Stan Lee?

The Grandmaster's palace was less a palace than a top-tier nightclub open twenty-four hours a day.

Heavy bass drums hammered against the chest, while the air was thick with the smells of hundreds of alien spices, alcohol, and sweat—enough to make anyone's head ache. Chu Hang leaned against a glowing energy pillar, holding a glass of blue liquid without taking a sip.

Here, he trusted nothing he had not taken out himself.

His attention was entirely on his own body.

The spot where Hela had pierced his ribs still throbbed faintly. It was no ordinary wound, but a nail left behind by the Law of Death, embedded in his flesh and bones like a Black Noir plant constantly draining his life force.

The Law of the Body could only barely maintain a balance and keep the wound from worsening, but that cold energy remained entrenched within him.

The Grandmaster reclined on his floating sofa, surrounded by several seductive green-skinned maidservants who fed purple fruit into his mouth.

He looked as though he was not watching Chu Hang, but Chu Hang knew that the old man's peripheral vision had never left him for even a moment.

This ancient monster had lived too long. His nose for power was sharper than a hound's.

Sure enough, before long, the Grandmaster drifted over unsteadily with a glass of wine in hand, a merchant's fake smile on his face.

"Well, my new friend?" He raised his glass. "Do you like my party? The best party in the universe, bar none."

Ignoring his pleasantries, Chu Hang asked directly, "How do I leave this planet?"

As though he had heard the funniest joke in the world, the Grandmaster burst into exaggerated laughter, his body shaking on the sofa. "Leave? My friend, why would you leave paradise? Here,