American Comics : God Of Avengers

The note Nathan held trembled slightly in his hand, not because he was afraid, but because of what the note represented.

An underground organization with the power to resurrect the dead. A hidden group of elite ninjas who didn't just move in shadows but wielded powers akin to ninjutsu. And worse, they weren't merely soldiers—they were zealots, followers of some dark, ancient demon.

What kind of demon it was or the exact nature of its powers, Nathan didn't know.

But he did know the name of the group.

"The Hand," he murmured, reading the inked letters on the paper again. "They call themselves 'The Hand.'"

The very name carried weight. One of the most infamous villain organizations rooted in the grim underbelly of Hell's Kitchen, their notoriety ran deep. Wherever there was blood, corruption, or unspeakable rituals, the Hand was never far behind.

"This item," Nathan continued softly to himself, "is precious enough for the Hand to protect it. If they consider it valuable, then it's definitely worth looking into."

His curiosity, once a simmering ember, now flared brightly. He glanced at the bottom of the note where a location and date were scribbled: One week from now, near the Hudson dockyards.

"Plenty of time to prepare," he muttered.

Without a second thought, he crumpled the note and tossed it into a nearby trash bin.

"But first... back to my research."

He turned his attention back to the lab—a sterile but grotesque chamber of science and suffering. Lined with surgical tools, genome-mapping computers, and specimen tanks, the room was alive with the quiet hum of ongoing experiments.

Three subjects were strapped to operating tables—petty criminals from the city's underworld, previously picked off the streets. Their crimes had made them expendable. Now they served a new purpose.

Nathan approached the frailest of the three—skin hanging loosely over bones, eyes sunken in. The man whimpered as Nathan selected a surgical blade and adjusted his mask.

"Let's see how this newly acquired genome behaves when tested on living tissue," he said coldly.

Moments later, the lab filled with chilling screams. The subjects writhed as the scalpel met flesh, and wires connected to their bodies relayed biofeedback to Nathan's monitors. One of the men screamed louder than the others, a desperate, guttural sound of terror and agony.

Nathan paused. The noise was becoming a distraction.

He sighed and walked over to each table, firmly fastening gags over their mouths.

"You're not X-24," he muttered. "You're too fragile, too... loud."

Shaking his head in disappointment, he added, "But don't worry. I know how much pain the human body can endure without dying. You'll survive."

His voice was flat, emotionless—like someone commenting on the weather.

Despite their muffled protests and the streaks of blood beginning to soak the metal tables, Nathan's hands remained unnervingly steady. He moved with mechanical precision, his mind fully immersed in the science behind the madness.

The contrast between the tortured screams and the eerie calm was stark.

And yet, not all subjects reacted the same.

To the side, restrained on a different table, was a clone—derived from experimental tissue modified with enhanced regenerative genes.

Unlike the others, the clone didn't scream. It didn't thrash or weep. Its lips quivered faintly, and sweat beaded on its forehead, but not a sound escaped.

It was enduring every second in eerie silence.

The other subjects noticed.

During a brief lull, as Nathan cleaned tools and entered data into his computer, the men glanced sideways at the clone.

Their eyes—bloodshot and frantic—widened in disbelief. Who could endure such torment without screaming?

The clone met their gaze but said nothing. Its lips barely moved as if trying to speak, but its body remained frozen.

Too much neurotoxin still lingered in its system.

Over the next few days, Nathan dove deeper into his research. With every spare minute, he pored over biological databases, read peer-reviewed journals, and studied the structure of mutant DNA.

Armed with the harvested genomes from the clone and his own experimental injections, he conducted test after test—each subject enduring yet another trial in pain.

This was his twenty-third attempt.

Nathan made a small incision on the frail subject's side, drawing blood.

The man's body convulsed. His throat emitted a strangled growl, and his forehead veins bulged. But Nathan ignored the reaction.

His attention was fixated on the monitor.

He needed this experiment to work.

The previous twenty-two had been failures. Each time, he'd tried adjusting a fragment of the genetic structure—hoping to mimic the healing factor observed in the clone.

Now, though… now the readings were different.

Blood pooled, but something began to change.

"Wait..." he leaned in.

The bleeding slowed. Platelets and fibrinogen levels spiked sharply.

Then...

A scab formed.

Not just a slow, dry crust—a rapid, darkened layer that formed and then flaked off within moments. Beneath it, fresh, unscarred skin.

Nathan's eyes glowed with satisfaction. He tapped the keyboard, pulling up cellular microscopy.

On the screen, a stunning image played out: within the deep tissues of the wound, fluorescent markers highlighted explosive regeneration.

Tissue began to rebuild itself at an incredible speed, granulation cells forming and stitching muscle together faster than any normal human could manage.

The self-healing factor had been successfully generated.

A slow smile spread across Nathan's face.

"Success."

"In mere minutes, a deep wound that would take weeks for a normal human to heal has closed itself. I've replicated part of Wolverine's regenerative ability."

He pressed a button, freezing the scan at the peak of cellular activity.

"Not perfect yet. But I've broken through. A human with this level of healing… is no longer fully human."

He clenched his fist, feeling a chill of excitement creep up his spine.

"Even deep muscle tissue damage can be recovered from in minutes."

"With this self-healing ability, I've added a layer of survival that most men can't even dream of."

The joy on his face wasn't just scientific satisfaction—it was a madman's triumph. A god complex being forged one genome at a time.

Quickly, he typed up the results. Test logs, genome edits, error margins, cellular activity charts—all archived and backed up.

The moment the subject's wound healed, a chilling realization struck the other captives.

One of them, a man who had been begging for death just hours earlier, now looked at his own body with something close to awe—and horror.

He had gained something. Something terrifying.

The other two watched in paralyzed disbelief.

The pain. The blood. The screams. All of it… had created a miracle.

It was Nathan who had made it possible.

The man before them wasn't a scientist anymore.

He was something else. Something monstrous.

Young and handsome in appearance, calm and analytical in demeanor—but beneath it all, a calculating god of life and death.

They understood now—this wasn't a man they could hope to escape from.

This was their creator. Their captor. Their tormentor.

Nathan closed his laptop and cracked his neck.

His eyes flicked toward the last subject—the clone who had endured everything in silence.

"It's time," he said aloud.

He placed a fresh syringe on the table.

"I'm going to replicate the ability… in myself."

His voice was filled with calm anticipation, the same tone someone might use before unwrapping a gift.

He was ready to evolve.