Chapter 89: Splitting Body and Soul, a Pilgrimage to the Zen Sect

“Commander, Master Wang is the Immortal Iron Fist.”

Twisting a ninja’s neck from horseback, Black Widow raised a hand and pointed at another man. A crackling surge from her widow’s bite unleashed thirty thousand volts, dropping him instantly as she reported with icy composure to the one-eyed chief.

Before she could even finish, the chief’s voice came through her earpiece: “I know.”

How do you always know things? If you know, why not tell me? Black Widow did not know what to say, only felt a tight knot of irritation.

But after thinking it over, she understood.

The chief was old and foxlike, and having observed everything that had happened from the outside, he was less likely to be fooled by Master Wang’s smoke screen. Guessing that Master Wang was the Immortal Iron Fist was nothing remarkable. It was perfectly normal.

If not for being too busy lately, and for having been struck on the head by the Winter Soldier at the Roxxon power plant and suffering that blow to her intelligence, she would have thought of it long ago. She quickly found a reason to excuse herself, then asked, “So what should I do?”

“As you said, let Barton handle the outside and you handle the inside,” the chief said. “Judge for yourself. No need to report to me. I don’t have time to listen to reports right now, either.”

He did not say what he was busy with. A superior did not need to explain himself to a subordinate, and the organization had strict secrecy regulations. Every matter carried a certain classification level; no one except the relevant personnel was allowed to inquire.

After hanging up, the chief turned with flourish and headed toward the conference hall on the top floor, with Hill following behind him, rolling her eyes.

In Hill’s view, the director had most likely long suspected that Master Wang was the Immortal Iron Fist. It was only suspicion, after all, and only after hearing Black Widow’s confirmation did he truly know. Yet he gave no sign of it, preserving the mystique and authority of his office.

This man was not only dark of face, dark of eyes, and dark of coat; the key thing was that his heart was dark too.

So good at putting on an act. No wonder he could be the director of the agency.

She was not nearly as thick-skinned as the director, so she would have to learn.

Hill considered herself an expert on the chief, but only now did she realize that no matter how much one studied him, one could never fully fathom him. The chief was an entire discipline in himself, and an immensely profound one at that—the deepest part being his color.

As he walked, the chief was also thinking.

He was about to attend a meeting: a session of the United Nations Security Council. Several council members needed him and Hill to brief them separately on the current state of the agency and Hydra, as well as the detailed plan for Hydra’s complete eradication.

The United States Secretary for Security Affairs, former director of the agency, Alexander Pierce, was already waiting in the conference room.

The operation against the Hand had been arranged by him personally, using secret channels outside the agency. Aside from Black Widow and Hawkeye, and the hundred agents involved, not even Pierce or Hill knew about it. Yet now he was taking a call in Hill’s presence.

Partly because the operation had already begun, and Hydra would soon learn of it through other channels, so there was no point in hiding it anymore. But also to test Hill. Even allowing Black Widow, Hawkeye, and the others to take part was itself a kind of test—

Aside from himself, he would trust no one completely.

At present, Black Widow, Hawkeye, and those hundred carefully selected agents were probably trustworthy. Hill was still hard to say.

Since the Immortal Iron Fist and K’un-Lun were going after the Hand, and with Black Widow, Hawkeye, and the others helping—perhaps even the Ghost Rider might intervene—the issue was not a major one.

And once the matter of the Hand was over, having K’un-Lun as an ally meant the beginning of a full-scale purge of Hydra.

For himself and for the agency, the real trial had only just begun.

Coulson and Melinda were at the air base in Afghanistan.

Pierce, Hill, Garrett, Sitwell, Wu...

Which of you are not Hydra?

Perhaps, as he most feared to believe, no one in the agency could be trusted. Instead, the one most deserving of trust was Master Wang, who did not even belong to the agency.

Fitz and Simmons were the future of the agency’s Science Division. Young and clean, they were not skilled at concealment or performance; one glance was enough to tell they were certainly not Hydra.

If he took the chance to send them to Master Wang, that could count as a form of protection for them...

He only feared that once they were gone, they might never come back.

...

The walls and ceiling collapsed, pinning Old Wang underneath.

Anyone in construction knew this: the higher the floor, the deeper the foundation tended to be.

This was a skyscraper. Its foundations went down dozens of meters, but the dragonbone fossil lay even deeper, far beneath what the original construction had ever touched, with more than ten meters of soil between them.

Now, thick rubble and more than ten meters of earth buried Old Wang below. The precision blast had caused the entire door and large sections of wall to crash down on him, then be sealed under mud and stone, airtight.

There was no way to breathe.

How could he not die?

Old Wang did not die.

No matter how thick a wall was, it could never block the spiritual perception tempered over three lifetimes.

In fact, before even entering the door, Old Wang already knew what was inside. He knew that once he broke through, he would have to face a hail of gunfire and the thunder of explosives.

But there was no choice. This was the only entrance. Beside the door was an even thicker, stronger reinforced-concrete wall and an even deeper layer of earth. It would be even harder to breach. The Hand’s preparations were thorough; the place where the dragonbone fossil lay was indeed easy to defend and difficult to attack.

Old Wang, racing against time, truly had no room to hesitate, so he smashed his way in, and the moment he did, he used the monk’s ultimate technique: the Golden Bell Shield.

After drinking so much of the essence from the Eternal Spring, his true qi had recovered to about one percent of its peak from his previous life.

Though the quality still fell far short—not concentrated enough, not pure enough—it was more than sufficient to withstand heavy machine guns, shotguns, shoulder-fired rockets, and grenades. It could also endure massive explosions.

Much less collapsed walls and earth.

The only pity was that the implanted receiver-controller seemed to have gone wrong, but it did not matter. It was unimportant.

His strength certainly could not compare to the Hulk’s, but with true qi supporting him, he was far stronger than Captain America hauling a helicopter by hand.

Moving the broken wall and the door into a stable structure, Old Wang held his breath.

A great master could not possibly suffocate so easily, but getting out did not seem easy.

Seemed.

Old Wang stopped breathing and slowed his heartbeat to its absolute limit, a method he had learned from Shenjizi and the turtle demigod Tortolla. The effect was excellent.

With that, whether it was Alexandra or anyone else, they would think he was already dead.

Very good.

So, what next?

“Azeroth, I need a blink spell.”

A wisp of his spirit entered the Heart of Azeroth, and Old Wang looked up at the young lady. Because they were a little too close, he seemed to glimpse yet another enchanting sight.

“Now?” the young lady asked.

“No, not now. Get it ready first. I may use it at any moment.”

Old Wang smiled, tilted his head, listened carefully, and waited patiently.