path between dumplings?”
The monk looked down at the table, hands still folded. “This one does not teach those who are not ready. This one only sits.”
“May I sit here?”
Jack leaned back. “Suit yourself. I couldn’t care less.”
The monk sat slowly, spine straight, palms resting on his knees. They sat in complete silence. Jack chewing lamb skewers. The monk unmoving. The flicker of neon above them painting everything in dream colors.
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Nathan Bailey
The fighting Buddha
