Marvel : The God Of Punishment System

Hours crept by as Jason hovered above the Mariana Trench, solar energy charging his armor while his domain expanded in the depths below. The inky water remained stubbornly still, refusing to surrender its secrets.

"Screw this," he finally muttered, contracting his black sphere of influence. The trench yawned endlessly below—too deep, too dark, even for his enhanced perception. "Snake doesn't want to come out and play? Fine. I've got better things to do."

The Thunder Armor's thrusters fired up, propelling him Manhattan-ward as reports crackled through his comms. The Avengers were returning from Paris, dragging a pissed-off Gambit and several charred mutants as prisoners.

His phone buzzed as he crossed the Atlantic. President Freeman's voice carried urgent concern: "Jason, we've got a situation. NORAD detected seven... objects entering atmosphere from deep space. They're coming in hot, and according to our telemetry, they're hammer-shaped."

"Shit." Jason knew exactly what those were. "Where are they landing?"

"Four headed for New York. Two for Tokyo. One for Paris."

"Of course they are." His mind raced through implications. "We're about to get a lot more 'chosen warriors.' Who's getting these God-hammers in Paris?"

"Unclear, but... wait." Papers rustled in the background. "Our asset reports a villain called Gray Gargoyle operating in that sector. Stone-touch powers."

"Lovely. What about Tokyo?"

"That's... concerning. Agent Hill reported she's operating there, taking down SHIELD remnants. Two hammers in one city"

"This just gets better and better." Jason checked his armor's power tiers. "And four for the Big Apple. Because nothing says 'balanced distribution' like cramming half the divine weapons in one city."

As Manhattan's skyline materialized, another aircraft approached from the west. The Avengers' transport, looking like it'd been through a blender.

"Stark finally dug himself out?" Jason mused, watching the plane's erratic descent.

Inside the cockpit, Tony wrestled with damaged controls while Wolverine, Loki, and Thor sat in brooding silence. The mission's failure hung heavy in the air.

"Approaching landing zone," Tony announced, opening the primary hatch. "Home sweet—"

Four streaks of light tore through the atmosphere, three slamming directly into the transport. The plane disintegrated instantly, flaming debris raining over Manhattan as its passengers plummeted.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" Stark roared mid-fall, his damaged armor struggling to deploy.

Thor's eyes went wide as three hammers—massive, intricate, divine—embedded themselves in the burning wreckage. Before anyone could react, he lunged for the nearest one, memories of Mjolnir singing in his blood.

Meanwhile, across the city, Captain America walked Peggy Carter back to her apartment, still processing their emotionally charged reunion. A hammer fell from heaven, cratering the sidewalk three feet from where he stood.

The weapon called to him, whispering promises of power and purpose. Steve reached for it without thinking.

City-wide alarms wailed as emergency services scrambled. This was becoming routine at this point—though "routine apocalyptic events" was a phrase Manhattan residents never thought they'd be used to.

In Paris, Gray Gargoyle—real name Paul Duval—was mid-heist at the Louvre when divine intervention struck. The hammer's arrival turned his petty crime into a mission of artistic destruction.

"Mon Dieu," he breathed, testing his new power. "The Midas touch has nothing on this!"

Every swing of his hammer turned living flesh to perfect stone. Unlike his usual touch-based ability, this effect was ranged and instantaneous. Within hours, Paris boasted more statues than China's Terracotta Army.

Unlike mindless destruction, Gray Gargoyle curated his collection. Politicians became permanent monuments to corruption. Tourists froze in poses of perpetual wonder. Artists transformed into their own masterpieces.

"Michelangelo would weep with envy," he declared, admiring his work. "Such detail! Such expression!"

In Tokyo, chaos reigned as two monsters claimed their prizes. The Juggernaut and Cull Obsidian, freed from mental control of the Scepter the moment their fingers touched divine metal, reveled in newfound autonomy.

"FINALLY!" Juggernaut roared, his hammer glowing with crimson energy matching his power. His first swing obliterated a city block—not because he aimed to, but because containment was never his strong suit.

Cull Obsidian, more tactical but equally destructive, systematically dismantled the city's infrastructure. Power stations, communications hubs, emergency services—all methodically destroyed.

Citizens watched helplessly from burning buildings, their prayers for salvation unanswered. The superhero movies had lied. No one was coming to help.

Jason arrived at the crash site to find total pandemonium. Wolverine crouched at a safe distance, adamantium claws extended but useless against the insanity before him.

"What the hell happened here?"

Logan spat blood, nodding toward the devastation. "Thor and Loki went full Norse on each other. Both grabbed hammers, lost whatever scraps of sanity they had left."

Indeed, the Asgardian brothers battled with supernatural fury. Thor wielded his new hammer with joyous abandonment, actually laughing as he smashed buildings. His spear—Odin's carefully crafted gift—lay forgotten in the rubble.

Great decision-making, Thor, Jason thought bitterly. I'm trying to save your life, and you're speedrunning your prophecized death.

Loki, transformed by his own hammer's power, fought with cruel precision. Each strike was calculated to cause maximum collateral damage while hurting Thor just enough to prolong the fight.

"Where's Stark?"

"Gone vertical soon as he grabbed his hammer. Punched straight up into his tower. Haven't seen him since."

A chill ran down Jason's spine. Stark with a God-hammer and whatever tech he'd been developing? That combination screamed trouble.

His enhanced senses detected something deeper—an invisible current of energy flowing from every terrified civilian. Fear itself, made manifest, streaming skyward toward... somewhere dark and hungry.

The Great Serpent was feeding. And it was working.

Deep beneath the Pacific, the World Serpent stirred in his apocalyptic satisfaction. Each pulse of terror made him younger, stronger. White hair darkened to jet black. Hunched shoulders straightened to their full, terrifying height.

His temple materialized in reality's fabric—a dark mirror of Asgard's golden halls. Resurrected warriors, bound to his will, awaited orders.

Natasha knelt before him, still gripping her hammer. "Master, the fear is insufficient. They've prepared—cut communications, isolated populations. Terror spreads too slowly."

The serpent's laugh carried centuries of malice. "Then we remove their preparations. We make them open their channels again."

"How?"

"By seizing something precious." His smile revealed fangs that had tasted gods. "A cowardly leader will reopen everything to save his own skin."

"Washington?"

"Indeed. Take my children. Show them what true fear looks like."

Green energy coalesced into a portal. Natasha and the undead warriors vanished through it, hammers raised for destruction.

Jason was weighing whether to stop the Asgardian grudge match when movement at Stark Tower caught his eye. Something launched from the building's apex—a projectile trailing impossible flames, rising impossibly fast.

"What the actual fuck?" He rocketed upward, Thunder Armor pushed to its limits.

Another figure burst from the tower, overtaking Jason with shocking speed. Stark, wrapped in modified armor and wielding his divine hammer like a medieval warrior, charged with murder in his eyes.

"GET AWAY FROM THAT ROCKET!" Tony screamed, hammer raised.

Jason barely registered the words before impact. Stark's swing carried impossible force—force that would've pulverized steel, shattered concrete, obliterated mountains.

Jason caught it one-handed.

The shockwave rippled across Manhattan, shattering windows for blocks. Stark stared in disbelief as Jason held the God-slaying weapon motionless, his armor barely registering the impact.

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