Chapter 73: Braised Egg Comes Calling

Accommodations were easily arranged. Though Old Wang had little money, he had connections. What matters most in the twenty-first century? Networking! One phone call, and everything was settled in ten minutes.

They set off in the latter half of the night. Old Wang drove Skye’s newly purchased truck, ferrying Matt, Erika, Stick, and three sets of S.H.I.E.L.D. field agent gear to an apartment nearby. They moved in with just their bags; Robbie was next door. With the Ghost Rider present, as long as the Hand didn’t deploy weapons of mass destruction, even if all four Fingers showed up, they wouldn’t escape Judgment.

Under Old Wang’s care, their external wounds healed; internal injuries required gradual recuperation, but it was nothing serious. With “Veteran Nurse Wang” tending to them, even the gravest injuries could recover in two or three days.

Matt had a bellyful of words for Old Wang—a thousand questions he wished to ask, eager for long, intimate conversations, sharing meals and bedsides—but his ex-girlfriend and his master needed care, and he himself was wounded and weary, needing rest.

Physical wounds heal easily; the blows to the spirit are not so easily mended.

Stick was better off: knocked out by his most prized pupil, and with excessive blood loss, he’d simply slipped into a deep coma—a good sleep would suffice.

Erika, however, not only suffered blood loss, but was affected by the “Beast’s” power, sustaining some psychological harm. The impact wasn’t severe, but she’d likely sleep a full day, with no guarantee against lingering aftereffects.

The first step in reviving a crashed computer is a reboot. Humans are much the same.

Old Wang wasn’t interested in chatting with Matt, whose background he knew well, but he was intrigued by “Black Void” Erika, intending to study her while her condition was fresh—he had experience in this area. He’d researched the Fear Demon “Banazal” possessing the Grand Crusader “Dasohan,” as well as another Fear Demon “Kesslanatir” possessing the Blood Elf Rogue “Valeera,” especially the latter.

Perhaps, as before, he could resolve the issue completely.

Yet before Old Wang could begin, Skye called.

“This girl just doesn’t trust me! So what if I don’t come home in the middle of the night—she’s already checking up on me. Can you believe it…”

Old Wang shook his head and answered the call.

“Wang, someone’s looking for you… Mr. Nick Fury.”

Old Wang was stunned.

The Hard-Boiled Egg had come knocking? The Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., showing up in the dead of night? Was he bored out of his mind?

…

…

He wasn’t alone.

The darkness had gifted him black eyes, allowing him to move perfectly unseen without uttering a word.

The King of Agents was no mere title; he’d undertaken countless dangerous missions in his time, his skillset perhaps broader than Black Widow’s—except in hand-to-hand combat. But even so, with both Hydra and the Hand active, travel was too perilous for a big shot, so he brought bodyguards.

Old Wang had just returned to his Azeroth Specialty Shop when he saw a black SUV parked at the door. Its lines were sharp and imposing, with an IMBA aura; Robbie’s Dodge Charger looked meek beside it.

A Chevrolet Suburban—the official vehicle of federal agents, and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s preferred ride. Powerful, sturdy, reliable.

This one was different.

Scenes from movies flashed through his mind: wild collisions, withstanding heavy weapon attacks at close range, rolling through gunfire as if it were nothing, enduring the intense barrage of dozens of elite Hydra operatives—and coming out unscathed. The vehicle paired with a rather inhuman smart control system, clearly underwent special modifications by the Tech Division, the cost of which surely dwarfed the original price many times over.

Glancing at his own truck, worth less than fifty thousand dollars, Old Wang suddenly felt the urge to hijack the Suburban.

You couldn’t buy this car for a million!

“It’s time for an upgrade,” Old Wang muttered and walked inside.

Two figures in black appeared before him.

Black Widow’s voluptuous figure was striking, her specialized uniform perfectly accentuating her curves. The gear she wore was not abundant, but it was top-notch—tailored for her, and highly effective. Only those who crossed her would know how well it worked.

Wasn’t she supposed to be fixing his mess? Why was she here? Did she forget the paper?

He looked to the side. The wide black coat draped over a shiny, dark head—this fellow was sitting in Old Wang's beloved recliner, eating. That was his third midnight snack!

Too much!

Old Wang snorted and stepped closer. He nearly burst out laughing.

Skye had trekked three hundred meters in the dead of night to fetch “ten fried dough sticks, two bowls of spicy soup, five buns, four marinated eggs”—and only the eggs remained.

Even a tiger won’t eat its cubs, but here he was, munching on his own kind.

“Master Wang.”

Upon seeing Old Wang, Black Widow cast an exasperated glance.

Dragged out in the middle of the night to clean up after Master Wang, only to be called by the Boss to serve as bodyguard before even finishing the job. Was anyone allowed to sleep around here?

“Agent Romanoff, thank you for your hard work,” Old Wang said with a nod, strolling to the recliner. With casual air, he declared, “The dough sticks are ten thousand each, spicy soup fifty thousand a bowl, buns twenty thousand apiece, marinated eggs are free—help yourself… Get up, that’s my chair. Skye, put it on the tab.”

“Got it!” Skye’s eyes lit up.

Black Widow shrugged. Boss, your day has come.

The Hard-Boiled Egg froze, hesitated for two seconds, then grabbed a marinated egg and stuffed it into his mouth—after all, it was free.

Though it felt awkward, the taste was quite decent.

What was this called again? Marinated egg? Maybe it should become his breakfast staple.

He finished it in a few bites, reached for a napkin, when Old Wang’s voice floated over, “Paper pack, ten thousand each.”

“Pfft!”

Skye, mid-sip, sprayed water all over the Egg’s head: “Sorry… couldn't help it… p-p-pfft!”

The Egg: “…”

Miss, I don’t use this shampoo, and I don’t need that much. One spray is enough for what little hair I have…

He wiped his head with his black coat, remembering this was someone’s shop—private residences are sacred and not to be infringed upon, and he couldn’t win a fight anyway, so he stood up to give up the seat.

Old Wang wasn’t really going to sit.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. Director was a general, after all, deserving some respect. Old Wang got straight to the point: “So, what brings you here?”

Ah, the inexperience of youth—too blunt…

The Egg had rehearsed a thousand words but had no place for them now. He could only say, “Master Wang, the ones rescued by the Immortal Iron Fist—Matt Murdock, Erika Nachis, and that mysterious ‘Stick’—are they from Kunlun?”

He’d come only now because investigation had taken time—the King of Agents never fought unprepared.

Negotiations were no different.

This question carried weight. He believed Master Wang would catch the hint: S.H.I.E.L.D.’s intelligence network was formidable; they knew about Kunlun and Iron Fist, so don’t try to fool us…

He was laying his cards on the table.

Old Wang thought the time was right and nodded, “Matt and Erika are Stick’s disciples. Stick is the leader of the True Purity Society, which is an affiliate of Kunlun, and has existed for centuries.”

The Egg’s expression didn’t change, but inwardly, waves of shock crashed.

A master of reading people, he was certain: Master Wang was not lying.

Kunlun had people on Earth, and had even founded an organization!

Most importantly, S.H.I.E.L.D. could discover the Hand, but had never heard of the “True Purity Society.”

This group was so secretive that it’d existed for centuries without anyone knowing?

If Old Wang could read minds, he’d be flabbergasted too.

Egg, oh Egg, the reason so few knew of the True Purity Society was mainly because its numbers were so few…

After a moment’s thought, the Egg asked, “How many elite members like them does the True Purity Society have?”

Old Wang didn’t need to think. He answered directly, “Almost all of them.”

And it was the truth.

The True Purity Society was nearly extinct.

Perhaps they were all that remained!