Absolute Spiderman Chapter 14: The Weavers of Life 2/2.

Chapter 14: The Weavers of Life 2/2.

(General P.O.V)

The rooftop shook, not from his landing but the white power held in Peter’s hands; fists blazing white.

The Helion horde shrank away in fear of the intense glare spilling out of the ressurected Absolute Spiderman. The shredded remains of the Oscorp green armor he'd worn, reinforced by an obsidian fabric that rippled almost alive.

The Totem mask was back and even more menacing. It's dark brown ritualistic design enhanced with glowing white veins that spread all over his body.

Strange eyed the sizzling streaks washing out across the rooftop. One hit him and instantly he felt his injuries heal.

"It's over..."

Peter whispered in finality, raising a fist and pointing it at Kingpin.

"Never!" Fisk raved like a mad dog, "I'll never sto-"

Zoommpp! Peter released it.

This was no normal lightning. Not golden venom. Something brighter and raw. A blast of pure life force tore out of him, engulfing Fisk.

Kingpin’s roar split the sky before his entire body, flesh and skeletal, erupted into cinders, his soul, an oily grotesque dark shadow ripped free into the air.

Screeching Helions started circling It, preventing escape. Hellfire chains shot out of the cane in the air and ensnared him, dragging the screaming Spirit into the blazing Rod's surface.

"MEPHISTO! YOU WRETCHE-"

The Kingpin's final words cut off as the chains, the fire, the monstrous power—it all dissolved into ash.

And so did the cane.

It shattered apart, burning to dust, sparks raining over the rooftop.

Strange’s face darkened. “The cane was the key. Fisk was bonded to it—anchoring the portal. Without him, without it… the rift won’t just stay open. It will tear wider until Hell and Earth collapse into each other.”

Peter’s stomach sank. He glanced at the spinning vortex above, a wound in the sky bleeding fire. “Can’t we fix it?”

Strange bent down, lifting the glowing red crystal that contained Wong’s soul. His hands shook as he held it, then shook his head. “No. There’s no mending what’s gone.” He looked straight at Peter. “The only chance we have left… is you.”

Peter froze, the white aura simmering down. “Me? Doc, I’m just a guy with spider powers. I swing around, I punch muggers. That’s it.”

“No.” Strange’s voice sharpened. “Spider-Man is more than a street hero. More than a totem. You are Peter Parker.”

From his robe he drew out the Eye of Agamotto, glowing green with timeless light. “And according to this? Peter Parker will save the day. Not as the Absolute Spider-Man. Not for glory, or city, or power. But because you’re a father.”

The words cut deeper than fire. Peter reached up, peeled away his totem mask. His eyes blazed white, glowing like the venom blast that ended Fisk.

He smirked faintly at Strange. “You know way too much, Doctor. But I guess that’s your job.”

Strange faltered for just a second, staring at the eyes. “Those eyes… you can see it all now, can’t you?”

Peter turned toward the raging rift. Ghost Rider circled it on his blazing Harley, chains whirling, cutting demons to shreds in great arcs of hellfire. Around them, reality burned.

“Not everything,” Peter admitted. “Just enough. The strings of life. The strings of death.”

The world shifted in his vision—an endless lattice of threads stretched across reality. White strands pulsed from every living being, black ones from the dead, all woven into an infinite grid.

Peter raised a finger and brushed one string. The strand connecting him and Strange thrummed—and suddenly Peter’s head filled with the memory of the sling ring Strange had handed him. The sensation was raw, like hearing a ghost whisper in his mind.

Strange blinked. “I felt that…”

Peter frowned, awe tempered by instinctual knowledge as the Absolute Totem. The Web of Life. That’s what it is. That’s what I’m tied to now. Resurrecting him hadn’t been the end. It was a doorway.

He clenched his fist. And now I can pull the threads, not just see them.

“You said Peter Parker saves the day,” Peter said, locking eyes with Strange. “Not Spider-Man. So let’s try it my way.”

He held up the sling ring. This thing could open rifts in space. Like the cane, it could be considered an anchor. And was connected to Strange's life strings. And this gave him an idea. “What we need is a science nerd. Lucky for us, I still qualify. You, me, and flameskull up there—we’re going to stitch that thing closed.” He glanced at the vortex, then back. “You still remember how to sew, Doctor?”

For the first time that night, Strange smiled. “Tell me what you need.”

-0-

Peter shot into the night sky, not clinging to glass or steel this time, but to something deeper—strings. Invisible to everyone else, they stretched through the air like the bones of existence itself.

Each time his webs latched, they hooked onto one of those threads, white or black, and yanking it forward launched him higher, faster, closer to the storm in the sky.

The portal churned above Manhattan, a vortex eating the web of life strand by strand. Every thread it touched—living or dead—snapped out of being. And the only thing keeping it from swallowing the world was the Ghost Rider.

The Rider roared his burning Harley in a perfect loop around the rift, chains spilling hellfire into a blazing rim. The fire acted like a tourniquet, containing the tear, but he was slowing.

Demons swarmed him—scores of shrieking Helions clawing at his shoulders and back, snapping at his tires. From the other side, a colossal claw pressed through the portal, pushing, forcing it wider. The Behemoth was coming.

Peter’s gut twisted. Too much. Too fast.

The Helions spotted him next, shrieking, and a black cloud of wings and fire peeled off from the swarm, diving straight for him.

Peter braced himself—then the sky lit up in gunfire.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet roared into view, cannons spitting, tearing into the horde. Thousands of demons burned or scattered under its barrage, clearing a path for him.

'My family...'

Peter’s heart leapt—until smoke burst from the Quinjet’s engine. Fire spat out the side as the craft tilted, plunging toward the city.

“No! NO!” Peter yelled, reaching for it, already shifting course. He couldn’t let them die—

Then the fall stopped.

The Quinjet hung suspended between two skyscrapers, a web as thick as steel cables cradling it from both sides. And standing on the line, holding the weight steady, was a white-and-black figure.

Peter’s chest seized. His eyes snapped to the string connecting them—and it gleamed brighter than any he’d seen yet. Pure, golden-white. He brushed it with his mind.

A rush of feeling slammed into him: love, fierce determination, unshakable trust.

“Gwen?!” His voice cracked with shock, awe, everything.

Across the thread came her answer, her voice alive and strong in his head: Go! I got this.

Peter’s breath hitched. He almost laughed, almost cried. Instead he pushed his thoughts back along the tether, steady, certain: Thanks, babe. Kiss May for me.

With that, he turned back toward the portal, fire in his veins. If Gwen had his back, he could risk everything.

“Mayday,” he barked, his voice iron. “Invoke: Absolute Spider-Man Form.”

His armor responded. The patchwork green plating shimmered, melted, reformed. Black and white metal flowed like liquid, knitting together into a sleek new suit. Across his chest, the golden symbol of a spider blazed bright, pulsing like a heart.

Power surged through him. Venom-blast energy wrapped around his body in a constant burn, a white aura sheathing him in light. He spun as he moved, spiraling, drilling forward through the Helions that rushed him. Every demon he touched exploded into ash. He carved a tunnel through the horde.

BAM! He broke through in a blinding streak, trailing light.

Peter landed on the Ghost Rider’s bike mid-loop, metal and hellfire shuddering under his weight. The Rider turned, hollow skull burning, chains snapping in the wind.

Peter’s new suit blazed against the fire, his eyes burning white. “Don’t stop,” he said, voice steady with conviction. “We’ve got a plan to close this portal.”

Miraculously, the Ghost Rider reacted not with the expected hostility but a grunt of, "Hold on."

Peter did, grabbing a hellfire chain with the life force reinforced symbiote suit absorbing the flames into him and analyzing the composition.

The demons had no life strings, unlike beings native from this reality. The only thing that could affect all of them at the same time was something Infernal. Like the Rider's Hellfire.

Peter's idea was to weave special web strings made of hellfire that would only target all the Demons loose in the city.

4 pairs of spider limbs exploded from Peter's back, burning with Hellfire and ending in sharp stingers or rather...needles.

It was time to save the world through Aunt May's knitting skills, a little math and a whole lot of luck.

-0-

Stephen Strange floated in the burning air, cloak snapping against the wind of the collapsing sky. His hands glowed with spell-circles, holding the edges of the rift steady as it thrashed above the city like a living wound.

He had seen gods tear realms apart, universes fold like paper. But this… this was different.

Below him, Ghost Rider’s hellcycle roared around the rim of the portal, a blazing wheel of fire tracing a boundary between Earth and Hell. Chains lashed, demons screamed as they were whipped back into the flames. The Rider was fury incarnate, the enforcer. The Cutter.

And Peter Parker—

Strange almost faltered as he saw him.

The symbiotic suit had blossomed into eight arms, each trailing filaments of fire-thread. They moved too fast for the human eye, but not for Strange’s. What Peter was weaving was not instinct. It was geometry.

A hyperbolic lattice. Expanding hexagons spiraling inward, interlocked like living coral, yet infinitely recursive. A pattern that bent space upon itself, each stitch drawing the wound closed not in a line but in a net that folded reality into stability.

Strange’s breath caught. 'He really sees it. He sees the weave of life- of magic and reality itself.'

He had thought only sorcerers, with their third eye open, glimpsed those strings, the endless web beneath existence. But Peter—untrained, frantic, improvising—was aligning himself with it, weaving absence and hellfire into the gaps where demons had no threads of their own.

“By the Vishanti,” Strange whispered. “The boy is Clotho.”

Strange's role was to keep the net from expanding past the city, lest it snapped and rained hellfire down.

He steadied his hands, tightening the spell-circles controlling the unfolding web.

'Three fates,' his mind whispered. The Rider pouring fire into the void—the fabric Cutter, Atropos, who ended.

Strange himself, measuring, holding tension—the fabric measurer, Lachesis. And Peter… weaving threads of fire through the fabric. The Spinner. Clotho.

Demons shrieked across the city. Strange saw them yanked upward one after another, caught in the burning net as if their very absence of life had been hooked. Each line Peter drew cinched tighter, dragging whole clusters of howling creatures into the portal.

A living myth playing out in Manhattan. Three Fates, binding destiny.

The portal shrank—until the Behemoth forced its claw through.

The air cracked with a roar that rattled Strange’s very bones. He nearly lost focus as a horned head burst from the wound, jaws wide, eyes burning. The stitches trembled, threatening to snap.

Peter did not falter. His eight arms lashed, binding the claw, the jaw, the writhing neck. Hellfire blazed down the lines, and still the monster pushed.

“Peter!” Strange called. “It’s too large—you’ll—”

But the boy didn’t listen. Strange saw his chest flare with white-light. He saw a desperate kick, a roar of defiance.

The Behemoth reeled backward, tangled in the net, dragged into the imploding rift along with Peter. Demons shrieked as they were dragged with it, thousands swallowed in an instant.

Reality itself begun actively pushing back against the wound on the grid, with Peter as the needle.

The faces of his family flashed through Peter's mind just as he stitched the final thread...from the other side.

The weave permanently sealed shut in a blaze of white fire—taking Peter with it.

And then it was gone.

The sky was whole. The city was silent.

Strange lowered his hands, spell-circles fading. The air smelled of ozone and ash. Ghost Rider’s fire sputtered, leaving only smoke.

Stephen Strange floated alone, his heart hollow.

The Fates have spun, measured, and cut. And Peter Parker… had paid the price.

::-------------------------------------------::
Arc 2 End.

Arc 3:- Absolute Spiderverse??