At the center of where the field had been, Cloud was half-kneeling on the ground, holding the now deeply sleeping scarlet witch in his arms.
He carefully removed his relatively clean jacket and draped it over her.
Then, cradling her, he slowly rose and walked toward the Avengers, who stood outside the perimeter looking absolutely dumbstruck.
He gently transferred Wanda to Captain America, who had stepped forward to meet him.
"She was just... too tired."
Cloud looked at Wanda, still frowning slightly even in her dreams, and spoke softly, a hint of compassion in his eyes.
"She's a once-in-a-generation genius. But her power is like a divine sword without a sheath—it wounds others while cutting herself."
"And you can't give her a sheath."
He left that meaningful statement hanging, then turned to Natasha—whose expression had grown infinitely complex—and winked, flashing a roguish grin.
"So, her tutoring fees? Make sure your one-eyed director reimburses me."
With that, he turned and left amid the awed, grateful, and bewildered gazes of everyone present.
He left behind only a suave silhouette and a soft sigh carried away by the wind.
"Sigh, being a teacher is way more exhausting than being a Sovereign..."
Nick Fury's sleep quality had recently plummeted.
As Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., the planet's foremost spymaster, he had seen all manner of bizarre incidents.
From the super soldier of World War II, to the living fossil Captain thawed from the ice; from the tin-can billionaire falling from the sky, to the hammer-wielding alien muscleman claiming to be a prince of another realm.
He'd thought his nerves had been forged harder than a vibranium shield.
But the appearance of the name "Cloud" had completely shattered that confidence.
A chef who could knead hamburgers into Hadoukens with his bare hands.
An "urban manager" who could blow a breath and hang an entire gang from lampposts.
A "psychological counselor" who could stroll into a reality-distortion field like it was his backyard, then casually lull the rampaging Scarlet Witch to sleep.
Every report transmitted by his top agents—at great risk (mainly psychological)—landed like a hammer blow on his follicly-challenged head.
What the hell IS he?
This question had been circling his mind like a curse for seventy-two hours.
Finally, Fury reached a conclusion that sent chills down his own spine: their previous "potential deity" classification for Cloud had probably been too conservative.
This guy wasn't "potential" anything.
He was a genuine, bona fide god who'd popped out of some other dimensional universe!
And worse, a "problem deity" with an absolutely atrocious personality, completely illogical behavior, and a total disregard for conventional approaches.
Fury decided he couldn't let this continue.
Allowing an existence that couldn't be controlled or predicted to wander around New York's "starter village" was ten thousand times more dangerous than locking a hundred Hulks and Lokis in the same room.
He had to lay his cards on the table.
He had to personally meet this divine being, even if it cost him the remaining half of his hair.
And so, the day after Cloud had "lulled" Wanda to sleep—
A Quinjet bearing the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem, its design supremely futuristic, touched down silently in front of Cloud's favorite café.
Natasha Romanoff descended from the aircraft. Today she wore a sharp black tactical suit, expression serious, though deep in her eyes lurked a trace of poorly concealed tension.
She walked up to Cloud, who was leisurely sipping coffee and reading a newspaper (headline: "Mysterious Lamppost Vigilante Appears in New York—City Crime Rate Drops to Zero Overnight"), and stood at attention.
"Mr. Cloud," she said in a tone bordering on a formal report, "my superior, Director Nick Fury, would like to formally invite you for a friendly discussion."
Cloud set down the newspaper and let out a whistle. "Well, well, Miss Black Widow. So formal today? Has your director finally come around and decided to give me that flying ship as my personal yacht?"
The corner of Natasha's mouth twitched involuntarily once again.
"...The Director is waiting for you on the Helicarrier."
"Helicarrier? Sounds fancy." Cloud stood up and stretched lazily. "Alright then, on your account, I'll go meet your worrywart cyclops."
...
When Cloud first set foot on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Helicarrier, his "country bumpkin visiting the big city" performance made Agent Maria Hill, who was serving as his guide, feel a slight sense of superiority.
"Whoa! This thing actually flies?!"
"What kind of blast yield can this flight deck withstand? If I hit it with an Orochinagi, would the whole thing fall apart?"
"Those fighter jets look so cool! Though the firepower's pretty weak—probably not as powerful as one of our Maxima's sneezes."
He walked along, poking and prodding like a curious child, mouth running nonstop with various "professional" critiques and comparisons, causing Hill's expression to shift from initial pride to increasingly dark.
Especially when Cloud passed the armory and saw the energy weapons that were S.H.I.E.L.D.'s pride and joy, he shook his head with an expression of profound disappointment.
"Sigh, crude. Way too crude! The energy conversion rate is this low? The structure this simple? This is an insult to the very concept of energy! Your designers should be sent to our NESTS organization for a hundred remedial lessons!"
Hill felt her trigger finger getting itchy.
Finally, they arrived at the Supreme Command Center.
Before the massive circular command console, Nick Fury stood in his signature black leather coat, hands clasped behind his back, gazing down at the sea of clouds below through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows—striking what he considered his most "boss-like" pose.
"You came." Fury didn't turn around, speaking in a deep, pressure-laden tone.
But Cloud acted like he hadn't even noticed him. He walked straight to the window, stood shoulder to shoulder with Fury, and mimicked his pose—hands behind back, surveying the cloudscape.
"Mm, nice view," Cloud commented. "Just a bit narrow. And this ship flies too low. Not exciting at all."
"Our Infinite Manor floats in the stratosphere. You can even stargaze on clear nights. Occasionally we fish up a few meteorites for my Kula to snack on like lollipops."
A vein throbbed on Fury's forehead.
The "boss aura" he'd been cultivating was instantly annihilated by "fishing up meteorites for lollipops."
...
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