Seven days after the Battle of New York — Baishan Cemetery.
Compared to Samira's grief-stricken face, Luka's expression remained much calmer.
Since his father, Herman, was half-Chinese, Luka had chosen to bury him at Baishan Cemetery — said to have excellent feng shui and home to many renowned Chinese figures.
Surrounded by a steady stream of mourners, Luka simply stood in silence, staring at the tombstone.
A heavy and sorrowful atmosphere lingered in the air.
Perhaps out of sympathy for the boy, even guests who were familiar with his parents refrained from disturbing him. A few nodded silently while laying flowers, but none spoke.
However, Luka's thoughts were far from the funeral itself.
Though official numbers were never released, the death toll from the Battle of New York was undoubtedly high. Even this elite cemetery now hosted numerous services.
The Chitauri made no distinction between rich and poor when they fired.
Now, a week later, everything appeared to have returned to normal.
But in reality, Manhattan — especially the Midtown and Upper Manhattan areas — was still chaos.
Street protests, political posturing, public memorials, disinfection and reconstruction, triage centers, and countless funerals continued without end.
Real life wasn't like the movies, where everything wrapped up cleanly after the heroes saved the day.
In fact, one of the most "absurd" developments over the past few days had been the debate over post-disaster compensation and reconstruction.
The core dispute — endlessly featured on TV, in protests, and during congressional hearings — was over one basic question: Was this an act of war, a natural disaster, or a terrorist attack?
Yes, even after seven days, they hadn't settled on a basic definition.
The military pushed hard to define it as "an alien war," aiming to invoke the Defense Production Act to expand their jurisdiction. That would mean sharing some financial responsibility, but also allowed them to claim all alien tech debris.
Major insurance firms and bankers, on the other hand, wanted it labeled an "alien terrorist attack." Since terrorism had been excluded from coverage since 2001, they could dodge payouts while also denying government calls for low-interest loans to individuals and small businesses — keeping capital circulating among big corporations instead.
The federal and state governments were even more divided. Both favored calling it a "natural disaster," which would calm the public, curry favor with voters, and invite international aid.
But under the Stafford Act, if it were a national disaster, the federal government would have to foot 90% of reconstruction costs. If it was a state-level disaster, only 75%. New York State and Washington were locked in a bitter funding tug-of-war.
In short — Congress, the military, intelligence, big capital, even the media — everyone wanted a piece of the post-battle pie.
Some were looking to avoid blame, some to earn fame, others to claim alien loot.
Anyone even remotely connected to the Battle of New York seemed to be jumping in.
Ironically, the fastest relief didn't come from FEMA or the federal government — but from Stark Industries, through private funding and international aid.
Everyone else, even small-time outfits, had their sights set on smuggling alien weapons.
In fact, reports had already surfaced of people robbing banks with Chitauri tech.
To be fair — Luka himself had hidden away a few alien weapons.
He planned to quietly pass them to the company's weapons R&D team to see if any technology could be salvaged.
Not that this was unusual — every major arms manufacturer was doing the same. As long as they stayed discreet and didn't use them in public, even S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't come knocking.
Still, the company's weapons division had been led by his father. Now that Herman was gone, who knew how capable that team still was?
And Luka — in his current position — didn't even have the authority to speak on company matters. That would have to wait.
"Master Luka..."
Samira finally spoke after several aborted attempts, seeing Luka still staring blankly at the headstone.
Snapping back to reality, Luka stepped forward and laid his bouquet before the grave.
His father's death, though wrapped in solemn ceremony, triggered only a faint sadness in him — his mind was already on the future.
Just as Luka straightened up—
A harsh, raspy voice rang out from behind him.
"Heh~ Luka! My dear nephew — you didn't even tell me about my brother-in-law's funeral? That really hurts me."
Everyone turned toward the sound.
A disheveled middle-aged man in a black suit was approaching. His features faintly resembled Gina's — Luka's mother.
But where Gina exuded sharp professionalism and elegance, this man had a hunched posture, awkward gait, and a sickly pallor. Even though he wore a carefully chosen suit, he looked like a monkey in a crown.
His sunken eyes and greedy gaze gave him the air of a sewer rat.
"Who's that?"
"I think he's Ms. Orange's brother? I've seen him at the company before."
"Never heard of him."
Murmurs rose among the departing guests. Some of Gina's close acquaintances considered stepping forward but were held back.
Not all of them were here to gawk — but since this seemed to be family business, most people thought it wise not to intervene.
As the man approached, Luka's nostrils flared in disgust. A cold flash passed through his eyes.
He knew this type all too well — had seen them in both this life and the last.
This man was Dragan Orange — Gina's younger brother, Luka's uncle.
A hopeless gambling addict.