To beat you, I only need my servant to act

At this very moment.

Ian was like God descending to the mortal world.

Perhaps there really was such a saying.

Because—the world acknowledged him.

A young girl knelt on the ground, hands clasped, eyes closed, lips moving as she recited a prayer she had learned from her grandmother. She had not recited it in many years. She had not believed in it for many years. But at this moment, those words flowed out on their own, like spring water, like breath.

A middle-aged man knelt on the ground, his head bowed very, very low, his shoulders shaking violently. He was crying. Thirty years had passed; ever since the day his wife died, he had never cried again.

But at this moment, the tears would not stop flowing.

There were also children kneeling on the ground, heads tilted up, gazing at that golden light, their eyes full of stars.

They did not understand what was happening, did not know what faith was, or what a god was. But they knew that when that light shone on their faces—it was warm.

Warmer than when their mothers held them.

Steve Rogers looked at the people kneeling in worship, at those faces mingled with tears and devotion—and he did not stop them.

Because he knew that what they needed was not reason, not analysis, not anything he could give them.

What they needed was this light.

This light that made them believe the night would always pass.

He turned his head and looked at the giant flaming face in the sky.

Dormammu was still there.

The patterns of his flames no longer churned. His eyes no longer contracted. His face no longer showed the slightest ripple.

He only stared at that young man.

Stared at those golden eyes.

Stared at that golden light surging