Marvel's Iron Lady

With the deafening sound of explosions reverberating through the sky, a massive dust storm swept across the earth. The once-continuous mountains were blown apart into a shattered landscape, and in an instant, the sand and stones surged like a torrential flood. For the Afghans who witnessed this weapon test, they had just glimpsed what could only be called the wrath of God.

The essence of cluster bombs lies in their ability to cover vast areas with a deadly range, effectively used to obliterate armored clusters or even large targets like airport runways. Their destructive power is extraordinary. However, the Jericho missile introduced a new kind of explosive technology, resulting in a terrifying, almost nightmarish, scene even in this unpopulated region. It left everyone wondering what kind of devastation it would bring if used in cities or among people. The implications were unimaginable.

"What the hell is that? Someone tell me, what the f*** is that thing!"

In the dim torchlight of the cave, a bald man wearing a brown jacket sat fuming on a chair, raging at his trembling men. Fear and disbelief were written across their faces, struggling to accept that the Americans had pulled off such a massive, violent stunt here.

This was the Ten Rings, Afghanistan's largest resistance force. To call them a resistance group was generous; they were, in reality, a terrorist organization, their hands stained with murder, robbery, assault, human trafficking, and arms dealing. Essentially, if it made money, they had done it.

But now, their strongest opponent was the stationed U.S. military, with whom they constantly clashed in their so-called battle for national liberation. Initially, they prided themselves on their mastery of guerrilla tactics, relying on Afghanistan's rugged terrain to engage the Americans. However, now that the Americans had brought in a weapon with such a wide-reaching destruction capacity, all bets were off. This was flipping the table.

"What a bunch of useless trash! Get me in touch with the Americans. I want to know what the hell just happened and what kind of weapon that was! You have half an hour, or all of you can go meet your maker!"

As much as he despised these invaders, he wasn't a fool. Sending his men out to die needlessly wasn't the goal; he needed to understand what weapon the enemy possessed and whether he could get his hands on it.

Half an hour later, one of his informants within the U.S. military relayed the information. The bald man's tattooed face twisted into a wicked smile.

"The biggest arms dealer in the U.S. just invented a new missile and plans to return to America. Excellent..."

The bald man eyed the intelligence in his hand, sank back into his chair, and, after a few seconds of silence, looked up at his men with a cold smile.

"Take a squad, intercept the convoy escorting that woman out of here, and bring her to me. I want her to make me missiles."

Miss Stark hadn't taken the old man's words seriously; she had no plans to leave Afghanistan—not yet, anyway. Not until she had rescued that person.

He was important to her—or rather, she owed him a debt, a debt spanning across countless multiverses, impossible to repay.

A convoy of five tan Humvees rumbled down the road towards Bagram Air Base, with Miss Stark seated in the back of one of them. Inside the vehicle, silence reigned; despite being packed with people, not a single word was spoken, as if everyone were mere automatons fulfilling their duties.

The barren road stretched through the wasteland, tinged with a strange, eerie calm. Miss Stark, unbothered, turned on her phone's music player, letting a cheerful tune fill the air—until an explosion shattered the silence, cutting the song short.

Ahead, one of the tan Humvees was blown into the air by a landmine, the men inside blasted to pieces.

"So, it's happening—no matter how much I alter the course of the future, some things are destined to remain unchanged."

With a wave of her hand, the remaining four vehicles screeched to a halt, and the occupants jumped out, quickly setting up a defensive perimeter. From the valley beyond, shouts echoed across the desert, followed by a hail of bullets raining down on the convoy, punctuating the air with the cacophony of gunfire.

Something strange occurred as well—the attacking terrorists were startled to find that, despite their heavy fire and the diminishing numbers of American soldiers, there were no bodies or blood left on the ground. The soldiers mechanically fired back, and when struck by bullets, their bodies disintegrated into red fragments, vanishing into thin air without leaving a trace.

This unusual sight sent the surrounding Ten Rings terrorists into an uproar. They were devout, fanatical believers, and seeing such an apparent miracle left them shaken.

One of them tried firing an RPG, watching as the rocket tore through the air and struck the last Humvee at the end of the convoy, which promptly exploded before fading from sight as the dust settled.

"What the hell is going on here? Whatever, just get the woman!"

This group of terrorists was uneducated, unable to grasp whether this was divine intervention or new American technology. All they understood was that if they failed to capture the woman arms dealer, their boss's wrath would be far deadlier than this bizarre American trick.

As the number of American soldiers dwindled, the gunfire gradually faded, instilling newfound confidence among the encroaching terrorists. The strange occurrences still sent chills down their spines, but with the convoy effectively eliminated, what threat could remain? All they needed to do now was locate the woman's hiding spot.

They had used explosives sparingly, keeping in mind that their boss wanted her alive. Despite the casualties inflicted by the Americans, a few of their own had fallen in the skirmish. Still, as long as the objective was achieved, these losses were acceptable.

The leader of the terrorists raised his hand, fingers extended in a silent signal. His men halted, ceasing their assault, and cautiously began to encircle the convoy's remains.

"Are you done? Because now, it's my turn."

A woman's voice called out from behind the convoy, making the terrorists raise their weapons instinctively. Out from behind a Humvee stepped a tall woman in a white suit.

"Lower your weapons. That's the boss's target!"

The leader barked, brow furrowing as he reprimanded his men in the local dialect. His men lowered their guns, albeit reluctantly, watching the woman intently.

But Miss Stark had no gratitude for their restraint—she lifted her right hand and gave a slight wave. A burst of energy from the Reality Stone erupted, causing the terrorists' weapons to explode in their hands as though they had misfired, scattering metal fragments that tore through their bodies like shrapnel from a landmine.

One second, the terrorists were cautiously watching their surroundings. The next, they were reduced to a writhing, bloody mess.

Unmoved, Miss Stark smirked, flicking her wrist as a bright blue glow emanated from her, instantly immobilizing the surviving terrorists. Though frozen in place, their wounds continued to bleed profusely.

Space's binding power held them in place; if she didn't release them, they would stand there until they bled out and dried, transforming into statues of withered corpses.

They could still scream, though, and as Miss Stark strode through them, she listened to their cries of pain and heard a ceaseless flow of curses in their native tongue.

They were pious believers, fanatical enough to die for their god. But here, facing unimaginable torment, their god did not answer; he did not save them.

This woman, wielding powers like a demon, held their lives in her hands, and for the first time, these terrorists—men unafraid of American troops, tanks, and bombs—felt an unfamiliar emotion: fear.

Their terror was palpable; a stench of urine permeated the air as some lost control in their fright.

In the face of the unknown, when everything you once believed is overturned, calm becomes a foreign concept.

Miss Stark remained deaf to their wailing. If she hadn't used the Reality Stone to duplicate her convoy and teleport her soldiers back to Bagram Air Base, those American soldiers might've died here, leaving their families without them.

She didn't know how many families these terrorists had ruined, how many innocents they'd killed in pursuit of their own interests. In her eyes, they deserved this. Miss Stark was no saint; she wanted these men to suffer for their crimes.

Listening to their anguished cries, she felt no remorse, only a hollow satisfaction.

"I know it's painful, but this is justice for your sins."

For a world free of senseless bloodshed and conflict, she would make these sacrifices—she would use their pain to fuel her vision.

She was here to save someone.

"Now, tell me—do any of you speak English? I need a guide, or would you rather die here?"

"Y-You… you're a… devil…"

A shaky voice, barely discernible among the foreign curses, reached her ears.

Miss Stark turned to see a man, slightly injured but swathed in a coarse robe and headscarf, his bloodied face staring at her with wide eyes, muttering as though in a trance.

"Oh, finally, someone I can talk to."

A charming smile spread across her face as she snapped her fingers, wiping out the spatial coordinates of those around her.

Every object in the world, from the physical to the intangible, exists with a spatial presence defined by three dimensions—length, width, and height—that determine its place in space. Without these coordinates, nothing can maintain its form. Difficult to grasp in theory, but simple to see in practice.

The men began collapsing in on themselves from the center outwards, as though a black hole had formed within each of them, a gaping void expanding from their chests until they vanished completely, erased from existence.

Where once dozens of terrorists stood, now only the woman remained, along with the trembling man who had collapsed after his spatial bind was lifted.

"I only need one guide—the rest were unnecessary."

Finding an English-speaking guide wasn't hard, but persuading him to lead her to their base would be challenging.

The man, leader of the Ten Rings ambush, struggled to his feet, lunging at Miss Stark in a final attack, only to be suspended mid-air, frozen by her power.

This was his first taste of floating without falling, a sensation completely unlike the flight humans dreamed of.

"You'll never get me to take you back, witch…"

Summoning courage from some unknown source, he bared his teeth at her, biting his tongue fiercely to end his life rather than lead this woman to his base.

Human tongues are densely packed with capillaries, and when severed, the blood spurted several feet. Standing directly in front of him, Miss Stark's face and cream-colored suit were spattered with his blood, staining her attire in deep red.

Glaring defiantly at her, he managed a ghastly smile, coughing as he wheezed. Blood poured down his throat, filling his lungs, yet he continued to stare at her, victorious in his last moments.

"Congratulations. You've erased the last shred of mercy I had left."

She brushed a blood-smeared hand across her cheek, looking positively fearsome. Now, she was truly angry.

Terrorist organizations are composed of individuals who justify heinous acts for twisted ideals. They've made their choices, and so have their fates.

When faced with the choice between a swift death and one of excruciating agony, few would choose the latter. But that's only because they haven't yet tasted what true suffering is.

Miss Stark was generally reasonable, but when crossed, she never let anyone off easily.

"Do you think death is the end? You're mistaken. There are things in this world far worse than dying."

She was ready to teach this arrogant man a lesson—not with overt cruelty, but by snapping her fingers, making his severed tongue reappear.

The man went pale, hacking up a mouthful of blood as he expelled the half of his tongue onto the ground, only to realize that his mouth held a newly restored one.

"H-How… how is this possible?"

He could feel it, the intact tongue in his mouth, though the bloodied half lay on the ground.

"Please, keep up the show, sir."

Restoring a severed body part was normally within the power of the Time Stone, but while the Reality Stone couldn't rewind time, it could make him regrow a new tongue. She wondered how many times he would try biting it off.

The man lost whatever courage he had. All he could hope for now was that she might grant him a swift death.

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