"This guy was personally chosen by the Ancient One. His talent in the mystic arts isn't much worse than Wanda's."
As he spoke, Carl glanced at the cloak lazily propped up on the bar like it was a person. The cloak now belonged to him—he wondered what Strange would wear when the time came.
"Tch~~ Him? Compare to Wanda? Wanda could let him use both hands and feet, and just one look from her would turn him into dust."
Skye didn't believe it at all. She had heard Wanda admit many times that she wasn't a match for the Ancient One, but Skye had never actually seen the Ancient One in action. What she had seen was Wanda's power—and that was far beyond what any third-rate sorcerer could hope to achieve.
"Well… he probably can't beat Wanda, but if Wanda hadn't learned the magic from the Darkhold, then the outcome would be hard to say…"
Carl thought of Wanda's descent into darkness in his previous life. Honestly, if she hadn't mastered dark magic, she might not have been Strange's match. But now? Wanda would never fall like that again. Vision had already been personally "dealt with" by Carl, and the Mind Stone was sitting safely in his spatial inventory. For Wanda to lose control now, Carl himself would have to die—and that simply wasn't going to happen.
"You really think that highly of him?"
Gwen looked at Carl, chewing on fruit as she spoke, her words slightly muffled.
"It's not about me thinking highly of him. He is a genius when it comes to magic. Maybe he's just naturally attuned to it—even forbidden spells, he can pick them up instantly."
Carl recalled how Strange had used the Time Stone for the first time and instinctively learned to manipulate time. Just thinking about it was terrifying.
"Wanda, when he heads to Kamar-Taj, let's go take a look."
Wanda nodded. She was also curious about this man whom both Carl and the Ancient One regarded so highly.
---
Meanwhile, Strange was still undergoing rehabilitation.
Although the second surgery had been quite successful, his hands continued to tremble uncontrollably, and their dexterity was greatly reduced. Returning to surgery was out of the question.
"Useless… this rehab is completely useless!"
Strange tore off the rehabilitation gloves. His hands still couldn't exert proper strength—even something as simple as the gloves was beyond him.
"Don't get discouraged, man. This stuff really helps—it'll speed up the recovery of your muscles and ligaments. It's just that your injuries are still fresh. Rehab takes time."
The orderly guiding Strange through therapy spoke calmly. He had seen countless patients like this—people who gave up on themselves. Strange wasn't even the hardest to deal with.
Strange shot him a disdainful look. He knew that even the orderlies here were graduates of prestigious universities—working this job was part of their internship. Every intern had to start as an orderly.
"Tell me, genius—answer me honestly. Have you ever seen someone with nerve and ligament damage this severe recover using this bullshit therapy?"
Strange sneered. Easy for him to talk—it wasn't his hands that were destroyed.
But the orderly's next words stunned him.
"I actually have. Last year. Workplace accident. Spinal injury."
The words hit Strange like a hammer, but the orderly continued.
"One of his legs was completely paralyzed due to nerve damage in the spine. He had to use a wheelchair. The nerve damage even affected his shoulder—he'd get sudden bursts of pain."
Strange listened intently. He wasn't about to miss even the slightest chance of recovery—yet this intern was oddly taking his time.
"He came here three times a week for rehab. Then one day, he just stopped showing up. I even thought he'd died. But then one day, I saw him on the street. Want to guess what happened?"
"What happened?"
Strange asked immediately.
"He walked right past me—just like a normal person."
"Walked past you?"
Strange stared at him in disbelief.
"That's impossible. Complete nonsense. Unless you show me his medical records!"
He refused to believe it. Spinal damage affecting a leg and shoulder—leading to paralysis? Even if cured, there was no way someone like that could walk normally. Not needing a wheelchair would already be a miracle.
"Come on, you're a doctor—you know how hard it is to access medical records."
The orderly shot him down bluntly.
---
After finishing rehab and returning home, Strange took out a notebook, intending to write down every treatment method he knew and send them to renowned doctors around the world.
But his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
His writing was crooked and distorted—he couldn't even form a complete sentence.
Finally, frustration overwhelmed him.
He snapped.
Strange began smashing everything in sight. Furniture, decorations—anything within reach was destroyed.
---
That night, curled up in a corner, Strange looked like a homeless man.
His luxurious apartment was now a complete mess. Broken fragments littered the floor. Even the refrigerator had been knocked over, its contents scattered everywhere.
At that moment, the door opened.
Palmer walked in.
Seeing the devastation—and Strange huddled in the corner—she understood. The once-invincible man had finally been crushed by reality.
She set down the food she brought along with a document folder, then walked toward him.
"Stop. Leave. Right now."
Strange suddenly looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, veins visible—he looked almost insane.
"Stephen, you need to accept reality. Seeing you like this breaks my heart. We've done everything we could. Some things are just beyond our control. This isn't the end of the world—you'll find something else to give your life meaning again. Look at yourself—you're no different from the homeless outside. Please… stop torturing yourself."
Palmer knelt down and embraced him.
But Strange shoved her away.
"No… I won't accept it… Without surgery, my life has no meaning. I'm a doctor, Palmer. The best neurosurgeon in New York—no, in all of America! I can't lose my hands. I can't!!"
He roared in despair.
"Get out! Leave right now!!"
Strange screamed at her, as if trying to vent every ounce of pain and frustration inside him.
Palmer didn't get angry.
She knew he needed to release it—if he kept it bottled up, he would eventually break completely.
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