473 C473 Ego Destroyed

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"Is that all you've got?" Peter asked as Namor struggled to pick himself up off the floor. "Because I thought you'd be a bit stronger…" He taunted as Namor rose to his feet, blood dripping from his mouth. "Ah, there he is! The great Namor stands to his feet. What an accomplishment."

The tension in the throne room was palpable as Namor glared angrily toward Peter, his eyes burning in rage. The guards had retreated to the perimeter, forming a wide circle around the combatants. Their loyalty to their king was unwavering, and they chanted Namor's name, their voices filled with conviction.

Namor, his regal attire torn and bloodstained from the previous hit, tightened his grip on the gleaming spear he wielded. "You may have caught me off guard earlier, but you won't win this fight so easily," he declared, his voice tinged with the weight of his ego.

Peter merely raised an eyebrow beneath his mask, his expression unreadable. With a casual flick of his wrist, he beckoned his opponent forward, his demeanor relaxed and unguarded.

Namor lunged forward with remarkable speed, thrusting the spear toward Peter's chest. It was a desperate attempt to gain the upper hand, but Peter effortlessly sidestepped the attack, the spear whistling harmlessly past him.

"You really need to work on your aim," Peter taunted, his movements fluid and graceful.

Namor growled in frustration, pulling the spear back with surprising strength. He swung it horizontally, attempting to catch Peter off guard, but the agile hero ducked and rolled beneath the attack.

As Peter sprang back to his feet, he lashed out with a powerful kick to his opponents face, sending Namor sprawling to the ground, a cut opening up along his jaw. The guards' chants faltered as they witnessed their king's humiliating fall.

Namor staggered to his feet, his face contorted with rage and determination. He hurled the spear like a javelin, aiming directly at Peter's chest. But Peter, his reflexes honed to perfection, reached out and caught the spear mid-flight, its sharp tip inches from his neck.

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, Peter snapped the spear in two, the sound echoing through the throne room. "Is this really the best you've got, Namor? Aren't you supposed to be some unbeatable immortal mermaid King? I gotta tell you… I expected a lot more."

Namor's eyes blazed with fury as he unsheathed the Atlantean blade at his side. With a roar, he charged at Peter, swinging the sword in a vicious arc. But Peter effortlessly dodged the attacks, his movements a blur of speed and precision.

With a lightning-fast strike, Peter slapped Namors wrist and disarmed him, sending the sword clattering to the ground. Namor stumbled backward, his confidence shattered, and his body bruised and battered.

Peter took a step closer, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Had enough yet? You should really give up… Prolonging this will only make it worse for yourself."

Namor, his pride wounded and his body aching, refused to yield. He lunged at Peter once more, his fists a flurry of blows. But Peter effortlessly blocked and parried every strike, his combat skills far superior.

With a single, well-placed punch, Peter sent Namor crashing into a wall, leaving a sizable dent in the ornate structure. The guards, witnessing their king's devastating defeat, exchanged nervous glances, their loyalty waning.

Peter approached Namor, who lay battered and broken on the ground. He leaned in close, his voice dripping with triumph. "I'll ask one last time, Namor. Do you give up?"

Namor, bloodied and defeated, stared up at his conqueror. The stubbornness in his eyes wavered, replaced by a profound sense of responsibility for his people. He swallowed his pride and uttered the words he never thought he would say. "I... I give up."

Peter's grin widened beneath his mask as he straightened up. "I'm sorry, Namor. I didn't quite catch that. Could you repeat it?"

Namor's voice was strained, but he spoke the words louder and clearer this time. "I give up. You win."

With a satisfied nod, Peter turned to face the guards, who had been rendered speechless by the one-sided battle. "You heard your king. Stand down."

Despite Namor's reluctant surrender, the tension in the throne room remained palpable. The guards, torn between their loyalty to their king and the undeniable reality of his defeat, stood at the ready, their eyes filled with uncertainty.

Namor, battered and bruised, managed to push himself up from the ground. His voice, though strained, held a hint of desperation. "Stand down, all of you. I've lost."

But not all of the guards were ready to accept their king's defeat. A group of them, driven by their undying loyalty and the belief that they could still turn the tide, rushed forward with spears and tridents raised.

Peter, ever vigilant, anticipated their move. With an agility that left the guards in awe, he leaped into action. In the blink of an eye, he dodged the oncoming attacks, moving with a grace that seemed almost supernatural.

One by one, he disarmed the guards, his movements a blur of precision and strength. His fists and feet struck with a controlled force, sending them reeling. The once confident guards now found themselves struggling to keep up with the masked hero's unmatched combat skills.

As the battle raged on, Namor watched in astonishment as Peter effortlessly defeated his loyal guards. Their cries of pain and frustration filled the throne room, their weapons lying scattered on the ornate floor.

Peter, never taking a single hit since he arrived, incapacitated the last of the guards. They lay sprawled on the ground, their bodies battered and broken, their will to fight extinguished.

With the guards defeated, Peter turned to face Namor once more. The king of Talokan, now completely defeated and broken, had tears of frustration and shame in his eyes. His bones ached, and his body bore the marks of the relentless beating he had endured.

Namor stared up at Peter, his voice filled with resignation. "I... I give up. You win."

Peter's grin beneath his mask was triumphant, and he nodded in acknowledgment of Namor's surrender. "That's what I wanted to hear. It's time to put an end to this. After all, war brings nothing but death and ruin to both sides." He says as he motioned to the guards littered across the floor. "I made sure to hold back, but if this was a war… well, I'd have probably killed you all by now."

Namor, his ego humbled and his people's well-being at the forefront of his mind, nodded in agreement. The conflict that had threatened to engulf both the surface world and Talokan had been averted. He never though Spider-Man was this powerful. It made him wonder, 'Are all of the Avengers this strong?'

Although that thought should have brought upon a dreadful feeling, Namor found himself growing excited. He's been alive for over 500 years, yet not a single person could best him in combat. Now, it seemed like the world was full of worthy opponents. And since he lost, these opponents would become his Ally's.

The remaining guards, still reeling from their defeat, reluctantly lowered their weapons, their loyalty to Namor momentarily overshadowed by the undeniable strength and determination of their opponent.

Peter extended a hand to help Namor up to his feet, his tone now laced with empathy. "Let's find a way to bring peace to both our worlds, Namor. The Talokanil and the surface nations deserve a future without fear and conflict."

Namor, bruised and battered but with newfound humility, accepted Peter's hand. He had lost and he wouldn't go back on his world, his ego wouldn't allow it.

Peter patted him on the shoulder. "Alright, let's get you prepped."

"Prepped?" Namor asked in confusion. "Prepped for what?"

"For your debut at the United Nations…"

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As the chaos in the throne room of Talokan came to a close, things were starting to get exciting back in the Avengers Tower.

In a laboratory on one of the higher floors, Hank Pym and his daughter, Hope van Dyne, labored tirelessly. The dimly lit room was a testament to their relentless pursuit of a singular goal… to find and rescue Hopes mother.

Before them, a swirling vortex of energy crackled to life, a portal to the mysterious and elusive Quantum Realm. The room hummed with anticipation as Hank and Hope watched, their breaths held in anticipation.

For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though the veil between dimensions had been pierced, revealing a tantalizing glimpse into the enigmatic realm beyond. But as quickly as it had appeared, the tunnel faltered and collapsed, leaving only a fading echo of its existence.

Hank Pym clenched his fists in frustration, his voice laden with determination. "We're getting close, Hope. Closer than ever."

Hope nodded, her eyes fixed on the failed portal, her thoughts consumed by the possibility that her mother, Janet van Dyne, might still be trapped within the depths of the Quantum Realm. It had been decades since Janet had shrunk to sub-atomic levels, and the search for her had become an unrelenting quest, which the Avengers so graciously funded.

Although she was still determined to keep trying, Hope couldn't help but express her annoyance. "But why does it keep closing? We've been at this for weeks and the gateway always fails. It's like we're not even making progress anymore…"

"Don't worry. We'll get it. We just have to keep trying." Of course, Hank felt the same as his daughter, but he refused to voice his anguish. At least not in front of her. 'Maybe I should ask Stark for help?' He hated the very thought of asking a Stark for help, but they were running out of ideas here…

A/N: 1638 words :)

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