Daredevil's death stunned everyone. These days, when a villain died, people felt bad for a week and fell into a cycle of condemnation and self-reproach. Let alone this time, when a companion had died—a superhero with an impeccable reputation.
It had happened far too abruptly, in less than ten seconds. Hawkeye, whose mind had still been immersed in the tenderness of Budapest, fell silent. Black Widow staggered to her feet, yanked out the arrow with force, and roughly bandaged her wound. She refused support, sitting off to one side alone without a word.
Without the Reality Stone concealing them, they did not dare fight within a city. The aftermath of their battle alone could destroy an entire city. Their destructive power was simply too great.
Everyone had lost the ability to speak. Only the coughing of several badly injured people could be heard.
Excalibur was a knight's sword, not a priest's sword. Resurrection was not on its list of abilities. Charging forward with the resolve to die—that was what a knight did. Dying and coming back, coming back and dying, already thinking about being resurrected while charging forward—could that still be called a knight?
If Excalibur had possessed the power of resurrection, the Captain Britain Corps would not have been wiped out back then. You die, I revive you; I die, he revives me. Everyone could just keep resurrecting one another. How wonderful, how harmonious—disgust the enemy to death! But that was simply impossible. Excalibur did not have that function!
Stark wanted to ask Rachel whether she had any solution, but his neck was stiff. He could not even manage the simple motion of turning his head. The words reached his lips, then he swallowed them back down. He had no face to ask.
He looked to Mr. Fantastic, asking