Even though everyone had just witnessed the terrifying power of the Pym Particle equation, the sight before them was still surreal.
Cross — still trapped in Lock's spatial cage — buzzed helplessly through the air like a disoriented insect. The guests could hardly believe that the same equation that powered that tiny suit was now being discussed by King Apocalypse himself.
If Lock had come personally for it, then surely, it must be something beyond imagination.
They weren't wrong. The Pym Particle's true potential — quantum tunneling, time-space travel — was greater than any of them could comprehend.
Dr. Hank Pym's expression hardened. "Even if you are the King of Apocalypse," he said coldly, "I will never hand it over."
Lock smiled faintly. "Relax, Doctor. I'm not here to steal or rob you. I just need to make sure it doesn't fall into the wrong hands."
Hope finally snapped out of her stunned silence. "If you're that powerful," she said sharply, "then why did you even bother training Scott?"
Lock spread his hands, half amused, half exasperated. "How many times do I have to say it? Scott will be a superhero one day — a crucial one."
"Him?" Hope scoffed, tilting her head toward Scott. "You're kidding, right?"
"Hey, hey, don't look at me like that," Scott protested. "I'm a superhero personally endorsed by King Apocalypse himself!"
Hope folded her arms, smirking. "Really? The same guy who's lost to me in training eight hundred times?"
Scott's face fell. "...Okay, fair. But that's sparring! It doesn't count!"
While they bickered, the guests stood frozen, every neuron burning with calculation.
Remember every word, they thought. Remember every face.
Meeting King Apocalypse was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Claiming otherwise would get them laughed out of every circle of influence — or worse, accused of lying.
And the man standing beside him — the "superhero" personally chosen by the King himself — must be someone of immense importance. The same went for the brilliant woman and the old scientist whose formula even the King desired.
In short, these people were untouchable.
Then, from the center of the room, Cross's laugh cut through the silence.
"Ha! I don't know what I did to deserve your personal attention, Your Majesty, but I suppose I should be honored."
Scott scowled. "You're about to die and you're still cracking jokes?"
Cross smirked. "If the King of Apocalypse himself kills me, I'll accept my fate gladly. But if he doesn't... tell me, on what charge will you condemn me?"
Hope and Dr. Pym frowned. As much as they despised him, Cross had a point.
Displaying his technology wasn't a crime. Pym Technologies had legal authority to develop and demonstrate advanced tech — even weapons. And the Hydra buyers could easily be dismissed as impostors using fake credentials.
Killing Cross without justification would make them no better than the villains they fought against.
But that was the danger — the moment the Pym Particle equation leaked, the world would never be the same. Hydra with Pym tech could collapse governments overnight.
The entire room turned toward Lock.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. If he chose to end Cross here, no one would stop him.
But before he could act, the air shimmered.
From the crowd, a white blur surged forward — a figure phasing through a man's body as if it were smoke.
Gasps erupted.
A woman — tall, lithe, clad head to toe in a sleek white combat suit — materialized from nothing, her outline flickering like a ghost caught between worlds.
She didn't attack Lock. Instead, she dove straight toward the tiny, buzzing figure of Cross.
Lock's expression hardened. You dare steal from me?
With a flick of his wrist, space folded inward, forming a shimmering cube of energy — a spatial cage that locked around her.
But the white figure didn't slow. She shimmered, blurred — and passed right through it.
The cage flickered uselessly as she reached out, her gloved hand closing around Cross's minuscule form.
Gasps rippled through the room as she caught him and — impossibly — began to sink into the floor.
Her body phased through solid concrete as if it were air. Even Cross, now a captive in her grasp, was drawn into her intangibility — vanishing into the ground with her.
Lock's eyes narrowed. A phase shifter immune to space distortion?
This was new.
He extended his hand again. A surge of divine power — golden and arcing like lightning — struck the floor with a deafening boom.
The building trembled. A crater several meters wide opened beneath them, exposing the terrified staff below. But the white ghost remained untouched, her figure flickering like an afterimage before slipping deeper into the earth.
Lock's calm cracked. This was the second time she had evaded him.
He summoned the Reality Stone. Crimson energy coiled around his palm like molten glass.
He pressed it down.
The building screamed. The floors twisted and folded into each other, a massive spiral of warping space and metal grinding like a living vortex. The entire Pym Tower bent and spun as if reality itself had become liquid.
People screamed, clutching their heads, dizzy from the disorientation.
Still, the white ghost kept descending, untouched.
Lock's awareness followed her downward, tracking her presence.
He raised his hand once more. Fine, he thought. If I can't cage your body, I'll pierce your mind.
A blade of pure psychic energy materialized in his grasp — a weapon forged from will alone — and he thrust it forward.
The vortex of twisted matter parted like curtains, clearing a direct path. The blade streaked downward and struck — clean through her head.
But it passed through.
No blood. No reaction.
Just emptiness.
Then, the ghost turned — and, with a casual flick of her wrist, gave him a middle finger.
And vanished.
Her presence disappeared completely — not masked, not cloaked — simply gone.
Lock stood motionless for a moment, then exhaled slowly and withdrew the Reality Stone. The distorted building groaned and reshaped itself, layer by layer, until the floors returned to their original alignment.
From somewhere in the building came the sound of retching — dozens of them.
Employees stumbled from their stations, pale and nauseous, the aftereffects of reality distortion turning their stomachs inside out. The air filled with a sharp, acrid stench.
Lock's expression darkened.
It wasn't the loss that bothered him — it was the method.
That woman had resisted divine power, warped space, ignored the Reality Stone, and phased through psychic attacks.
No one in this world should have been able to do that.
She was a ghost in every sense of the word — untouchable, untraceable, and utterly unique.
Lock turned his gaze toward the group of guests from whom she had emerged.
They stiffened instantly.
Please don't look at us. Please don't think she's with us.
"King Apocalypse," one of them blurted nervously, bowing so low his forehead almost hit the floor, "this has nothing to do with us! She—she just appeared from the wall behind us! We swear it!"
Lock said nothing. His silence was far more terrifying than anger.
And for the first time since his return, the King of Apocalypse had been defied — not by an army, not by a god — but by a ghost who walked through walls.
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A/N: Advanced Chapters Have Been Uploaded On My Patreon
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