Dubai International Airport, the most luxurious aviation hub in the Middle East.
It was a miracle built from gold and oil.
Beneath the enormous dome, the neon lights of duty-free shops glowed in dazzling colors. Wealthy Arabs in traditional white robes brushed shoulders with Wall Street elites in sharp suits, while the scents of expensive perfume and freshly ground coffee filled the air.
Yang Ming emerged from the first-class passage in a camel-colored trench coat. The fourteen-hour flight had left little fatigue on his face. His steps were steady, his muscles relaxed yet ready to explode into action at any moment.
He had three hours until his connecting flight to Kabul.
Following the directions on his boarding pass, Yang Ming arrived at the VIP lounge in Terminal 3.
It was exceptionally quiet inside, the thick carpet absorbing every footstep.
Yang Ming chose a corner seat by the window, took an English-language surgical journal from The Lancet out of his backpack, and turned to the latest illustrated research on suturing nerve endings. He began to read quietly.
Ten minutes later, the lounge's tranquility was shattered by the door being roughly shoved open.
Four extremely burly white men strode inside. Rather than suits, all four wore 5.11 tactical cargo pants and tight T-shirts.
Their exposed arms were covered in tattoos, and their necks bore obvious sun damage and old scars left by shrapnel.
Private military contractors (PMCs).
Yang Ming did not even raise his eyes. Their professional habits-deliberately keeping their centers of gravity low as they walked, constantly scanning the surveillance blind spots-were enough for him to identify them precisely.
The men radiated aggression as they commandeered the two large sofas opposite Yang Ming.
"Fuck, those idiots at security insisted on checking my tactical boots." One of the burly men, a bald fellow, sat down cursing and casually tossed a heavy canvas bag onto the coffee table.
The bag landed with a dull thud. It was clearly packed with dense metal equipment.
"Shut up, Cole. This is Dubai, not our camp in Mogadishu," another man with a full beard warned in a low voice.
"The boss told us to keep this operation low-profile."
The bald Cole scoffed and pulled a satellite phone from his pocket.
"Low-profile? Every mercenary in the world is heading to Afghanistan right now. Stark Industries' bounty on the dark web has hit two hundred million dollars. Bring him back alive, or bring back his body. Those turban-wearing hicks in the Ten Rings have really kicked a hornet's nest this time."
Yang Ming's fingers paused briefly as he turned a page.
Two hundred million dollars. Stark Industries really did have terrifyingly deep pockets. Compared with that stingy Haji Bat... hmph (ˉ▽￣~). Tch~~.
Pepper Potts was publicly pressuring the military while secretly using money to carve a bloody path forward. A generous reward always drew willing takers, and these PMCs were clearly after that astronomical bounty.
After finishing his call, Cole let his gaze wander around the lounge. Before long, he noticed Yang Ming sitting in the opposite corner.
A refined-looking Asian man in a trench coat and gold-rimmed glasses looked completely out of place among these charter-flight passengers, who reeked of testosterone and gunpowder.
Cole stood and walked over to Yang Ming. Using his imposing six-foot-three height to loom over him, he rudely kicked the coffee table in front of Yang Ming with his combat boot.
"Hey, four-eyes." Cole's tone was openly provocative. "Find another seat. The boys and I need to talk business here, and you're an eyesore."
Yang Ming did not look up. His gaze remained on the complex diagram of neuronal structures in the journal.
"There are three hundred empty seats in this VIP lounge." Yang Ming's voice was perfectly flat, as though he were stating a basic medical fact.
"Yet you insist on choosing the one in front of me. Is that a spatial cognition impairment caused by cerebellar underdevelopment, or simply an early sign of mania triggered by post-traumatic stress disorder-PTSD?"
Cole froze for two seconds. His muscle-packed brain needed a moment to realize that this Asian man was using a string of technical terms to call him mentally defective.
"You're fucking dead!" Cole flew into a rage. Accustomed to throwing his weight around in war zones, he had no regard for a civilian who looked too weak to hurt a fly.
He thrust out his calloused right hand, reaching for Yang Ming's collar like an eagle's talon.
Just as Cole's fingers were about to touch the collar of the trench coat-
Yang Ming moved.
His left hand still held the journal steadily, while his right shot out like lightning, too fast for the human retina to track.
With his fingers pressed together, Yang Ming struck the outside of Cole's wrist with surgical precision. His fingertips tightened like a dragon's claws, applying relentless pressure to Cole's nerves.
It was a perfect anatomical strike.
"Urgh-!"
Cole's pupils instantly dilated. He felt as though a high-voltage current had shot through his entire right arm, and then he lost all sensation in it.
His arm hung limp as a strand of boiled pasta. He tried to retreat, but Yang Ming's two fingers clamped onto his wrist like hydraulic pincers, leaving him unable to move.
An agonizing, tingling numbness surged along his nerve endings straight into his cerebral cortex. Cold sweat poured off Cole, but even his scream caught in his throat.
The three mercenaries on the opposite sofas realized something was wrong. The bearded man sprang to his feet, his hand instinctively reaching behind his waist.
"Don't move." Yang Ming finally lifted his gaze from the journal. His black eyes held no warmth, cold as a morgue freezer.
"This is Dubai Airport. The ceramic tactical knives hidden behind your waists won't save him. If I apply just a little more force and sever his median nerve, this gentleman may never be able to hold a spoon with his right hand again."
The bearded man froze. He was a veteran, and he could read the situation.
The Asian man before them was definitely no ordinary, frail doctor. His ability to subdue someone with a single move and his precise command of the human body's weak points were more terrifying than those of any interrogation specialist they had ever seen.
"Let him go." The bearded man raised both hands in surrender, signaling that he meant no harm.
"We'll go somewhere else... sorry for disturbing you."
Yang Ming withdrew his fingers.
As though granted a pardon, Cole clutched his senseless right arm and staggered backward, his eyes filled with sheer terror. He looked at Yang Ming as though he were a monster wearing human skin.
"Remember one basic fact." Yang Ming lowered his head again and turned a page of the journal, the paper rustling crisply.
"Don't mess with people in white coats. We know better than you how to make someone wish they were dead without drawing a drop of blood."
The four mercenaries did not even dare leave a threat behind. They grabbed their canvas bag and slunk out of the lounge.
Half an hour later.
A clear announcement rang out over the airport speakers in Arabic and English.
"Flight EK640 to Kabul is now boarding..."
Yang Ming closed The Lancet and slipped it into his backpack. He stood, smoothed the creases from his trench coat, and headed toward the boarding gate.
The real battle was only just beginning. Both the terrorists of the Ten Rings and the unpredictable gears of fate in the Marvel Universe awaited him amid those yellow sands.
Yang Ming stepped onto the jet bridge. Through the glass, he saw a Boeing passenger plane painted gray and white sitting quietly on the apron.
Afghanistan. Tony Stark.
Please hang in there, Mr. Stark, Yang Ming silently prayed. Otherwise, my Eight Gates will go up in smoke.
The cabin door closed, and the roar of the enormous engines tore through the Middle Eastern night sky as the plane flew toward the most dangerous war-torn land in the world.
Meanwhile, elite mercenaries from across the globe converged on Afghanistan like gathering undercurrents. Whether they were going to rescue Tony Stark or had other motives remained unknown.