[AUTHOR NOTE: Promised extra chapter for 5 reviews. I will post another extra chapter if powerstones reach 100.]
"What?!"
Sowanda's eyes widened, his brain struggling to process the impossible. One second, fifty elite ninjas were charging. The next, the air was filled with a red mist and headless corpses.
"Where is he?!"
Sowanda spun, his body instinctively dropping into a defensive stance. But instinct wasn't enough against a level 100 NPC.
A shadow flickered. A hand clamped around his throat like a vice made of iron.
Sowanda's feet left the ground. He kicked helplessly, staring into the calm, indifferent eyes of the elderly butler.
Sebas Tian held him effortlessly with one arm. He looked at the Hand leader not with anger, but with the mild disappointment one might show a misbehaving pet.
"I... I surrender..."
Sowanda choked out the words, clawing at Sebas's wrist.
Sebas released him instantly.
Thud.
Sowanda hit the concrete hard, gasping for air, clutching his bruised throat. He coughed violently, his pristine white suit now stained with the grime of the floor.
He looked up, his eyes wide with feigned terror.
"Whatever your goal is," Sowanda wheezed, "I can cooperate. The Hand has resources. Money. Influence."
He looked pathetic, like a beaten dog.
But as Sebas opened his mouth to speak, Sowanda's head dipped. His hand flashed to his belt.
Shing.
A hidden dagger flew upward, aiming directly for Sebas's heart. It was a perfect strike, honed by decades of assassination training. A smile twitched at the corner of Sowanda's mouth.
Crunch.
The smile vanished.
Sebas hadn't dodged. He had simply caught the blade.
His gloved hand crushed the enchanted steel as if it were a cracker. Shards of metal tinkled to the floor.
Sebas sighed.
"How disappointing."
He looked down at the assassin with cold eyes.
"Tier 4 Magic: [Domination]."
A complex magical circle glowed in the air before Sebas. Sowanda's eyes glazed over instantly, his will shattering under the spell's weight.
The interrogation was brief and efficient.
Five minutes later, Sowanda blinked. The fog in his mind cleared. He looked up, groggy, the memories of his betrayal flooding back.
"What... what did you do to me?"
Sebas ignored him. He turned his back on the assassin, looking toward the huddled mass of blinded slaves.
Without looking back, Sebas threw a casual punch into the empty air behind him.
BOOM.
The air pressure alone acted like a cannonball. Sowanda's head simply vanished, vaporized into a fine red mist that painted the ceiling.
One of the Five Fingers of The Hand was gone.
Sebas looked at the slaves. Their eyes were ruined. Their ears destroyed. Even with magic, he wasn't a healer. He couldn't fix them.
But he could free them.
"Tier 6 Magic: [Mass Dominate Human]."
A wave of magic washed over the cavern. The slaves stopped trembling. Their panic subsided, replaced by a calm, artificial compulsion.
"Follow me," Sebas commanded gently.
Like a line of ants, the blind workers stood up and marched toward the tunnel exit.
[Hell's Kitchen - Street Level]
Once the last slave had climbed out of the pit, Sebas stood before the derelict factory.
He pulled back his fist.
CRASH.
A single punch collapsed the entire front wall of the factory. The deafening roar echoed through the silent blocks of Hell's Kitchen like a thunderclap.
Lights flickered on in apartment windows. Dogs barked.
Sebas dusted off his gloves. The police would come now. The slaves would be found. His work here was done.
On a rooftop three blocks away, Daredevil froze mid-jump. The explosion was deafening to his enhanced senses. He changed direction instantly, swinging toward the source of the noise.
As he soared over the street, he looked down.
An elderly gentleman in a butler's uniform was walking calmly away from the rubble.
Sebas looked up. Their eyes met for a split second—the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and the Butler of Nazarick.
Sebas offered a polite, almost imperceptible nod.
Then he turned a corner and vanished into the night.
[New York Presbyterian Hospital - Two Days Later]
Midtown High School was having a bad week.
Before the survivors of the "Haunted Forest" incident could even be discharged, two more students were wheeled in.
Liam and Ethan.
Their condition was far worse. The previous group had suffered from shock and anxiety. These two were catatonic. They screamed in their sleep. They clawed at their own faces.
The doctors called it severe PTSD. S.H.I.E.L.D. called it a lead.
Agent Phil Coulson walked into the hospital ward, flashing his badge to the nurse.
He stood by the bed, looking at the two teenagers. They were sedated, but their heart rate monitors were still spiking erratically.
Coulson sighed and walked to the Doctor's office.
"FBI. Agent Coulson."
Dr. Oliver Wilson looked up from his chart, eyeing the badge with skepticism.
"FBI?" Wilson scoffed, handing over a clipboard. "Since when does the Bureau handle teenage panic attacks? Did they see a communist ghost?"
Coulson smiled his practiced, disarming smile. "We just want to be thorough, Doctor."
He took the report. Severe psychological trauma. Hallucinations. Memory fragmentation.
It matched the pattern. Something in that forest had broken these kids' minds.
"Doctor Wilson," Coulson asked, handing the clipboard back. "How long until they wake up?"
"Hard to say. Maybe an hour. Maybe a day."
Coulson nodded. "I need to talk to them the moment they're lucid."
"They're traumatized children, Agent."
"I know," Coulson said, his face serious. "But whatever scared them might not be done yet. And I need to know what it looks like."
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