Jack stood calmly amidst the ruin, a blood-soaked specter looking down upon the kowtowing form of Cheng Wudao. The air was thick with the coppery tang of demon blood and the silence of stunned disbelief.
It was the Abbot who broke the stillness, his voice sharp with outrage and confusion. "Junior Brother! What kind of trick did this fake sage use for you to willingly give him the sacred relic and ask to be his disciple?!"
In the space between one word and the next, Jack vanished.
He reappeared in a blur, his figure materializing directly in front of the Abbot. His hand, impossibly fast, shot out and clamped around the old monk's throat, lifting him effortlessly from the ground. The Abbot's feet dangled inches above the stone, his eyes wide with shock.
A suffocating wave of pure, unadulterated killing intent washed over the courtyard. It was a pressure so immense that the other monks, who had been about to rush forward, froze in terror, their bodies locked by a primal fear. But Jack, with a surgeon's precision, controlled the flow of his aura, letting it pass harmlessly over the small, bald heads of the junior monks who peeked from behind the temple gates. He had scared the children enough already.
"Mind your manners when there are kids around," Jack said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "You are their older brother. You are supposed to influence their minds for the better."
Then, he dropped him. The Abbot collapsed in a heap, gasping for air as Jack instantly released his killing intent, the oppressive atmosphere vanishing as if it had never been there.
Jack turned his attention back to Wudao, who was still kneeling. "Anger issues," Jack stated, tilting his head. "If you want to be my disciple, you will get angry all the time. Angry to the point it will crack your brain. You're going to see the filth of the narrow-minded human, the hypocrisy of the pious, the cruelty of the powerful. Are you up for it?"
Wudao looked up, his eyes burning with a new, terrifying fire. "I will be the fire that burns sinners off the surface of the Earth just to be your disciple," he declared, his voice a raw, zealous vow.
Jack blinked. Then he chuckled. "Okay, buddy, turn that stove down a bit. We're just going to do a bit of silly pranking. Kekekekeke."
From the ground, the Abbot began to sob, not from fear, but from utter despair. "What will happen to the temple?" he cried, his voice breaking. "There is no sacred relic for us to protect! There is no temple left standing! There is no point to any of this!"
As he lamented, Jack's Golden Gaze saw it. The Abbot's aura, once serene, was turning darker, swirling with the black ink of his insecurity, the burden of his title, his feelings of inadequacy. It was a bitter, resentful energy, culminating into a force that teetered on the edge of demonic.
"Older Brother, stop!" Wudao shouted, sensing the change. "You will demonize your Qi!"
Jack casually walked toward the weeping Abbot. He glanced over his shoulder at Wudao. "First lesson, Wudao," he said, his voice light. "From now on, you should stop trying to reason with a demon."
Then, with a motion that was both blindingly fast and impossibly casual, he delivered a thundering slap across the Abbot's face.
SMACK.
The sound cracked through the mountain air like a bolt of lightning. The dark, corrupt Qi that had been coiling around the Abbot instantly dispersed, shattered by the sheer force and will behind the blow.
The Abbot was sent sprawling, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Cheng Wudao and all the other monks in the courtyard could only stare, completely and utterly stunned into silence.
…
The Nelson & Murdock law office was dark, steeped in the quiet hum of a city settling into the late hours. Karen Page pushed the door open, a bag of takeout food in her hand, and saw the office was empty save for a single pool of light illuminating a lone desk. There sat Matt Murdock, his head bowed in concentration, fingertips gliding gracefully over the raised dots of a braille legal document.
Karen knocked softly on the open doorframe. "Working hard, or hardly working?" she asked with a gentle smile.
Matt chuckled, the sound warm in the quiet room. "Come on in, Karen." He reached over and clicked off his desk lamp, plunging the room into near-total darkness. A beat of silence passed. "I just turned it off, didn't I?"
Karen laughed softly and flipped the main switch by the door, bathing the office in a soft, fluorescent glow. She walked over, placing the food on Foggy's cluttered desk. "Is that the Castle case?"
Matt nodded, his expression turning serious. "The official narrative is full of holes," he said, his voice low. "Too many variables line up too perfectly to be simple coincidence."
Karen's smile was triumphant. "So, you're finally admitting I was right yesterday?"
Matt let out a soft laugh. "Yes, yes, you were right. I was wrong. Even Foggy thought the details were circumstantial at first."
"Buuut…?" Karen prompted, leaning against the desk.
"But," Matt continued, steepling his fingers, "after digging into the initial police reports and cross-referencing them with the information Natalie gave us, a much darker picture is starting to form."
"Well, hit me with it," Karen said, pulling up a chair. "Should we be preparing a motion?"
"Not so fast," Matt cautioned. "Let's start with the official record. Francis 'Frank' Castle, born Francis Castiglione. A decorated US Marine with multiple tours of duty. The official story is that his family was killed in Central Park when they accidentally witnessed a mob killing on the Sheep's Meadow green. Fearing witnesses, the mobsters murdered them in cold blood. Frank was the sole, miraculous survivor."
"But the only casualties were Frank's family," Karen pointed out, picking up the thread. "In the middle of a public park on a sunny afternoon? There should have been dozens of other people around. Other witnesses. Or at the very least, a much larger crime scene."
"Exactly," Matt agreed. "And that's not where the convenient details end. Remember Natalie's findings? When Jack Hou took over his territories, he completely disrupted the drug trade in Hell's Kitchen. The operations that were displaced line up perfectly with the territory of the mob suspected in the Castle shooting."
Karen frowned. "Wait, Natalie had a map of city-wide drug operations?"
Matt gave a slight shrug. "Karen, she's the right hand of the most powerful man in the city. I doubt a single stray cat crosses a street in Golden Peach without her knowing about it."
"Okay, fair point. Continue."
"There's a persistent rumor," Matt said, his voice dropping even lower, "of a clandestine drug ring with deep ties to the US military. We don't know which branch for certain, but we do know this: Frank Castle is a Marine."
The pieces clicked together in Karen's mind, cold and sharp. "So… you're saying Frank didn't just witness a mob killing." She leaned forward, her eyes wide with the dawning horror of the theory. "He saw something more. The mob hit, the shooting… it was all a cover for something much bigger. Something involving this military drug ring."
…
High above the clouds, a streak of blood soaked figure cut through the sky. Jack Hou rode Zephyr with the casual grace of a man out for a Sunday drive, the wind whipping through his long hair. Around Zephyr's misty form, the simple blue scarf Billy had made for him was wrapped safely.
There was, however, an outlier.
Clinging desperately to the end of that very same blue scarf was Cheng Wudao, his saffron monk robes flapping wildly, his face a mask of pure, wind-blasted terror.
Jack glanced back at his new disciple and cackled, the sound a wild, joyous thing in the empty sky. "Kekekeke! Wudao! From now on, you will learn English while hanging on for dear life like this! It's called immersive learning!"
Wudao couldn't even hear him over the roar of the wind, his knuckles white as he held on.
"Hey, disciple! See that?" Jack pointed. "Say hi to the people!"
To their left, a commercial airplane flew alongside them, its passengers oblivious. Wudao looked over, his eyes wide. Inside, a small child pressed his face against the window, his phone raised as if to take a picture of the impossible sight. Jack waved enthusiastically, flashing a brilliant, unhinged smile.
He glanced downward, his Golden Gaze piercing through the clouds. "Oh, there they are," he muttered. He waved one last goodbye to the plane and commanded Zephyr to descend.
They arrived as night fell over the border between China and North Korea. Below them sat a large, unassuming warehouse. Without any warning, Jack drove Zephyr straight down.
CRASH!
They burst through the roof in an explosion of metal and concrete, landing in the center of the warehouse floor. Inside, dozens of figures in black, stealthy attire froze, their red sashes the only splash of color in the gloom. The Hand.
Jack dusted off his shoulders. "Ahh, busting through a warehouse roof like this… reminds me of my younger self, when I first burst through a warehouse roof."
Wudao, still trying to find his balance after being unceremoniously dropped, asked, "How long ago was that, Master?"
Jack shrugged. "About a year ago. Kekekeke."
Before the ninjas could process the intrusion, several of them were already moving, their blades silent whispers in the air as they attacked.
Jack dodged effortlessly, a lazy sidestep here, a casual lean there. He grabbed one of the charging ninjas by the head and slammed his face directly into the concrete floor with a sickening crunch. The ninja went limp.
"I'm here to teach my disciple," Jack announced to the room. He then walked over to Wudao and smacked him soundly on the back of the head. "Pay attention."
He turned back to the remaining Hand ninjas, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Whoever kills this muscle-head," he declared, pointing at Wudao, "I will ensure your life, and you will be able to get out of this place."
A flicker of hope and bloodlust entered the ninjas' eyes. One of them, smarter than the rest, decided to take the other option and made a break for the exit. He sprinted toward the door, only to slam face-first into an invisible wall with a loud thud.
Jack chuckled. "No need to waste your energy. I've already erected a barrier to make sure none of you can get out."
He walked over to the dazed and utterly confused Wudao, grabbed him by the collar of his robes, and picked him up like a sack of rice.
With a final, glorious cackle, he tossed his new disciple directly into the waiting horde of deadly assassins.
"Go be free, my disciple!"
…
The air inside the Los Angeles branch of the SHIELD secret hideout was cool and sterile, smelling faintly of ozone and freshly brewed, burnt coffee. Director Nick Fury stepped out of the high-speed elevator, his long black coat sweeping behind him. He hadn't even made it to his office when his personal phone, the one reserved for matters of global-level insanity, began to vibrate.
He glanced at the caller ID. Coulson.
Fury answered, his voice a low grumble. "It better be important, Coulson. I just arrived at the office, and I haven't had my coffee yet."
"I'll be brief, Director," Coulson's voice came through, crisp and professional, overlayed with the faint hum of a Quinjet engine. "I'm on my way to Japan to investigate the earthquake that happened several hours ago."
Fury stopped in the middle of the bustling command center. "Why? We are not a rescue team, Agent. I need you back here to monitor the project I assigned to you."
"With all due respect, sir, I think this matter is more than it seems."
Fury's one good eye narrowed. "Is this why you called me on the personal line?"
"Yes, sir," Coulson confirmed. "And for your consideration, Project T.A.H.I.T.I. needs more time to bake. As an agent, I can only be on the sideline while the scientists do their work. My presence there is currently redundant."
A long, weary sigh escaped Fury's lips. The man had a point. "Okay, but who is it? Someone who just made the earthquake? Is it a mutant?" He paused, his mind already calculating the political fallout. It wasn't that he didn't want mutants in the Avengers initiative, but he needed the team to be seen as separate from the world's burgeoning 'mutant problem.' If the Avengers were labeled as just another mutant group, they'd be buried in congressional hearings before they ever saved a single life.
"It's unlikely, sir," Coulson replied, his tone shifting. "One of my operatives in Japan says that just before the earthquake happened, the Imperial Regalia of Japan—the three sacred treasures—were being cleaned."
Fury's interest was piqued.
Coulson continued, "Each of them was in a different temple, and this process is a sacred ritual, performed only once every decade. Only a select few can conduct or even witness it. But somehow, within minutes of the cleaning ritual beginning, all three temples were attacked simultaneously. The only things left behind were corpses, and the treasures are gone."
The pieces clicked into place in Fury's mind. "And this earthquake happened at the same time the treasures were being cleaned?"
"Yes," Coulson confirmed. "It could be a coincidence. But my gut tells me there is something more to this."
…
Her breath burned in her lungs. Her legs ached. Alexander Aaron stumbled through the ancient, moss-covered forest, clutching the ornate hilt of the sword, Kusanagi no Tsurugi, as if it were the only solid thing in a world turned to chaos.
'Run,' a voice whispered in her mind, a sibilant, ancient sound that was not her own. 'We are almost at my temple.'
Her life had been so normal. She had lived her entire life as a woman in Japan, raised by a quiet, loving single mother. Her mother had always taught her to be calm, to think rationally, to quell the strange, fiery anger that sometimes coiled in her gut. As a child, she had always been fierce. When the other children bullied her for her foreign features, a fire she didn't understand would ignite within her. She always fought back, and the thrill of it, the raw power, was exhilarating.
She didn't know why. Not until today.
Hours ago, her life was a mundane cycle of 9-to-5 exhaustion. She worked as an office worker in Tokyo, another face in the crowd, barely holding her life together under the weight of deadlines and expectations. Then, while crossing the street, an out-of-control truck lost its brakes.
It was a quick death.
She opened her eyes, not to a hospital, not to a white light, but to a world of endless twilight and gray, silent plains. This was Yomi. She was confused, terrified, and utterly alone.
Then, from the shadows behind her, a voice slithered through the silence. "A lost soul."
Alexander startled, whipping around. A figure stood there, a being of pure nightmare. It was completely covered in black from head to toe, its form adorned with thin, writhing black tentacles and sharp spikes. Its hands ended in long, wicked claws. It had no pupils, only empty white voids for eyes, and large, sharp fangs protruded from its upper jaw.
She was so scared she couldn't even scream.
"I am Amatsu-Mikaboshi," the figure hissed, its voice the sound of cracking stars. "It seems you are not one of my daily meals. You're… weirdly foreign."
Hearing that word—foreign—triggered something deep within her. The same taunts from her childhood, echoing even here, in the afterlife. 'What kind of bullshit is this?' she thought, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a surge of pure indignation. Her legs shook, but she stood her ground. It was then she noticed the figure was bound, ancient, glowing chains wrapped around its shadowy form like some sort of divine prisoner.
"Why, never seen a cuff and chain before?" Amatsu-Mikaboshi taunted, noticing her stare.
"Where am I?" Alexander's voice was a hoarse whisper.
"You're in Yomi," the being answered. "And you were not supposed to be here."
"You mean… the underworld of Shinto? Yomi?"
"Yes, you're right," Mikaboshi confirmed with a dry chuckle. "It seems your own bloodline tried to rewrite your destiny by making your soul believe in Yomi, hoping you'd end up here."
Alexander, still afraid but now deeply confused, asked, "You're saying I'm not supposed to be here? Why? Where should I go?"
"Hehehehe," Mikaboshi's laugh was a low, chilling rattle. "You should have gone to Hades."
"Hades? The Greek underworld?"
"Well," the chaos god said, his empty eyes seeming to pierce right through her. "A demi-god such as yourself should not live an unfulfilled life. Should we make a deal? Ehehehe…"
**A/N**
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**A/N**