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102 Strange: Stud Is A Kind Of Wisdom!
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 09:30:48 +0000 UTCManhattan.
The most famous wealthy district in New York, home to the city’s richest people.
But for Strange, this kind of life might be coming to an end.
Ever since he accidentally left a piece of hemostatic gauze inside a patient during surgery a few days ago, he had been suspended.
Those damn lawyers could smell a medical accident from a mile away.
Presbyterian Hospital was expected to pay at least 5 million dollars in compensation—mostly for mental damages.
Strange lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, his eyes bloodshot.
He hadn’t slept in two days.
He knew it was only a matter of time before he was fired, buried under debt.
His apartment and sports car? Both bought with loans.
At this rate, bankruptcy and homelessness weren’t just possibilities—they were certainties.
The more he thought about it, the worse it felt. He regretted not saving more money. Why did he insist on living in Manhattan, where every inch of land cost a fortune?
At his bedside, Russell stroked his chin, watching.
Strange’s mental state was crumbling. It was almost enough.
A faint green light flickered in Russell’s eyes as he spoke softly, like planting a thought:
“Take a risk… trade the bicycle for a motorcycle.”
“Why not sell everything while you still can and head to Las Vegas? Just one win, and that compensation is no problem at all.”
Strange tossed and turned, irritated.
Then suddenly—he sat up.
Yes!
Why hadn’t he thought of that?
If he won, everything would be solved!
And if he lost... well, the bank was going to take everything anyway.
Screw it!
Let’s do it!
The next day, he mortgaged his apartment and car, scraped together everything he had—1.5 million dollars—and boarded a plane to Las Vegas.
He left at 4 PM, arriving at 10 PM.
No sleep. Straight to the Texas Hold'em table.
Confident.
He knew that poker, especially Texas Hold'em, was about probability, about math.
And he had graduated from a top university.
Even if his major wasn’t mathematics, he was no fool.
By early morning.
Strange staggered out of the hotel.
The rising sun hit his exhausted face.
“Hiss… damn… the sun’s so bright…”
All-in.
Lost everything.
Truly bankrupt now.
Forget repaying debts—he didn’t even have money for a plane ticket home.
Just then, a sports car slowly pulled up outside the hotel.
Strange’s heart broke instantly.
It was a Maserati.
Same model.
Same color.
Just yesterday, he had been driving one of those himself.
Now, he could only watch.
The hotel doors opened.
A smiling doorman followed a man in a white suit, carrying his suitcase respectfully—completely ignoring Strange.
Tch... bootlicker.
Strange silently cursed the “servant of capitalism” in his heart and turned away.
But he recognized the man in the white suit.
It was the same Asian guy who’d sat at his poker table last night.
He remembered losing everything to him.
His AK all-in, completely wiped out.
Then, behind him, a curious voice spoke up:
“Hey... isn’t this Mr. Strange?”
“Headed to the airport? Want a ride?”
Strange turned back, forcing a smile.
“I can’t.”
“Vegas is lively. I’m planning to stick around a couple more days…”
(If I stay any longer, I might have to sell my a**…)
Russell smiled casually.
“Brother, don’t be stubborn. I know you lost.”
“But for the sake of last night, I can introduce you to a job… overseas.”
Strange was about to refuse, but the moment he heard the last sentence, he suddenly perked up!
Staying in the country? Best-case scenario, he’d end up homeless.
Going abroad—even as an illegal immigrant—was his only shot at a future!
Forget about salary—he’d do it even if there wasn’t one!
“I’ll go!”
“Re… Re…”
Strange hesitated, feeling a little embarrassed.
Russell smiled knowingly, patted his shoulder, and said warmly:
“Don’t worry! I’ll pay for the plane ticket. Just follow me.”
“I was broke once too, and someone helped me back then. We’ve got a good vibe, so I’ll help you.”
Strange was touched.
What a great guy!
Next.
Boarded the plane.
Landed in Thailand.
Transferred to Myanmar.
Took a beat-up jeep deep into a remote park.
Finally...
Strange realized he’d been sold.
Good news? He didn’t have to be homeless. There was food. Decent food, even.
Bad news? There really was no salary.
“Ahhhh! Let me out!!”
Sanctum Sanctorum, New York.
Russell parked the sports car next to 177A Bleecker Street and went up to the second floor.
Then, to Wong’s shock, he tossed him a box with one million dollars in cash and said:
“Don’t be stingy when you’re cooking from now on. Let the sorcerers eat more meat.”
He suspected that Kamar-Taj’s sorcerers were weak because they ate too poorly.
No wonder Wong was eager to go pick fake fights after going a week without a proper meal.
The Ancient One deserved to die for that!
But Wong wasn’t happy. He trembled as he accepted the box, nearly crying:
“Master, we can’t do anything illegal... otherwise the Vishanti might strip us of our magic.”
You’re out there staging fake fights, and you’re lecturing me about rules?
Russell rolled his eyes and said disdainfully:
“What are you thinking? This came from Las Vegas.”
“A surgeon with AK dared to go all-in. Lost it all.”
Wong immediately relaxed and straightened his back, chuckling:
“Then he probably didn’t know the hundred ways AK can lose.”
Russell waved him off impatiently.
Meanwhile, he contacted S.H.I.E.L.D. to have them disguise the park in Myanmar—after all, that place didn’t exist in the Marvel world.
He set the stage for three months.
His goal: let Strange suffer.
Body and mind needed tempering. The man wouldn’t grow without breaking first.
Next, Russell considered how to wrap things up and move to the next timeline.
After some thought, he decided to follow the Ancient One’s method: the sacred timeline needed a replacement.
The following day.
He quietly removed the librarian sorcerer in charge of the library and assigned Kaecilius to take over.
His plan was to let Kaecilius gradually uncover some secrets of the Dark Dimension.
But unexpectedly, this version of Kaecilius was incredibly upright and loyal in this timeline.
He didn’t even glance at the Book of Cagliostro, let alone sneak into the restricted section.
Time passed.
Three months later.
The fake “training park” was raided (because someone got greedy and scammed a big-shot).
In the chaos of gunfire, Strange managed to escape.
After a series of coincidences, he stumbled his way to Kathmandu, Nepal.
He suffered nightmares every night, and hearing that the monks here could “calm the heart,” he came seeking peace.
When he arrived at the temple, he explained his purpose.
The monk glanced at him and said:
“There’s a demon in your heart.”
“Donate all your money, and the demon will leave naturally.”
Strange pulled out a piece of moldy bread and asked if that would do.
The monk told him to get lost.
Dejected, Strange left the temple, ate his moldy bread, got diarrhea, and spent half the night curled up in pain.
Finally, he collapsed unconscious outside a wooden door.
The next day.
Strange woke from a nightmare, finding himself in an ancient room.
Next to the bed, a black man stared at him unblinkingly.
Instant panic.
Oh no.
Had he lost even his last shred of dignity?
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