450

[Cuban Missile Crisis]

"If you think these garments are inappropriate, you could step outside and see for yourself. This is probably the era with the widest variety of attire in human history. You can find any style of clothing," Ancient one remarked.

Upon hearing this, Forseti suddenly realized that he might need some modern human clothing as well.

"After all, this is the 20th century. Asgardian attire, though exquisite, stands out too much on Earth," he said. "Master Ancient One, can we use the portal at the New York Sanctuary? We can go there and select some clothes."

"Are you coming too?" Socceror Supreme asked.

Forseti grinned. "Old Asgardians are keeping up with human trends."

She nodded and led them to the portal at the New York Sanctuary. From there, they crossed into New York City, the most bustling port and prosperous city on Earth.

The New York Sanctuary was situated on the West Side of New York City, 177a Brick Street, Greenwich Village.

Greenwich Village was renowned as a cultural hub in the United States, home to numerous literary figures and artists such as cartoonists and writers. Mark Twain and Hemingway had both resided there.

Superficially, the sanctuary appeared to be an inconspicuous old apartment, known to few as a two-thousand-year-old establishment that had significantly contributed to the origins of New York City.

Forseti, Starka, and Aletta all donned attire that blended in as naturally as possible with New York's everyday wear as they exited the New York Sanctuary.

It was October 1962, yet the street scene already resembled the modern era that Forseti remembered.

Beetle cars whizzed down the highways, trams ran on cables, and the air was filled with the sound of whistles. People in suits, jeans, and various other outfits bustled through the streets amidst heavy traffic.

They strolled around New York City until they stumbled upon a beautifully adorned, upscale clothing boutique.

"Welcome," greeted the clerk with a polite smile. "Kingsman hails from Savile, London, a century-old establishment. No one on this street knows clothing better than us. How may we assist you three?"

"This," Forseti pointed to a simple black suit displayed in the window, "I'll take three off-the-rack suits."

"Of course."

Forseti glanced back at Starka and Aletta. "What about you two?"

"We find these suitable," Starka replied as they continued to peruse and converse with each other.

Their conversation was not in English but in the language of Arcturus, incomprehensible to Earthlings. However, in New York, the world's largest melting pot, encountering foreign languages was hardly unusual.

"The garments you desire," the clerk handed Forseti two packaged suits, one of which he swiftly put on.

Dressed in the suit and examining his reflection in the mirror, Forseti felt as though he had returned to his previous life.

"What's the total?" he inquired.

"With tax, it comes to $1,145.14," the clerk replied.

Forseti produced a stack of bills and handed them to the clerk. Before arriving, he had exchanged gold at the Sanctuary for one million dollars in bills.

Although the mages at the sanctuary might seem like a group of mountain villagers, they were in fact far wealthier than most Earthlings, having amassed wealth over millennia.

Furthermore, Forseti knew that despite the Supreme Sanctuary's apparent disinterest in money, they were heavily invested in numerous secular companies, yielding tens of millions in annual profits alone.

While Forseti wasn't entirely clear on Earth's current economic state, he understood that tens of millions of dollars in 1962 was a substantial sum, likely equivalent to hundreds of millions in the 21st century.

Supposedly, this was the handiwork of an elderly mage with a penchant for business. Eventually, due to the high returns, both the Supreme Sanctuary and Ancient one had invested in shares.

While Forseti was exchanging the banknotes, a mage attempted to persuade him to invest together, but he declined, primarily because such an amount was negligible to him and likely to slip his mind.

Starka and Aletta had also made their selections, and Forseti settled the bill on their behalf.

As he was concluding the transaction, the conversation between two young men near the fitting rooms caught his attention.

"I feel like the end of the world is coming. Maybe tomorrow will bring World War III," one remarked.

"Yeah, the front pages are filled with news about Cuba, and supermarkets are nearly sold out... The Soviets are lunatics!"

"Our military is facing off against the Soviet Union in the Caribbean Sea over Cuba. I wonder if a shot will be fired."

"I hope this expensive suit isn't the last thing I buy..."

Cuba? Soviet Union?

The Cuban Missile Crisis.

Forseti quickly recalled this historical event. If memory served, in the Marvel universe, Professor X broke his leg during this time.

Simultaneously, as the two men mentioned, the Cuban Missile Crisis was a major event that could lead to world war.

Forseti felt compelled to investigate.

"Sir?" the clerk's voice broke his reverie.

"Oh, how much?" Forseti snapped back to attention.

"Your party's total for five outfits comes to $1,919.81."

Forseti handed over the remainder of the bills and turned to Starka. "I have urgent business to attend to. You two can return to the Sanctuary."

With that, he turned and left the store, a golden light flaring behind him as the wings of holy light propelled him skyward, disappearing in an instant.

"Sir!" the clerk exclaimed, darting out of the shop, only to see a golden speck in the sky as he looked up, blinking in astonishment.

Starka looked at his wife. "Let's head back."

Aletta nodded, and the two departed the Kingsman clothing store.

They hadn't ventured far when they encountered a group of individuals blocking their path. Most were clad in suits, exuding an air of alertness and quickness that marked them as anything but ordinary.

"Who are you?" Starka inquired cautiously.

While most of the group accompanying them appeared robust, the leader was a middle-aged man with a limp, relying on crutches.

Stepping forward, he produced identification. "Hello, I'm Daniel Sousa, an agent with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. We need to speak with you. Please come with us."

...

Cuba, Caribbean Sea.

The Cuban Missile Crisis that shook the world was unfolding here. U.S. and Soviet fleets were engaged in a tense standoff, potentially dragging humanity into the maelstrom of World War III.

Unbeknownst to all, this nerve-wracking crisis was secretly orchestrated by a group of mutants.

At this moment, the transport vessel Aral Sea, laden with Soviet missiles, sped across the sea, heading directly toward the approaching U.S. military blockade.

Once it reached the blockade, a U.S.-Soviet war would be imminent.

Yet, it wasn't Soviet personnel manning the missile carrier; it was a mutant with blood-red skin and the visage of a hellish demon—Azazel.

Littered around him were the lifeless bodies of the Aral Sea's Soviet crew. One crew member, barely clinging to life, watched helplessly as Azazel piloted their vessel toward the impending confrontation between the American and Soviet fleets.

"... The latest directive from the Kremlin—immediately turn back! I repeat, turn back, Aral Sea!" The relentless telegrams from the Kremlin continued to echo.

But Azazel showed no signs of heeding them.

"A grand spectacle is about to unfold!" Azazel exclaimed gleefully as he gazed upon the American and Soviet fleets in the distance.