Heroes Are Also Mortal (Part 1)

Although he said he'd pick up the medicine later, Peter didn't go until the afternoon. Matt's leg had been bleeding, and he had to change the bandages several times. By the time he was done, it was already afternoon.

Peter hadn't had time to eat and was starving. When he arrived at the clinic, he smelled a captivating aroma.

Schiller heard the doorbell and came out to see a tall boy in a hoodie standing at the door, sniffing hard as if trying to inhale all the fragrance into his stomach.

Schiller wiped his hands and said, "Come in."

Peter scratched his head and said, "Good afternoon, sir. A friend of mine asked me to pick up some medicine here. He said you'd know."

"Oh, I know," Schiller said. "But you'll have to wait until I finish eating. He's probably not in a huge rush, is he?"

Peter replied, "He's alright. His bleeding has stopped, but he's in a lot of pain and needs some painkillers."

"Have you eaten?" Schiller asked. Peter blushed slightly, thinking the doctor had noticed his gaze lingering too intensely on the kitchen.

Schiller said, "If you haven't eaten, stay and have something. You can also take some back for Matt."

As he spoke, a small yellow creature with a large bowl ran to the table, very humanely twitching its nose on the bowl and licking its lips, seemingly impatient.

Schiller had prepared Chinese food: rice, sweet and sour pork ribs, shredded potatoes with hot and sour sauce, and a bowl of tomato and egg soup.

Peter, who was so hungry he was starting to panic, stared fixedly at the dining table, unable to refuse.

Ever since gaining his spider abilities, Peter's appetite had grown significantly, and he got hungry very easily. After finishing an entire rice cooker full of rice, Peter felt genuinely embarrassed. His ears bright red, he put down his bowl and said, "I'm really sorry, Doctor. I think I ate all your food. Um... I'll pay for it..."

"No, you don't have to," Schiller said. "I was going to make another pot of rice anyway, to take back to my old friend. There are still some ribs in the pot. You can serve them yourself and put them in that lunchbox in the cabinet to take back to Matt."

Spider-Man ran into the kitchen, not only making a new pot of rice but also washing all the dishes clean.

Schiller found this version of Spider-Man quite likable.

In contrast, Pikachu ate until its belly was round. After finishing, it slumped onto the chair and started snoring. Schiller grabbed its lightning-bolt-shaped tail and shook it, saying, "Even if someone else is responsible for washing the dishes today, it's no excuse for you to shirk your chores. Go take out the trash."

"Oh, sir, I can take it out on my way," Peter said.

"Alright, I'll trouble you. Oh, right, there's no trash disposal fee in Hell's Kitchen. Just walk straight ahead, there's a corner, and a pile of debris. Throw the trash there."

Peter carried the two large bags of kitchen waste and turned out the back door of the clinic. He immediately saw the place Schiller had mentioned. It was a bit of a distance from the clinic, with a large pile of crushed bricks, scrap wood, and other people's discarded trash, piled high and emitting a strong odor.

Next to the trash pile were several beggars, filling their bellies with leftover food or discarded kitchen waste from others.

When Spider-Man walked over, the beggars were on the other side of the debris pile, so he didn't see them. Perhaps he was full, or perhaps Schiller's Chinese food was too much to his liking, but Peter's gloomy mood vanished. Happily carrying the two bags of trash, he sprinted a short distance and flung his arm forward with all his might, tossing the trash onto the very top of the debris pile.

"Bingo!" Peter shouted. When he used to go to throw out the trash with Uncle Ben, he loved doing this – throwing the trash bags from a distance, hoping they'd land perfectly in the trash can.

But he hadn't had that much strength before, and Uncle Ben often had to clean up his messes. Peter thought that next time he threw out the trash, he would definitely show his uncle his current arm strength.

He threw the trash bags up. One of the bags broke open, spilling out bones left from several meals, scraps of meat left over from Schiller's cooking, some unfinished shredded potatoes, and half a sprouted potato. The beggars, however, acted as if they had seen some unparalleled delicacy and scrambled to grab them.

The debris pile had already formed a small mountain. To climb up, the beggars had to step on broken bricks and wooden boards. The top of the debris pile was a triangle formed by several large pieces of broken walls. As the beggars struggled to climb, Peter finally saw people picking through the trash.

He felt a bit embarrassed, so he dashed halfway up the debris pile, intending to reach the very top and retrieve the trash.

The beggars were not mutated like Spider-Man. They had been starving for a long time and lacked strength. One elderly woman, who was closest to the top, lost her grip in her haste, and the piece of debris she was holding onto broke off. Losing her handhold, she fell backward.

Spider-Man had just reached the very top of the debris pile when he saw a beggar on the other side fall. He reached out to grab him, but he was too late.

This debris pile contained all sorts of things: shards of glass bottles thrown from upstairs by drunks, rebar, and sharp wooden boards sticking out. Hitting any of them would likely cost half a life.

Fortunately, Peter had superpowers. He quickly bent down and caught the falling beggar. Before he could feel proud, he heard a deafening roar, followed by a sharp, piercing screech of brakes, and a dull thud of something being hit.

Blood splattered. Peter turned his head, looking in disbelief at the nearest intersection. The figure flying out was someone he knew very well.

It was Daredevil.

A large amount of blood flowed from where he landed. The thick smell of blood cast a hazy red veil over Peter's vision.

He rushed down like a madman. Matt lay there, blood seeping from his eyes, nose, and mouth. His spine was twisted into a grotesque shape, seemingly broken.

But he wasn't dead yet. However, with the nerves connecting to his brain severed, he was completely unable to move.

Peter trembled all over. He didn't care about anything else and quickly picked Matt up. Then, he rushed back through the clinic's back door, shouting, "Doctor! Doctor! Someone needs treatment here!"

Seeing Matt, Schiller knew he had likely been ambushed again by assassins. He said, "The garage is right next door. Put him in the car and take him to Presbyterian Hospital immediately."

With such severe injuries, only the best hospital might have a chance of saving him.

Schiller sped through the streets of Manhattan, delivering Matt to Presbyterian Hospital as quickly as possible. He had some influence at this hospital, and Matt was quickly taken to the emergency room.

However, the attending physician soon told them with a grim expression, "The chances of saving this gentleman are slim. It's a pity he's no longer able to write a will or make a verbal testament. If you are his family, you may wish to see him one last time."

Peter was on the verge of collapse. Everything connected in his mind. He truly hadn't expected that the people the gangsters wanted to murder that day were precisely the only good person in all of Hell's Kitchen – Daredevil, Matt.

He could not accept that all of this was his fault. If he had killed those gangsters when he heard about it, no, or even if he had just told Matt, he would have been more careful.

If he hadn't stayed at the clinic to eat but had left immediately after picking up the medicine, Matt wouldn't have come out looking for him.

If he hadn't been playing around and had thrown those two trash bags so high, perhaps he would have had time to tackle Matt the moment the car sped out.

He had so many chances to save his friend, yet he had accomplished nothing.

Daredevil was dying, and Peter could not accept this fact.

Schiller, however, remained calm. He asked the attending physician, "What is his main problem? Cardiopulmonary function? Neurosurgery? Or internal injuries?"

The doctor shook his head. "None of those. His spine is the problem. The nerves are likely irreparable. Even if they can barely save his life, he will be paralyzed forever."

Schiller took a deep breath and said, "I just want to know if there's any way to save him."

The doctor hesitated for a moment and said, "Perhaps Dr. Strange can help. He's the best neurosurgeon we have here, and maybe only he can reconnect so many nerves."

Schiller immediately turned and said, "Peter, I'm going to find someone who can save Matt. But you have to stay here. You know, Matt's been sent to the hospital, but the people who want to kill him won't give up. After I leave, you must ensure no one enters the operating room. I'll be back as fast as I can."

After speaking, he left immediately.

Peter trembled, muttering, "No one will enter the operating room. No one will enter the operating room. I won't let anyone in..."

After leaving the hospital, Schiller called Pepper directly and said, "I'd like to get the home address of a doctor named Strange."

Pepper didn't ask why. Soon, his phone received an address. It wasn't far from Presbyterian Hospital; it was in the most upscale apartment building in the area.

Schiller immediately used Flash and arrived at the apartment building at top speed. He didn't bother with the elevator or knocking. With a series of phasing flashes, he appeared behind Strange, who was having afternoon tea.

Strange heard a slight disturbance. He turned around, and a cane was pointed directly at his Adam's apple.

"Listen, I don't have time for pleasantries. A friend of mine is critically injured and is being operated on at Presbyterian Hospital. You're the best neurosurgeon there. Now, grab your things and go perform surgery immediately."

Strange wore an incredulous expression. Schiller released his grip on the cane, but it continued to float in mid-air, pointing directly at Strange. Strange raised his hands and backed away. The cane, though not held by anyone, remained pressed against his neck.

Schiller reached out towards the air, and Strange's coat flew off the coat rack towards him. Strange's eyes widened in disbelief as he watched. Schiller threw the coat to him and said, "I think you understand that you have no right to refuse. Come with me now."