"Mr. Stark, I hope you return from this test in one piece. I have no desire to see my mission marked as a failure."
Pakkun's voice was dry, laced with a fatigue that had nothing to do with combat.
"Why not wait a few more days? My protection detail is nearly at its end. Once the month is up, you can blow yourself up to your heart's content."
The ninja dog couldn't help but vent. Over the past two weeks, Tony Stark's 'harassment' had reached insufferable levels. When the billionaire wasn't obsessing over his new armor, he was busy playing matchmaker for Pakkun.
Indeed—Tony was trying to find Pakkun a girlfriend.
After learning that he couldn't obtain a summoning contract of his own, Tony had set his sights on Pakkun's lineage. He figured that if he couldn't have the master, he could at least adopt the pups. With Pakkun's superior genes, any offspring were bound to be extraordinary.
But in Pakkun's eyes, these ordinary local dogs were beneath contempt. To a sentient, powerful ninja dog, a common canine was a different species entirely.
The gap between them was like that of a modern scholar and a primitive caveman—there was simply no common ground for communication.
Tony let out a helpless shrug. He knew he had overstepped, but who could resist the allure of a talking, battle-ready ninja dog?
"Have a little faith in my genius, Pakkun. This suit is the safest piece of equipment ever forged."
Tony ceased the banter and reached for the gleaming faceplate on his workbench.
"Jarvis, are you there?"
"At your service, sir."
Tony snapped the mask into place. A digital world bled into his vision, glowing with icons and data streams.
"Engage heads-up display."
"Check."
"Import all selected flight programs from the main system."
"Confirmed, sir."
Tony scanned the laboratory. Information tags flickered over every object his gaze brushed past. When his eyes landed on the small dog lounging on the floor, a red warning box flashed:
Target: Ninja Dog - Pakkun. > Threat Level: Extremely High.
Once the files were synced and the flight path plotted, Tony took a deep breath.
"Commence virtual systems check."
A wireframe model of the Mark 2 shimmered on his HUD.
"Reset priorities. Calibrate working conditions. Check control surfaces."
"All systems green, sir," Jarvis replied, operating the mechanical joints of the armor in a synchronized dance.
"Prepare to cycle power. Start data analysis." Tony paused, then added, "Actually, skip that. Check the weather and air traffic control. Start listening to ground signals."
Jarvis hesitated. "Sir, I must register a formal objection. There is a mountain of data left to analyze—"
"Jarvis," Tony interrupted, his voice buzzing with adrenaline. "Sometimes you have to run before you can walk. Now, let's go."
"3... 2... 1!"
Flame erupted from the boots and palms of the Mark 2. With a deafening roar, Tony Stark streaked out of the underground garage, a silver bullet piercing the sky.
Pakkun rolled over on the cold floor, letting out a muffled grunt.
"Finally. That annoying brat is gone."
Inside the cockpit of the suit, Tony was screaming—partly in terror, mostly in pure, unadulterated joy.
"Control is responsive! Smooth as silk!"
A Ferris wheel appeared in the distance. Tony banked hard, circling the structure with effortless grace. Through his scanners, he caught sight of a young boy frozen in mid-lick of an ice cream cone.
The child's jaw hit his chest, the scoop of vanilla sliding off the cone and onto the ground as the 'Iron Man' roared past.
Tony didn't linger. He angled his palms toward the stars.
"Let's see what this girl can really do. Jarvis, what's the record for the SR-71 Blackbird?"
"The highest recorded altitude for the Blackbird is 85,000 feet, sir."
Tony looked up at the darkening blue of the upper atmosphere.
"Records were made to be broken! Push it!"
The Mark 2 surged upward like a rocket. Jarvis's voice began a rhythmic countdown of the ascent.
"50,000 feet!"
"60,000 feet!"
"70,000 feet!"
"Higher!" Tony shouted. "Give me more!"
The altimeter blurred past 80,000... then 85,000. It didn't stop until the dial hit 90,000 feet.
Tony hung there, suspended between the curve of the Earth and the void of space. He was breathless, staring down at the world beneath his boots.
The Mark 2 had performed flawlessly. Thanks to the warnings from Shiranui Hayate, Tony had anticipated the icing disaster that should have occurred in the thin air. He had integrated a gold-titanium alloy into the frame from the start, leaving the armor pristine and functional in the killing cold.
After savoring the silence of the heavens, Tony banked for home.
Minutes later, he hovered over his villa.
"Power down!"
"Sir, I wouldn't recommend—"
The systems went dark. Gravity took hold.
Tony didn't glide; he fell. He smashed through the roof like a meteoric hammer, splintering a grand piano, snapping floor joists, and finally plunging through the first floor into the basement. He landed with a sickening crunch directly on top of one of his favorite luxury cars.
Pakkun, watching the wreckage from a safe distance, covered his eyes with a single paw.
It was too pathetic to look at.
Still, the dog sensed Tony's heartbeat. He was alive—just incredibly stupid.
Nearby, 'Butterfinger' the robot arm rolled over and immediately began dousing the silver armor with a fire extinguisher. Tony looked up through the settling dust, saw the foam spraying his face, and simply laid his head back down in defeat.
Later, after Jarvis and Pakkun had helped him out of the mangled suit, Tony sat at his workbench. A bag of ice was pressed against his aching skull.
Pakkun paced beside him, his voice a low growl of "I told you so."
"I warned you, Tony. I told you to be careful..."
Tony ignored him, his eyes drifting to a package that had arrived ten days ago. It was from Pepper Potts.
He pulled it toward him, setting the ice aside. Inside a transparent glass case sat his original, crude Arc Reactor—the one he had built in a cave with a box of scraps.
Etched into the base were the words: Proof that Tony Stark has a heart.
A faint, genuine smile touched Tony's lips.
On the other side of New York, Shiranui Hayate had finished his evening ritual.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, the system interface shimmering before him. Today was the day. He felt the itch of destiny in his fingertips.
He had ten ordinary treasure chests to open.
In this system, these chests were a gamble. They could contain copper, reputation, gold, or the coveted fragments of B and C-rank shinobi. If he was truly lucky, a recruitment scroll might appear.
Hayate pressed his palms together, whispering a traveler's incantation from a world he once knew—a mantra for the desperate gambler.
"A single cloud in the northwestern sky... a lone crow lost in a flock of phoenixes."
He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing.
"Luck is for the weak; today, I rely on the gacha gods. Ten-roll... OPEN!"