The streets of Manhattan, New York, had become a battlefield.

The army arrived and tried to control the situation, but they were obviously of no use.

This time, the opponent was a group of aliens. In my career—or in fact, for 99.99999% of the people on the planet—I had never seen anything like this.

We were new to the response team, but we immediately recognized Iron Man—billionaire Tony Stark—and Captain America, Steve Rogers.

It felt like something out of a movie. In fact, I began to wonder if Earth could really be invaded just like that.

There was even a massive pentagram-shaped magic circle in the sky over New York—something that belonged in a fantasy film. And then—oh my God—it was a meteorite!

These flames couldn't be extinguished with water. Could it be that Manhattan, which couldn't be destroyed by aliens, would instead burn to the ground from fire?

It's coming again—it's coming again! A downpour, rain from the heavens!

Because of this massive magic circle, the Chitauri invading Manhattan seemed to be wiped out, while those outside the portal appeared to be blocked by a strange lightning field.

Wait—! The energy source sustaining the portal has been interrupted! It's gone!

Zoom... shrink... it's gone! The portal is closed! It's really closed!

Oh! It worked! They did it! Portal closed, Earth saved! Hahahahaha! Iron Man! Iron Man! Captain America! Captain America! Superheroes!!

It wasn't just the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. cheering.

The same was true for viewers glued to their TVs and the reporters covering the battle.

One reporter even ignored his live broadcast entirely, cheering like a crazed fan.

At the very moment the portal closed, countless people around the world shouted in relief and excitement.

Unless they were suicidal, desperate to die, or weary of the world, people everywhere were celebrating.

National rivalries and political grudges meant nothing. This was a war between Earth and an alien army. If Manhattan had fallen, it would have become the foothold for alien invasion, and little by little, the rest of the world would have been consumed.

Actually—not little by little.

Judging from the Battle of Manhattan, the size of the Chitauri fleet and their weapons was unnatural. In an ordinary world—excluding travel time—the entire planet might have fallen within days.

People on Earth—or rather, New Yorkers—had it the hardest. Global disasters always seemed to start in New York.

"Call..."

After the portal closed, Blaine breathed a sigh of relief.

The gaping hole in the sky was finally gone, replaced by clear blue.

All was at peace.

But Manhattan was far from the city it had once been.

Several buildings had been destroyed or collapsed under the assault of Chitauri leviathans, while others were damaged floor by floor. The skyline looked as if it had been dragged out of a war zone in the Middle East.

When Blaine brought Dr. Selvig back to Tony's private floor, the Avengers had already gathered: Tony, Steve, Thor, Barton, Natasha, Banner, and even young Spider-Man.

"Oh!"

Tony exclaimed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Welcome our hero!"

"Even though it cost money to bring you here, I still have to say—well done, guys."

He lay sprawled on the sofa, still wearing a battered Mark VII, glass of whiskey in hand. "I don't think we're going to work tomorrow. Let's take a day off."

"Ever had shawarma? There's a place about two streets over. Don't know how it tastes, but I think I'm gonna love it."

The Avengers were so exhausted they could barely sit upright, most of them collapsing onto the floor.

Only Thor remained standing, panting lightly. "We're not done yet," he said, his eyes fixed on Loki, who had just gotten back to his feet.

The others followed his gaze.

"Oh... then we'll have barbecue later."

And Tony did treat everyone to barbecue.

But the meal took place aboard the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, on the deck.

Somehow, Tony produced a grill and set up an impromptu cookout under the open sky.

Blaine didn't join in—he simply watched from the sidelines.

Halfway through, he approached Nick Fury, who was also observing, and said, "I'll give you a day to recuperate. Deposit 13.5 billion into my account by the day after tomorrow."

Nick nodded, his gaze still on the Avengers. "I will."

Blaine went home—flying halfway, stumbling halfway.

Though he looked uninjured and outwardly calm, no one in the Avengers could match his fatigue.

He had no innate magic in his body; every spell drained his mental power.

The two large-scale spells he had unleashed, combined with the continuous strain of flight, had pushed him to his limit. Even flying from the Helicarrier back to Manhattan had nearly been too much.

With his current strength, releasing two or three large-scale spells was his limit.

Any more, and he risked collapsing into unconsciousness—something he refused to allow.

His body was strong, but not so strong that he could recklessly pass out in the Marvel world.

Besides, mental power was notoriously difficult to cultivate.

At present, he relied on mind control techniques to maintain stronger-than-average mental strength. Without it, he might not have been able to use even simple flight magic.

Still, recovery came only through slow instinctive rest, unlike his body, which healed rapidly on its own.

Rubbing his swollen temples, Blaine exhaled deeply.

If he had some proper method of mental recovery—or a large-scale clearing spell he could use without thought—he wouldn't have ended up in this state.

"Sleep..."

Blaine stripped off his Hunter suit, collapsed onto his bed, and fell into unconsciousness.

He slept for three full days.

When he finally woke, the first thing he did was check his phone for a transfer message.

As expected—13.5 billion had arrived.

*************************************

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