{Chapter: 97 - The Berserker's Staff And Echoes of the Red Room}
"You're not thinking clearly," Aiden said, his voice gentle but firm. "You're stronger than this. You know better than to lose control in the field."
"Don't tell me what I know!" she roared.
Aiden stepped in, catching her wrist as she raised the rod again.
"Sorry," he whispered, "but I promised I would lead the mission."
With a twist and a glow of emerald energy, he disarmed her. The rod clattered to the ground and rolled to a stop near the overturned nightstand.
Natasha dropped to her knees.
The room had fallen into silence, save for the faint hum of the broken lamp in the corner, its flickering light casting long shadows across the floor. Dust particles floated through the air, disturbed only by Aiden's measured breathing as he stared down at the object lying ominously in front of him.
A staff.
But not just any staff.
It pulsed faintly with a sinister energy, its surface etched with dark runes that shimmered like molten steel beneath the skin of an ancient beast. Though it was only a fragment—likely the lower half of a full weapon—it radiated a power that even someone untrained in mysticism could feel in their bones.
Natasha remained unconscious on the bed behind him, her brows furrowed in a restless, fear-laden sleep. Aiden, however, remained still, eyes locked on the artifact.
He knew exactly what this was.
"The Berserker's Staff..." he muttered, almost reverently.
Unlike Natasha, who hadn't recognized the weapon's nature, Aiden knew all about it.
The staff was one of Asgard's lesser-known relics, hidden from the Nine Realms long ago for a good reason. While not as mighty as Mjolnir or even their high tier swords, it was imbued with enchantments crafted from a darker source—primordial war magic and fear-essence woven together by ancient Asgardian seers. It granted anyone who held it a sudden surge of raw strength, nearly tenfold. Not just brute power, but the frenzied force of a full-fledged Asgardian berserker in battle—a terrifying opponent even among other Asgardians.
It was power... laced with madness.
Aiden bent down slowly, his fingers hesitating mere inches from the weapon. The air around the staff felt heavy, almost charged like a thunderstorm about to break. His mind warned him against it, but something primal whispered seductively from deep within:
"Take it. Claim it. Let the rage guide you."
He clenched his jaw and grasped the staff.
The effect was immediate.
A shudder passed through his body, like icy flames racing through his veins. His pupils contracted, and a sharp gasp escaped his lips. The emotion came not as a wave, but a detonation—anger exploded inside him, raw and blinding. For a heartbeat, all he could think about was destruction. Breaking bones. Crushing skulls. Dominating everything in his path.
He staggered backward, breathing hard. His mind was awash in fury... and something more. A sickening joy in violence. The staff didn't just empower—it tempted.
But Aiden wasn't a fool. He quickly reached inward and triggered the mental barrier granted by the Reality Ring—a failsafe that allowed him to partition and regulate his emotions. A filter for madness.
The flood slowed. His vision cleared.
"Very strong..." he whispered, his voice ragged.
He could still feel the power coursing through him. It had multiplied his strength—at least threefold. Perhaps more. But unlike a normal wielder, he didn't lose himself in the berserker trance. The anger was there, yes, but he was standing above it, observing it like a beast caged behind thick glass.
"Is it the ring shielding me? Or does my body just resist magic...?" he wondered, flexing his fingers.
Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. He could wield this power without succumbing to it. That made him dangerous—very dangerous.
He slid the staff into his system space, sealing it away before temptation could strike anyone. Then, turning, his gaze landed on Natasha.
She was curled slightly on the bed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. A cold sweat had broken over her forehead. She was trapped in a nightmare, body tense, lips parting slightly as if whispering to someone who wasn't there.
"Red Room..." she mumbled.
Aiden's expression softened.
He walked over and gently sat beside her, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. Even unconscious, her instincts were sharp. Her hand twitched toward her hip—a muscle memory from years of training. He was careful not to startle her.
"You're stronger than this," he murmured quietly. "You've broken their chains before."
It was surreal seeing Natasha Romanoff—Black Widow herself—reduced to this state. In the field, she was all confidence and poise, a deadly dancer among chaos. The kind of woman who walked into a den of wolves and left leading the pack. But here, with her defenses down, the scars were visible. Not physical—but the kind that cut deeper.
---
The dim lighting of the motel room cast soft shadows on the cracked walls, and the faint hum of traffic filtered in through the partially opened window. Aiden's gaze fell upon Natasha, who lay motionless on the bed. Her body trembled, even in unconsciousness. Her brow was furrowed, her breath quick and uneven, as though trapped in a memory far more harrowing than any battlefield.
Aiden stood silently, arms crossed, watching her with a quiet intensity. He had seen hardened soldiers break under pressure, but there was something different about Natasha Romanoff—something far deeper than trauma. It was a history carved into her very soul, a lifelong battle not only against enemies but against herself.
"The Red Room..." he muttered, almost to himself. "So that's where her mind went."
He knows about it— The Red Room: a covert Soviet program designed to create the perfect assassins. It wasn't just physical training. It was psychological warfare. Reconditioning. Brainwashing. Every moment in that place was meant to strip away humanity and replace it with obedience. To survive it, you had to kill your old self.
And Natasha Romanoff had survived.
"To become the Black Widow," he thought grimly, "you have to forget who you were. But that kind of forgetting leaves scars."
It was no wonder the Berserker's Staff had struck her so violently. A tool infused with dark Asgardian runes—one that dug into your fears and rage. The perfect psychological trap for someone like her. It had probably dragged her straight back to the cold metal floors of the Red Room, where instructors barked in Russian, and failure meant punishment that could cost your life and the lives of the sisters.
"This woman is really daring," Aiden muttered, shaking his head. "Strong enough to challenge fate, but even the strongest can bleed inside."
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sharp rhythm snapped Aiden out of his thoughts. The door creaked open, revealing the small, balding hotel owner with a concerned look on his weathered face. His eyes scanned the room, no doubt drawn by the earlier surge of magical energy and commotion.
Aiden didn't give him a chance to speak.
"We're staying temporarily," he said flatly. "No need for concern, and no trouble for you."
He tossed a wad of hundred-dollar bills across the room. The cash landed at the owner's feet with a soft thump. The man hesitated for only a second before scooping it up with wide eyes and a grateful nod, backing out quickly without another word. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
Aiden turned back toward Natasha, only to feel a sudden tight grip on his hand.
His eyes widened.
"Natasha?" he said, leaning in.
Her eyelids fluttered open slowly. Her eyes, normally sharp and calculating like twin daggers, were now clouded with confusion, fear, and something rawer—vulnerability. She blinked as if unsure whether what she saw was real.
"You're safe," Aiden said softly, kneeling beside her. "You were affected by the staff. Dark magic. It pulled you into a memory loop—into your past. You're not there anymore. That was another life."
But she didn't answer. Her breathing was shallow. Her grip didn't loosen. Her eyes flicked around the room like a hunted animal, searching for threats, for exits. Then they settled back on Aiden—and something shifted. Her fingers tightened.
Aiden was about to stand and fetch her water when, without warning, she yanked his hand. His balance faltered and he fell forward—right onto her.
"Oh—!"
Their bodies hit the bed with a muffled bounce, but before Aiden could react, Natasha grabbed the collar of his shirt and kissed him—hard.
It wasn't romantic. It wasn't tender. It was frantic. Desperate.
Her lips were cracked and bleeding slightly, but she didn't care. There was something unhinged in the way she clung to him, like he was her anchor to reality.
The smell of blood hit his nose, sharp and coppery. He blinked in stunned silence, trying to process what was happening.
"Natasha—"
She ignored his words. Her arms snaked around his neck, and her breath came in gasps. Her nails dug slightly into his skin, as though confirming he was real—that she hadn't hallucinated her way out of hell only to wake up in another illusion.
*****
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