Stan Lee Stopped Pretending

Russell leaned back in a somewhat worn plastic chair in the fast-food restaurant, his hands in his pockets, his posture as casual as if he were chatting with an old friend.

"There is indeed a solution," he nodded, adding, "And it's very simple."

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting from Stan Lee's face to the Silver Surfer, Thanos, and Black Order standing behind him, before finally returning to Stan Lee.

"The plan was already decided before we arrived: you would deal with Galactus."

"However, apart from me, they basically don't believe you have the strength to deal with Galactus."

After recognizing Russell as the person in the fast food restaurant, the entire room fell silent.

Stan Lee was then stunned by Russell's words.

He wrote countless stories, conceived countless plots, created countless characters, and designed countless plot twists throughout his life.

I've written about Heroes turning the tide at the last minute, villains being thwarted when their plots are about to succeed, and cosmic threats being defeated by an inconspicuous person in some inconspicuous corner.

He had written so many stories that he thought he was no longer surprised by any plot.

But your statement about taking action against Galactus surprised him quite a bit.

Russell came to tell him that the Galactus was coming and that he had been tasked with taking action from the very beginning.

He's just gathering material in this universe.

I just wanted to see how the characters in the world he created were doing.

He just wanted to sit in a fast food restaurant, eat a burger, write a story, and check if Spider-Man had any new adventures lately.

I never imagined I'd have to go up against Galactus.

"Wait a minute." Stan Lee put his reading glasses back on the table.

"What did you say? Did I hear you wrong?"

"You deal with Galactus," Russell repeated, his tone as light as if he were saying, "You pass me the salt."

Stan Lee opened his mouth, then closed it.

He looked down at the half-eaten hamburger, the iced cola, and the notebook filled with messy handwriting in front of him.

"Russell," he said softly, "I'm just an old man who writes stories."

"I know," Russell nodded.

"I don't have superpowers. I can't fly, I can't fire lasers, I can't control magnetic fields, and I can't transform."

Stan Lee casually pointed to a young man in the restaurant, "I can't even outrun that young man eating fries at the door of this fast food restaurant."

"I know." Russell nodded again.

"So you want me to deal with Galactus?" Stan Lee's voice carried something absurd.

"Yes, because I know that if you want to take action, you can definitely do it." Russell's voice was calm.

Stan Lee looked at him and remained silent for a long time.

Behind them, Silver Surfer's starlight pupils froze for a moment.

He had been observing Stan Lee, the "old storyteller" that Russell described.

His Cosmic Energy is able to perceive everything about Stan Lee.

But in the instant Stan Lee froze, Silver Surfer sensed something.

Something that doesn't belong to mortals, doesn't belong to Earth, and doesn't even belong to this universe.

That thing existed for only a moment, so brief it was like an illusion, so brief it was as if Silver Surfer's own perception had failed.

But Silver Surfer did not ignore it.

Thanos stood at the back, his deep eyes slightly narrowed, also observing Stan Lee.

This old man was called the God of Stories by Russell.

He has seen countless civilizations, countless beings, and countless things that call themselves "gods".

To some extent, one can judge the weight of an existence; Stan Lee, this old man, certainly seemed to be just an ordinary person.

But when Russell said, "You deal with Galactus," Thanos's intuition sensed a fleeting, overwhelming terror.

The source of the terror seems to be this old man.

He tried to sense things carefully using his own power, but found nothing.

Stan Lee pondered for a moment, then looked up at Russell and calmly said:

"Your attempt to provoke me won't work. I'm just an ordinary old man; I can't possibly deal with Galactus."

Russell shook his head.

Let's stop playing games; you're no ordinary old man.

Stan Lee looked at him.

"Take your story writing, for example," Russell said.

"You've written stories your whole life, creating countless characters, countless worlds, and countless possibilities."

I've written about Heroes saving the world, about good triumphing over evil, and about things that make readers believe there's always hope.

He leaned forward slightly.

"But do you know what the stories you write mean in this universe?"

Stan Lee did not answer.

"The stories you've written have taught countless people courage, faith, and sacrifice," Russell continued.

"Those stories make a child believe that even if the whole world tells him 'you can't,' he can still be Heroes."

To convince an adult that even in the darkest night, dawn will always break; to convince someone on the verge of despair that life is worth living.

He paused.

"And Galactus is the same; what he lacks is precisely this kind of story."

Stan Lee was silent for a moment, and the fast food restaurant became as quiet as if it had been muted.

"You mean," Stan Lee frowned, "That I write a story for a cosmic being to read? And then move him."

"You can interpret it this way," Russell shrugged, "A story that convinced him he no longer needed to devour anything."

Stan Lee lowered his head and looked at his notebook again.

"I have indeed written many stories. I have written stories about Heroes saving the world, and stories about villains being stopped at the last minute."

I've written about cosmic threats being defeated by an insignificant person in some insignificant corner; I've written things that make readers believe 'there's always hope.'

He looked up at Russell.

"But I have never written a story about a cosmic being laying down his butcher's knife because of a story written by an old man."

"It didn't exist before, but now it exists just by writing it down." Russell was remarkably clear-headed.

"Two days later, Galactus will arrive on Earth, giving you ample time to write a different story from another universe."

Stan Lee did not answer immediately.

He looked down at the open notebook in front of him, his fingers gently tracing the edges of the pages.

The fluorescent lights in the fast food restaurant shone on his gray hair, on the lenses of his reading glasses, and on his face, which was etched with the marks of time.

Then he looked up at Russell.

"You're right," Stan Lee confessed. "I'm certainly not an ordinary old man."

His voice changed, and a high-dimensional force descended upon the fast food restaurant, causing everything to fall into stillness.

Russell was not surprised at all.