Chapter Twenty-Three: The Lich King—Wrath [New book—please add to your collection and recommend!]

The explosions on the street mingled with the hail of gunfire, flames blazing everywhere.
Yet the citizens of Sixth Avenue in Manhattan had grown accustomed to such chaos.
Paired with a soda or a hamburger-hotdog, they seemed more like spectators hidden behind cover, enjoying a VR movie.
All eyes turned to Roald.
This man, clad in striking armor, had just withstood two rocket blasts and a concentrated storm of submachine gun fire for several seconds. Bullets lay scattered before him, but his body remained unscathed, and his armor gleamed immaculate.
As people gasped in amazement, many raised their phones, snapping photos.
Coulson, meanwhile, mentally raised Roald's threat level and immediately called the main line.
"For the Lich King!"
Grommash stood atop a half-wrecked car, brandishing his battleaxe with a deafening roar, reveling in the attention.
Everything around him had been cleaved in two.
"The Lich King?"
Coulson, crouched behind cover, instantly noted this crucial information.
Roald shrugged, the ten cards of "True Monarch" in his hand sinking into his body, instantly boosting his armor by one thousand points, prompting a slight smirk. Even after taking rocket and submachine fire at point blank, he still had over fifty-five hundred armor left, his expression brimming with satisfaction.
His efforts over these long days had not been in vain.
He had also uncovered two interesting pieces of intelligence.
The clever, upon spotting inconsistencies or ideas contrary to their own, tend to observe quietly, seeking the opponent's weakness for a single decisive blow.
Fools, lacking patience, reveal their intentions outright.
Soon, discordant voices arose.
"FBI!"
"Everyone stay where you are, hands up!"
Coulson looked at Roald in his shining armor nearby, and at the encroaching FBI agents.
His face darkened.
The FBI, always sluggish and passive, had arrived with uncharacteristic speed.
Something felt off; these agents seemed hell-bent on disaster, likely dragging Coulson down with them.

He immediately dialed Nick Fury’s direct line. “Director, bad news, I have critical intel—”
At Trident Headquarters, Nick Fury rose abruptly, catching Alexander Pierce’s attention mid-conversation.
Grommash noticed the swarm of armed men approaching, spun his battleaxe in his hand, his expression turning bloodthirsty.
It was over—his year-end bonus would be docked again, condemned to a life sustained by hotdog-burgers.
It was over—the FBI might have landed themselves in serious trouble this time, these fools!
It was over—he hoped the Director would show leniency for his years of service; any investigation, he swore total cooperation!
Though Coulson felt his agent career had reached its end, his mind repeating “it’s over” thrice,
he still stepped from cover at this critical moment, holding his badge high, hoping not to escalate the situation further.
It wasn’t the FBI he feared, but Roald, and the brute by his side who might eliminate these fools in an instant.
These operatives ought to serve another purpose, not perish in a meaningless, unwinnable conflict.
The lead agent signaled tactically; operatives from the descending helicopters quickly formed groups, surrounding Roald. Countless red dots converged on him, some crouching with anti-materiel weapons ready.
They seemed prepared.
The FBI agents felt victory was assured; Coulson, still grave, raised his hands high, making his credentials conspicuous.
“I’m Agent Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D., we’re on assignment—I believe I can explain the situation directly—”
His words were cut short as black mist suddenly appeared behind him.
The FBI agents froze, an inexplicable dread seeping into their minds, bodies trembling uncontrollably.
It felt as though they’d been stripped bare, wandering alone in darkness and frost, defenseless against unseen eyes in the night, facing the chill of death, terrified yet unable to pinpoint the danger, their skin crawling, limbs shivering.
Centered on Roald, the FBI’s weapons quickly rotted, all collapsing to the ground in terror.
[Ultimate Infection]
[Effect: Creates corrosive frost mist and fear, summons ghouls fivefold in energy—no living soul can aim a weapon at the Lich King!]
[Description: Your ghoul and fear-frost combo pack is sprinting freely on its delivery route; everything else is normal. Please sign upon receipt. We do not accept returns.]
The ghostly blue mist gradually engulfed the cowering operatives, frost and fear licking at everyone’s heart.
Coulson stood frozen, badge raised.
When he finally came to, he turned to find Nick Fury watching him intently.

Coulson felt he’d succeeded in verifying something, but in another sense, he’d failed.
“How strange.”
“Director, how did I end up here?”
He shivered as he spoke; an icy chill had seeped through him, rising from his heart outward. He awoke to find himself in his own room, with his Director gazing at him with “affection.”
“The rapid response team shipped you, delivered you to your door. I signed the receipt—remember to pay the difference later.”
Coulson: “……”
“Coulson, tell me—what happened at the scene?”
Nick Fury’s face was black and gleaming; to outsiders, no difference—always the same shade.
But Coulson knew his Director best; he saw an undeniable resolve in Fury’s eyes.
And most importantly, his eyes flashed tactically—twice.
That meant Fury was furious.
“To be honest, Director, I don’t understand what happened myself.”
Coulson started to speak, then shivered again. “Suddenly, fear welled up inside me, then I felt enveloped by cold, and when I awoke, I was here.”
“Look at this.”
Nick Fury handed Coulson a tablet. Who knew where this footage came from—the camera lay sideways on the ground, offering a narrow view of frost swirling on screen. When the frost dissipated, few remained standing…
“This is a dark spot we found on Sixth Avenue,” Fury explained, his brow tightly furrowed. “Among the icy blue mist, what are those dark shapes?”
“Skeletons? Or people not quite dead yet?”
Coulson knew exactly what Fury meant. He watched the footage closely; apart from the pale, axe-wielding figure, none of the dark shapes were familiar.
“These creatures—they’re like decaying bodies crawling out from the grave. Guess what that reminds me of?”
Fury’s expression became grave.
“This is desecration of death. Is our target researching some dangerous virus?”
Even now, Nick Fury refused to believe it could be magic.