The Citi Field stadium was at capacity. All 85,000 seats had sold out weeks in advance, and demand hadn't stopped there. Outside the gates, a staff member worked a megaphone.
"Please don't crowd the entrance. Viewers without tickets cannot be admitted. The match is available on live broadcast and multiple rebroadcast channels."
The appeal did nothing. The crowd held its ground, packed shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalks and plaza, watching the stadium walls like they might become transparent if they stared hard enough.
Inside, the 137 registered participants had gathered on the competition floor. The host's image filled the main screen overhead.
"Welcome to the first World Martial Arts Tournament. Thank you all for traveling from across the globe — you've earned your place here."
"This event is jointly presented by Universal Capsule Company, Red Ribbon Group, and Vanko Industries."
"One hundred and thirty-seven extraordinary competitors have registered from around the world."
Skye scanned the crowd and said, "I didn't realize there were this many."
Donnie Gill, standing at her shoulder, nodded. "Neither did I. I figured maybe a few dozen. A hundred and thirty-seven?"
The contestants nearby glanced at them but said nothing. Most of them were thinking the same thing. There were only three officially recognized superhuman teams — the Avengers, The Paragons, and the Afterlife Team — and not every member of each had registered. Yet the floor was packed.
The host continued:
"Of the one hundred and thirty-seven participants, only eight will advance to the finals."
"To determine those eight, we begin today with the preliminary rounds. Competitors have been divided into four zones. The top two finishers from each zone will earn a place in the finals."
"Competition format is one-on-one, ring-out rules. A contestant loses by falling outside the ring boundary or by being rendered unable to continue."
"There is one absolute rule: killing is strictly prohibited."
"Regarding equipment — each competitor may carry one set of self-developed armor. No mid-match reinforcement, no remote upgrades."
"Preliminary bouts have a thirty-minute time limit. If no winner is determined within that window, the referee will render a decision."
"Now — zone assignments. Please check the number on your slip and proceed to your designated area."
Staff members moved through the floor with cardboard boxes. The draw began.
Ivan Vanko glanced at Tony Stark and said, "I'm hoping we don't share a zone. I'd rather not run into you before the finals."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Scared of washing out before the main event?"
"No," Vanko said, flat. "Thirty minutes isn't long enough for us. I want the finals."
A contestant nearby stared at the two of them with open dread on his face. "That's not fair — those are battle suits. How many people here can even put a dent in one of those?"
Another, whose measured combat power sat in the low teens, exhaled quietly and said, "I just hope we don't end up in the same zone as them."
The draws continued. Skye opened her slip. "Ninety-three. Donnie — what'd you get?"
Donnie Gill looked at his. "Seventy."
Steve Rogers walked over, bracket already checked. "You're both in Zone Three."
Skye looked at Donnie. "So we might actually meet in the preliminaries."
"Not necessarily." Donnie studied the bracket. "Our numbers are spread apart. If we both keep winning, we'd only meet near the end — if at all. There's a real chance we both make it through."
He looked at Steve. "What's your number, Captain?"
"Thirty-five. Zone Two."
Jessica Jones materialized at Steve's elbow. "Zone Two? Then we're not drawing each other in the early rounds."
Skye and Donnie both looked at her.
"I didn't realize so many Avengers had signed up," Skye said. "Cap, are the other Avanger competing too?"
She craned her neck, scanning the floor.
Jessica said, "Thor — I haven't seen him since the Battle of London. He probably won't be here. Banner didn't register either."
Skye's expression deflated slightly. "And heavyweights like you two still have to fight through the prelims."
Jessica smiled. "It's a chance to spar against the best in the world. Nobody's sitting that out. And honestly? I want to see if I can actually make the top eight."
Donnie looked between her and Steve. "Then I'm hoping to meet both of you in the finals. I want to know where I actually stand against the Avengers."
"Captain, Jessica — don't let anyone knock you out before we get there."
Steve and Jessica both smiled. "That's the plan," Steve said. "See you on the other side."
The best box in the arena — largest footprint, best sight lines, walls thick enough to hold a private conversation — had Smith Doyle seated between Bulma and Fox.
He was working through the registered participant list.
The names came back familiar: Ivan Vanko, Tony Stark, Sif, Donnie Gill, Skye, Danny Rand, Shang-Chi, Wong, T'Challa, Blonsky, Agatha Harkness, and dozens more. His gaze settled on a few specific entries: Blonsky, Agatha, Gilgamesh of the Eternals, Thena, and Wong.
What he couldn't figure out was why Gilgamesh and Thena — the two strongest members of the Eternal team — had signed up but weren't on the active roster. They'd registered. They were listed. But they weren't competing.
He would've liked that match. Thena was the closest thing Earth had to a living weapon with millennia of refinement behind it. There were things in her combat style that simply didn't exist in any other frame of reference.
What had actually happened was straightforward, if he'd known. When registration opened, Ajak had pushed for full Eternal participation — get everyone in, try to own the top eight. Ikaris had killed it immediately: non-interference with human affairs. The principle had held, and only Gilgamesh and Thena had been cleared to enter. Then something had shifted internally and they'd withdrawn from active competition before the brackets finalized. They were still present as spectators, which told Smith the withdrawal wasn't hostile — just internal politics.
He folded the list.
"Who do you think makes the top eight?" he asked.
Bulma said, "Whoever it is, I'll bet the combat power readers go critical."
Smith smiled. "Probably." He glanced at Fox. "Ross actually sent Blonsky."
Fox said, "Secretary Ross's office confirmed it was a gesture of support for the event. His words."
"Sure it was," Smith said.
In the government VIP box, Ross had Betty and Bruce Banner on either side of him.
He looked at Banner and said, "Does Blonsky have a shot at first place?"
Banner considered it. "Top eight, maybe. First place — the competition's too stacked. Several of these fighters already blew out the testing equipment during screening. Honestly, I'm not sure anyone has a clear read on a few of these participants."
Ross drew on his cigar. "Why aren't you in it? Still can't keep the other guy controlled?"
Banner looked at the bracket for a moment. He thought about the prize at the center of all this, and about what the Hulk's interpretation of "no killing" looked like when adrenaline took over.
"The early rounds are full of people the Hulk could put through the floor without registering it as effort. And once I'm in that form, the thirty-minute time limit becomes somebody else's emergency." He paused. "I'm not confident I can stay within the rules."
Ross thought about the night Blonsky had taken a full Hulk kick to the chest and barely survived it. He looked at the rulebook again and nodded. "Fair point. Blonsky in Super Soldier baseline is more than enough for the preliminary field."
The Eternals had their own box.
Ikaris had argued against attending at all, but everyone had come anyway — settling in with the patience of people who had watched ten thousand years of human history and knew how to be spectators.
Ajak said, "From what I've gathered, the Dragon Ball competition cycle has been formally concluded. This tournament is its replacement."
Ikaris shrugged. "Thena's Mahd Wy'ry is cured. We don't need a wish. This is exactly why we shouldn't be tangled up in human business." He kept his eyes on the arena below. "A global broadcast with Thena and Gilgamesh in the ring would have drawn questions we couldn't answer."
Kingo leaned back with the look of someone who had made a financial decision he was still processing. "I bought a fair amount of those round stones when prices were still high. They've dropped significantly."
Ajak said, "Thena's condition being cured doesn't mean we've eliminated every future scenario where someone on this team needs that kind of intervention. One wish held in reserve is worth considerably more than what those stones cost."
She kept the rest to herself — that the real reason they needed a wish had nothing to do with Mahd Wy'ry, and that the actual truth wasn't something she could put on the table. It had already pushed Thena past her limit once. She wasn't going to test the others.
Everyone around her accepted the explanation without argument. Everyone except Ikaris, who looked out at the arena floor without comment, something quiet and calculating working behind his eyes.
Down in the audience, a cluster of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents moved through the crowd with tablets and earpieces, logging every fighter they could observe — combat style, estimated output, faction affiliation. Recruitment assessments in progress before the first bell rang.
They weren't the only ones taking notes. Other organizations had people here. So did several private interests. Jiaying had come herself, sitting a few sections over from the S.H.I.E.L.D. cluster, eyes on the floor.
The host's voice filled the stadium.
"Would competitors number sixty-nine and seventy from Zone Three please take the stage."
In the waiting area, Skye blinked. "That's fast."
Up in the Inhumans' section, Jiaying straightened slightly. Gordon, beside her, said, "Skye's going first."
"She'll be fine," Jiaying said, her gaze already on the ring.
Coulson was somewhere in the general audience, standing near Ward and Simmons. He watched as Skye stepped through the ropes.
Her opponent was already waiting — a man built like a wall that had decided to become a person, with the proportions of a professional sumo wrestler scaled past any ordinary limit. Each step he took across the canvas sent a visible tremor through the ring.
He looked her over.
"A girl." He said it the way someone might note a minor scheduling inconvenience. "Just tap out. You've got no shot."
Skye kept her expression flat. "We're both superhumans. That line doesn't work here."
The referee stepped between them. "Thirty-minute time limit. Begin on my signal."
The sumo wrestler rolled his neck. "Won't need three."
"Begin!"
He moved immediately — tucking his limbs in and launching forward like a flesh-and-bone wrecking ball, low to the ground and accelerating fast.
"Meat Bomb Tank!"
Skye planted her feet and thrust one palm forward.
The vibration wave detonated on contact.
The charge didn't reverse — it corkscrewed. His forward momentum converted into a violent lateral spin, and he went sideways across the ring like a top that had been kicked off a table, carving a wide arc before grinding to a stop against the ropes.
In the waiting area, a cluster of fighters with combat readings in the low teens went very quiet.
"Power type," one of them said, almost to himself. "Not physical enhancement. A power type."
Several others nodded, silently recalculating.
In the audience, Ward looked at Coulson. "You look surprised."
"A little," Coulson said. His voice stayed even, but something moved behind his eyes. "The last time I saw her, she was running an unsecured laptop out of a van."
Ward said, "Her mother's a superhuman. Maybe it was always in there."
Simmons frowned. "I don't think superhuman abilities typically work that way."
"Maybe she's an exception," Ward said.
In the waiting area, Donnie Gill had his eyes on the ring, watching the sumo wrestler slowly pull himself back upright along the ropes.
He didn't look away.