As Lin Xiu's combat boots crossed the laboratory's metal steps, the nanochip at the back of his neck grew faintly hot, as if tiny currents were moving beneath his skin.
He tore off his lightning-scorched tactical gloves and threw them onto the console. Blue light from the screen flickered across his lenses, displaying lightning-energy data collected from the battlefield half an hour ago—compatibility at 67%, the green progress bar stuck halfway, like a thorn lodged in his retina.
"Not enough." He cursed under his breath, pressing his index knuckle to his temple. A faint numb itch spread from his fingertips, a sign of neural overload.
The Oracle System's prompt sounded beside his ear. "Current energy conversion rate can only sustain three high-intensity thunderstorm strikes. Probability of countering an endgame-level energy entity is below 12%." A hum came from the laboratory's ventilation ducts, mingling with the tremors from the Quantum Collider's aftershocks. He could hear his own heartbeat drowning out the machinery—there were only seventy-two hours left before the Battle of New York. The Chitauri wormhole would not wait for him to sharpen his blade.
The air was thick with the smell of metal and ionized gas, tightening his throat.
Then the encrypted channel suddenly shrieked.
Lin Xiu turned and grabbed his headset. Leo Kahn's face appeared on the screen.
The underground energy dealer wore a mechanical prosthetic over his left eye. He was chewing on a Cuban cigar, smoke drifting across the camera with the mixed scent of aged tobacco and electronic components.
"Lin, I hacked into NOAA's weather satellites." He shook the hologram in his hand, and blue specks of light projected dense thundercloud maps onto the laboratory wall. "There'll be seventeen major thunderstorms across North America in the next forty-eight hours. Among them, the one offshore from Long