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Chapter Twenty-Three: The Punisher Showdown (2)
Daniel murmured a short word, his eyes never leaving the small screen that blinked at the corner of his vision: Luna. A pulse of surprise crossed his face — a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He raised an eyebrow and a quiet voice escaped him: "Why two templates?"
[Luna — System] First: know that the Lucian template is closest to the Punisher. Why Lucian is closest to the Punisher:
Motivation: both are driven by vengeance after losing someone dear (Lucian lost Senna).
Style: an armed killer who hunts evil with personal focus, not bound by law.
Tone: a serious, dark figure determined to eradicate his enemies without mercy.
[...] [Why, then, Graves might be closer in another sense:
Form and fighting style: Graves is rougher and harsher — he evokes the "outlaw/gangster" note more than Lucian.
Weapon and appearance: his weapon is heavy and blunt (a shotgun), and the character's vibe is closer to the gritty crime-story tone of The Punisher.]
The echo of those words settled in Daniel's head quietly but clearly; the accumulated information arranged itself inside him like intersecting maps. He now understood why the system had opened two templates at once: one closest in spirit and theme, the other closer in appearance and style — both tools usable depending on need and context. Yet Daniel decided inside himself that he would not open either template unless necessary. Now he wanted a template that used magic first so he could access Summoner Spells: Flash, Ignite, Heal, Teleport, Barrier, Exhaust, Smite — those were very important spells and Daniel would need them. In particular he wanted one template above the others: Veigar, the one who can grow infinitely powerful.
At that moment, two tired lungs gasped and the world they occupied remained heavy: Frank Castle began to stir.
Frank's first movements were raw and painful: a flash of chest pain accompanied him; his mouth tasted the sourness of blood. His eyes opened slowly; they were not yet fully aware, only wandering through dust-obscured sight. Then he managed a faint sound, a mumble that barely left his lips: "No…"
His first action was an attempt to sit up. Two trembling arms, a twisting throat, hands searching for something to brace against. The ground under him was rough, filings and glass fragments, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to his clothes. He tried to push himself up on his elbows, but every push dulled his nerves: dizziness, ringing in his ears, a clear malfunction in his balance.
Frank looked around with narrowed eyes; memory returned slowly: the roar of shots, flame, an explosion. Then his gaze fell on the black rolling point — the pistol — a few steps away, half-covered by dust and a haze of smoke. Muscles in his face twitched; a single desire showed plainly: reach the weapon.
Daniel stood, his shadow lending him an eerie calm. He did not advance aggressively, but his body was aligned; his silent poise counted each heartbeat — a fine sense reading Frank's first violent movement.
Frank dragged his first hand painfully, felt the floor, then pushed his body forward in an awkward crawl. Every movement was exhausting, every breath short as if the air itself choked him. And because time is merciless in moments like this, Frank reached his second hand to grab the pistol—
—but Daniel stopped him before his hand completed the motion. It was not a violent stop so much as a calculated one: a steady grip on Frank's wrist, fingers pressing on bone like a quiet lock, then a gentle backward pull that slid the hand away from the weapon and left it without purchase. One precise motion, making no noise beyond Frank's sharp intake.
Frank lifted his head; his eyes blazed with anger braided with raw pain. His lips parted into torn words: "Who… are you? Who sent you? Do you want to kill me?" The words came in fragments, each cutting the air like a small wound.
Daniel sighed and his features remained uninflamed by anger; calm was his weapon now. He answered in a low, cold voice, stripped of mockery: "I'm here as a friend… just a friend."
Frank spat a few letters, bitter laughter before the words: "A friend? Is that what friends do?"
Daniel felt a faint flush creep up his face — an odd embarrassment. He knew this scene would repeat many times in the future: alert eyes, sharp questions, suspicion. He would always have to soften the moment — all because of the system's stupid requirement to get new templates — so he had to get used to it, again and again. The burden was tiresome, but it was necessary.
He drew breath and gripped Frank's wrist more gently to confirm control without violence. "You misunderstand me." Daniel said, his calm stronger than any threat. "These wounds of yours — in two days their effect will be negligible. All of these injuries are superficial."
Frank's expression shifted for a moment — a mix of caution and faint hope. "Then why? Why did you come here?"
Daniel exhaled, his tone more resolute: "Because I need you in three days." He pushed the two words as if they carried weight. "Me and… Daredevil, and some people who have abilities, intend to take down Wilson Fisk." He pronounced the name slowly, as if testing the word's weight in the air. "You know him. You know his truth and his crimes. I want you to join us."
Frank shuddered, his sight narrowing like the barrel of a gun. "You want me to work with Daredevil? Impossible. That man — foolish with his ridiculous principles. I'll never work with him."
Daniel gave a short smile that did not reach his eyes, as if to hide a harsher truth. "Daredevil doesn't know I came to you. He doesn't know the details of what we'll do. And I don't work for anyone's principles — I do what must be done." He looked at Frank directly, his voice low but honest: "They — all of them — deserve death for the crimes they committed. I may avoid killing when I can, but there are those who do not deserve mercy."
He paused to listen to Frank's pulse and noticed the chest contractions, the flutter of the heart. The words were like small knives, yet they reflected a dark truth in him; he wasn't convinced by half measures, and his only solution leaned toward killing everyone.
Frank muttered a harsh growl: "You're a liar." Then he spoke with a mix of resolve and contempt: "I'll kill them all whether your mercy says they deserve it or not."
Daniel tilted his head with a formal nod. "I told you a moment ago that they all deserve death." Then he changed the subject. "I'll send you the details later — how you want to use them or not is your decision. Now, I'm leaving. Learn to move your hand slowly, and you'll be fully fit and able to fight in two days. I need you at the rendezvous." His last words were half instruction, half plea.
Daniel slipped a small scrap of cloth stuck to Frank's chest free, wrapped it carefully around the elbow as a temporary support — he suspected it might be slightly dislocated — and glanced at the pistol skittering on the floor with a quick eye — no longer a threat. Then he bent once more and let his voice come nearer, a small crack of intention: "Also, if you come, do not fight beside Daredevil. Take other opponents so he won't be fighting you. The decision is yours in the end if you want to do this."
Frank gasped at the air with a trembling hand, his eyes following the vanishing shadow. After a moment of silence — unclear whether it was anger or plotting — he began moving on the ground again, trying to recover his balance.
Daniel left the building in measured steps. The outside air was colder than inside; the smell of smoke and gunpowder faded as a night breeze crossed the courtyard. Oil stains kissed his shoes and the glare of streetlamps threw his long shadow across the wall.
He returned to his original appearance, walked a few blocks until he reached a main road, then took a cab toward his home.
The house welcomed him at the end of a long, grueling evening. He opened the door with a hand tired from exertion, tossed his coat on a chair, and collapsed briefly onto the couch. His muscles relaxed suddenly as if released from a tightly drawn rope. His eyes closed for a few seconds, but his mind remained alert — and the main mission that had appeared while he was searching with Charles came back into view.
[Primary Quest: Rescue Peter Parker's uncle — reward: 100 gems]
[Quest Duration: 22 hours]
Daniel muttered a remark to Luna (Really — a violent fight and I gained 30 gems, and now a rescue mission gives me 100? Where's the logic in that?)
Luna replied immediately: [Fine, if that reward bothers you, I'll reduce the gems from 100 to 10.]
(I expected you to say that. Isn't there a better solution? Like make the 30 into 200 or 300 — that would be realistic and actually better.)
Luna answered with sarcasm and mockery: [In your dreams. Final question — do you want to change currencies to make them realistic for you or not?]
Daniel answered aloud: "No, no—don't do that. I was wrong to talk to you in the first place. Hmm."
Luna replied confidently: [No — you want any gain without doing anything. You're dreaming now — if you had millions of gems and coins for every template…]
Daniel shot back quickly: "And what do you think of me — I'm human. The things I like most are food and sleep. Why would I like work?"
Luna responded: [There's something you like more than food and sleep, which—]
Daniel cut her off, saying, "I want to buy a Long Sword."
[.....]
[Alright, it seems you've decided to take the Attack Damage path for this template.]
Daniel replied: (Yes, if I can predict the trajectories of bullets before they are fired with Lee Sin's power, there is almost no use in armor — better to go AD.) He continued with a question: (So what do you think of my reasoning?)
[.....]
Daniel grew a little angry: (Why are you ignoring me now? Is there an error or not?)
[.......]
Daniel ignored Luna's silence.
He closed his eyes at last, listened to the wind pass through the window cracks, and slept in quiet after a long, arduous day.