Peter knew the Vreedle Brothers.
How could he forget them? At the Galactic Conference on Behemoth Star Ring, those two menaces had been hired by Emperor Milleous of the Incursean Empire and caused absolute chaos—starting fights, triggering security alerts, and generally making nuisances of themselves with the kind of aggressive stupidity that required genuine talent.
But beyond that professional encounter, Peter had a more personal connection to the Vreedle family.
After Ma Vreedle and Aunt May had bonded—Peter still wasn't entirely clear on the details, only that it involved tea, excessive firepower, and what May insisted on calling "mom talk"—the massive matriarch had become a semi-regular visitor to Plumber headquarters.
Peter had witnessed Ma Vreedle having afternoon tea in the orbital station's observation lounge more than once, usually surrounded by various offspring. The woman could apparently produce unlimited biological weapons given sufficient water, which was both impressive and deeply disturbing from a reproductive biology standpoint.
However, despite Ma Vreedle's clear affection for all her children, Peter had noticed she showed particular favoritism toward one specific, chubby offspring who always sat closest to her during these social visits.
"How did they get here?" Peter whispered from his concealed position. "And more importantly, why were they arrested?"
This was Counter-Earth, completely isolated from the broader galactic community. The Vreedle Brothers showing up here couldn't possibly be coincidence.
"You are the intruders?" Lord Tyger approached the two prisoners, his massive form radiating authority as he towered over the captured Vreedles.
His feline features creased with genuine confusion as he examined them more closely. These creatures were clearly neither beastmen nor baseline humans—their gray-purple skin, unusual proportions, and crude features placed them in some third category entirely beyond his experience.
The revelation was troubling. If aliens were visiting Counter-Earth, it suggested their isolation might be compromised.
Sir Ram, however, seemed quite pleased by the development.
"Specimens I've never encountered before," he said with barely concealed eagerness, his hooved hands clasping together. "Perfect candidates for experimental analysis. We could learn so much from dissecting—I mean, studying—their physiological adaptations."
"I strongly advise you to release us immediately!" Octagon declared, his thin frame somehow producing a voice of surprising volume and strength.
Despite being captured, restrained, and surrounded by heavily armed warriors, the scrawny Vreedle showed absolutely no fear. Either he was supremely confident or terminally stupid. Possibly both.
"Release us right now," Octagon continued with manic intensity, "and we'll graciously allow you to keep your pathetic little planet as a gift! Otherwise—" his expression twisted into something meant to be threatening, "—I'll activate the legendary Annihilarrgh and blow your entire world into subatomic particles!"
"That's right!" Rhomboid agreed enthusiastically, his much larger frame nodding so vigorously his head looked in danger of falling off. "Total planetary annihilation! Boom! Nothing left but cosmic dust and regret!"
"Annihilarrgh?" Peter's whisper carried genuine alarm.
His mind immediately jumped to antimatter weapons—the kind of planet-killing ordnance the Plumbers themselves possessed for dealing with multiversal collision crises. Those devices required extremely specific handling protocols and security measures because the consequences of accidental detonation were... comprehensive.
As in "say goodbye to everything within several light-seconds" comprehensive.
Lady Vermin apparently shared Peter's skepticism, though her reasoning was different.
The diminutive white mouse extended one paw, and with a casual gesture of what appeared to be localized telekinesis, summoned an object from the Vreedles' confiscated equipment pile. A small black box—roughly the size of a hamburger container—floated through the air and settled into her palm.
"The Annihilarrgh," she said, her high-pitched voice dripping with sarcasm. "You wouldn't happen to be referring to this pathetic little box, would you?"
She held it up for everyone to see, turning it slowly to display its... underwhelming construction.
The device was laughably simple. The small box appeared to be divided into two compartments—one half empty space, the other containing what looked like basic circuitry. A single red button dominated the front panel, the kind of comically oversized activation switch you'd find on a roadside children's ride.
Lady Vermin's whiskers twitched with contempt. "Such a tiny, crude little contraption, and you have the audacity to claim it could destroy our entire world? Please. This looks like something a child assembled from spare parts."
She wasn't wrong. Even Peter, from his hidden vantage point, felt secondhand embarrassment for the Vreedles.
Even if that thing contained antimatter, Peter thought skeptically, it would require literally trillions of tons to destroy a planet this size. That box couldn't possibly hold sufficient material for...
He trailed off as uncomfortable doubt crept in.
The Plumbers possessed their own antimatter weapons—the ones they'd used to destroy alternate Earths during collision events. But even with the organization's advanced technology and alien materials science, each bomb stood several meters tall and massed like a small rocket. They were sophisticated pieces of military engineering requiring careful assembly and precise timing mechanisms.
This thing looked like a joke prop from a comedy sketch.
Clearly, Lady Ursula and the other Knights shared Peter's assessment.
Lady Vermin actually smiled—a disturbing expression on rodent features—as her finger moved toward the red button, clearly intending to press it just to expose this ridiculous bluff for what it obviously was.
Her finger descended with deliberate slowness, savoring the anticipated humiliation.
And Peter's spider-sense exploded.
The familiar tingle that usually warned him of incoming danger transformed into a screaming klaxon of pure existential terror. It felt like hundreds of chainsaws were simultaneously carving through his cerebral cortex, every nerve ending in his body shrieking warnings of imminent catastrophic death.
Not just his death. Everyone's death. The entire planet's death.
Wait—don't tell me that ridiculous thing is REAL?!
Peter's conscious mind was still processing the impossibility, still trying to reconcile "looks like garbage" with "spider-sense says we're all about to die."
But his body had already moved.
Training and enhanced reflexes took over, bypassing conscious thought entirely. His left hand fired a web-bullet with perfect accuracy—the projectile struck Lady Vermin directly in her eyes, expanding on impact into a mass of sticky webbing that covered her entire face.
Simultaneously, his right hand shot a web-line that attached to the Annihilarrgh. A sharp tug yanked the small black box from her suddenly blind and flailing grip.
The device flew through the air in a gentle arc, Peter's enhanced perception tracking its trajectory with microscopic precision. He caught it carefully—so carefully—cradling it like a live grenade with a faulty pin.
Which, apparently, it basically was.
"Who's there?!" the Knights of Wundagore shouted in alarm and outrage.
Their heads swiveled toward the source of the webs, enhanced predator senses trying to lock onto the intruder. Sir Ram's expression twisted with disgust—probably at the indignity of someone interfering in their interrogation. Lady Ursula's face lit up with barely contained excitement, her warrior instincts recognizing a genuine threat and therefore a worthy opponent.
"Spider-Man?!" Octagon and Rhomboid exclaimed simultaneously, their voices carrying obvious recognition despite their current predicament.
The name itself caused immediate confusion among the Knights of Wundagore.
"Spider-Man?" Lord Tyger repeated, his feline features showing puzzlement. "An arachnid beastman? But we have no spider species among our population. The High Evolutionary deemed them... unsuitable for elevation."
The misunderstanding was immediate and obvious. They thought Peter was some kind of spider-themed anthropomorphic creature, another beastman from an unknown region or perhaps a foreign creation.
Peter would have found it amusing under different circumstances.
Even with the confusion, the Knights' fury was unanimous.
"Who gave you the audacity," Sir Ram roared, his voice carrying the full weight of offended aristocratic authority, "to trespass upon sacred ground?! To interfere with official High Evolutionary business?!"
His eyes blazed with self-righteous indignation. This tower was holy space, their inner sanctum, the seat of Counter-Earth's power. For anyone to infiltrate it represented not just a security breach but a fundamental violation of their worldview.
"Seize him!" the goat-headed Knight commanded, gesturing imperiously toward Peter's position. "Take him for interrogation and processing!"
"Yes, sir!" Lady Ursula accepted the order with evident enthusiasm.
Among the Four Knights, there existed an implicit hierarchy despite their theoretically equal status. Lord Tyger commanded the most respect through sheer presence and wisdom. Sir Ram held second position through administrative authority and scientific expertise.
Lady Ursula ranked third—but she possessed qualities the others lacked. Where Lord Tyger was measured and Sir Ram was calculating, Ursula was pure aggressive joy. She loved fighting. Lived for it. The prospect of testing herself against a worthy opponent made her blood sing.
And this Spider-Man—whoever or whatever he was—had just demonstrated abilities that put him firmly in the "worthy opponent" category.
She lunged forward with startling speed for something her size, massive paws reaching to grab Peter in a crushing bear hug that would immobilize most opponents through sheer strength differential.
Peter dodged with casual ease, his enhanced reflexes making her attack seem to move through molasses.
"Whoa there!" he said cheerfully, tucking the Annihilarrgh carefully into his utility belt—where it would hopefully remain stable. "You're being a bit too forward. To be honest, I'm not really into girls who literally throw themselves at potential dates. I prefer a little mystery, some courtship, maybe dinner first..."
He raised his arms to block Ursula's follow-up strike, her massive paw slamming into his forearms with enough force to pulverize concrete. The impact created a shockwave that rattled nearby equipment.
Peter's arms didn't budge.
"The legendary bear paw," Peter said with mock curiosity, examining her furry appendage like a scientist studying an interesting specimen. "Tell me something—do you secretly use these to scoop honey from beehives? Is that a guilty pleasure? Do you get embarrassed when other predators catch you doing it?"
Ursula wasn't angered by the mockery. If anything, she seemed excited.
"Your strength exceeds my initial assessment," she said, pressing down with increasing force.
Her arms could crush stone, pulverize steel, bend reinforced support beams. She was exerting enough pressure to flatten most organic beings into paste. And yet this stranger's arms remained steady, holding her at bay as if her full strength was merely inconvenient rather than overwhelming.
"Now I believe you truly might be a beastman like us," Ursula continued, her voice carrying notes of respect. "No baseline human could possess such power."
"You might want to reconsider that assumption," Peter said.
He grabbed her wrist with one hand, his grip suddenly vice-like and inescapable. Then he leaped lightly into the air—barely seemed to exert himself—and delivered a perfectly placed kick to her sternum.
Lady Ursula went flying backward, her massive frame tumbling across the polished floor before crashing into an ornate pillar with enough force to crack the stone.
She groaned but was already climbing to her feet, clearly more thrilled than injured by the exchange.
"He's really quite impressive," Lady Vermin announced, having finally torn the webbing from her face.
The white mouse's beady eyes gleamed with something that might have been admiration as she studied Peter's lean, athletic form moving with inhuman grace and power. "I quite like him. Strong, fast, clearly intelligent given that infiltration... yes, very appealing."
"Who's developing a crush on me?" Peter looked toward his new fan with exaggerated excitement.
His expression immediately fell when he realized which Knight had spoken.
"Oh," he said with obvious disappointment. "Sorry, but you look like you escaped from a laboratory cage. No offense, but I'm just not into the whole 'literal rodent' aesthetic. It's a deal-breaker."
"Such a charming tongue," Lady Vermin said with an unsettling laugh, her whiskers twitching with amusement.
She darted forward with surprising speed for something so small, one paw extending with claws suddenly visible and razor-sharp. The strike was aimed at Peter's face—specifically his eyes, going for a disabling blow that would end the fight quickly.
Peter bent backward with gymnastic flexibility, his spine curving until he was nearly parallel with the floor. The clawed paw passed millimeters from his nose.
Then he swept his leg in a low arc, his enhanced strength driving the kick with enough force to shatter bones despite Lady Vermin's small size.
The white mouse squeaked in genuine surprise as her legs were knocked out from under her. She tumbled sideways, her small body spinning through the air with undignified flailing.
Peter's spider-sense screamed a warning.
He didn't have time to consciously process the threat before reacting. His body twisted mid-recovery, but it was already too late—Lord Tyger had moved with the deadly speed of an apex predator, covering the distance between them in a blur of orange-and-black striped fur.
Massive arms wrapped around Peter from behind in a crushing embrace, pinning his own arms to his sides. Lord Tyger's strength was formidable—easily several tons of pressure, enough to restrain most enhanced beings through sheer overwhelming force.
And directly in front of Peter, Sir Ram was already charging.
The goat-headed Knight lowered his head, those distinctive curved horns pointing forward like battering rams. He accelerated like a locomotive, building momentum with every thundering step, the spiraled horns designed by evolution and enhanced by the High Evolutionary's modifications to pierce and gore.
Peter was caught perfectly—immobilized from behind, impaled from the front.
"Oops..." Peter said with obviously fake concern. "This seems problematic."
He tilted his head as much as Lord Tyger's grip allowed, trying to look at the massive feline restraining him. "Hey, kitty cat? Big guy? How about we negotiate? You let me go, I don't embarrass you in front of your colleagues? Everyone saves face?"
Lord Tyger didn't respond verbally. He simply increased the pressure, his powerful arms constricting like pythons.
"Looks like negotiations have failed," Peter sighed dramatically. "Shame. I tried the diplomatic approach."
Then he moved.
Peter's muscles suddenly surged with strength that dwarfed what he'd displayed before—the gene-completion serum's full enhancement unleashing nearly a hundred tons of force through his compact frame. The crushing embrace that should have restrained him became a minor inconvenience.
Lord Tyger felt his arms being forced apart, his incredible strength rendered inadequate against something operating on a completely different scale. For a horrifying moment, he genuinely thought this stranger might tear his limbs completely off.
Before Lord Tyger could adjust his grip, Peter grabbed him—not gently—and hurled the massive warrior backward with casual violence.
Lord Tyger's body flew through the air like a furry missile, directly into the path of the charging Sir Ram.
"Ahhh!" Lord Tyger screamed in alarm, his warrior's instincts recognizing the incoming collision but his momentum making evasion impossible.
Sir Ram couldn't stop his charge—the momentum was too great, the distance too short. His spiraled horns, designed to gore enemies, slammed into his own ally with brutal force.
The impact was spectacular and painful for both Knights.
But Peter wasn't focused on that collision anymore. His attention remained locked on Sir Ram specifically.
The goat-headed warrior recovered with impressive speed, shaking off Lord Tyger and resuming his charge despite the setback. His eyes blazed with fury, horns lowered, hooves thundering against the floor as he accelerated past one hundred kilometers per hour.
Peter made no attempt to dodge.
He stood perfectly still, his multiple spider-eyes tracking Sir Ram's approach with mathematical precision. Calculating angle, velocity, point of impact. His enhanced perception made the charging warrior seem to move in slow motion, every detail crystal clear.
The horns came closer. Closer.
Until Sir Ram was right there—close enough to smell the musk of enraged herbivore, close enough to see individual hairs in his pelt, close enough to count the ridges on those spiraling horns that could punch through steel plating.
Peter's fist lashed out.
THOOM!
The sound was like a cannon firing in an enclosed space. The impact created a shockwave that rattled equipment and sent papers flying in all directions.
Sir Ram's head snapped back from the punch, his eyes rolling up to show only whites as his brain desperately tried to process what had just happened. His body continued forward for another meter purely from momentum before his legs gave out.
He collapsed in a heap, unconscious before he hit the ground.
And his horns—those magnificent spiraling horns, harder than reinforced bone, capable of piercing armor—had shattered into several pieces from the impact.
Fragments scattered across the floor like broken pottery.
"Hisssss—" Peter sucked air through his teeth, clutching his punching hand and howling dramatically. "Ow ow ow! My hand! I think I broke my hand! That really hurt!"
His screams were comically over-the-top, his body language suggesting mortal injury.
The three Knights who remained conscious—Lord Tyger, Lady Ursula, and Lady Vermin—stared in shock.
But they didn't dare approach.
Because they'd all seen what just happened. One punch had sent Sir Ram's eyes rolling back in his skull. One punch had shattered horns that could pierce tank armor.
And this "Spider-Man" claimed his hand hurt from the impact?
What kind of monster is this? they collectively wondered.
What if that punch had landed directly on one of our skulls instead of the horns?
Are our heads harder than reinforced keratin?
The silence stretched as all three Knights performed rapid mental calculations about their own mortality and came up with answers they didn't like.