When Peter woke up again, he found himself in a cramped and dim hut. He saw a man in a red bodysuit with his back turned, tending to his equipment.
Peter's whole body still hurt a lot, but thanks to his exceptional self-healing power, most of his wounds had healed. The man turned around and said, "Kid, you're lucky. They just gave you some laxatives and anesthetics, nothing more potent, otherwise you wouldn't be waking up now."
Spider Man's mutation abilities didn't reach their peak the moment he gained them. They needed to go through a series of trainings and stimuli. The later version of Spider Man, whether in terms of strength, speed, or self-healing abilities, was dozens of times stronger than the current Peter.
Although Peter had possessed these mutation abilities for a while, he had only dealt with ordinary people. Right now, his abilities were much stronger than the average person, so he didn't think about how to improve them.
For this reason, his body had not reached the point of being completely immune to drugs. The boss of the underground fighting ring had given him a large dose of laxatives, and paired with some anesthetics, he fell for it.
Peter said, "I remember you, you saved me, didn't you?"
"You're just lucky, kid. Plus, it seems you have some abilities that are not ordinary, otherwise you'd be dead by now."
Peter broke out in a cold sweat. One could not expect a high school student to be inherently suspicious. Peter lived in a place with simple customs and friendly neighbors. Uncle Ben had always focused on positive education; Peter had never experienced the wickedness of men. He said with lingering fear, "I thought ..."
Then he fiercely pounded the bed, saying indignantly: "I'm going to give that boss a lesson! He dared to drug me!"
"You do not really expect there to be a fair referee like in the world championships, do you?" asked Night Devil.
"Alright, I think your wounds have healed enough. Hurry up and leave, kid. Hell's Kitchen is not a place for you."
"I am no kid." Peter said, "I am Spider Man."
"You are far from it." Night Devil said. Peter was about to retort when a cane stopped right next to his neck.
The Spider-sense didn't react, or to be precise, there was no time for it to react.
Cold sweat trickled down Peter's forehead. The Night Devil moved so fast that even his extraordinary vision couldn't catch it.
What Matt learned from Stick wasn't just ordinary martial arts. Although he was a regular human, he had honed and pushed his physical abilities to their limits. Coupled with his seasoned martial arts skills, he was even stronger than Little Spider who had awakened his Spider abilities.
Peter was just a greenhorn. He swallowed and said, "That move of yours was really cool, pal. That's what you used to save me, right?"
As he spoke, Peter demonstrated a swaying boxing posture with his hand. Night Devil put away his cane and said: "If you really want to be Spider Man, there's a lot you need to learn. If you're interested, you can come to me."
Night Devil was by no means a do-gooder. In the Marvel World, he was a rather ruthless and decisive hero. He saved Peter, partly out of sympathy, and partially because he was reminded of how his father had died and didn't want to see more people dying in underground fighting rings.
On another note, he was considering finding an assistant. The assassination attempt and subsequent injury made him realize that he couldn't be in two places at once. He couldn't evade his enemies and fight for justice at the same time. But if he had an assistant, things would be much easier.
Little Spider fit his expectations. He was powerful, talented but also very inexperienced.
Thus, Peter started visiting the Night Devil regularly. He began to realize that despite being on top of his physical fitness, his skill set was poor. His life experience was too limited. Otherwise, why would he need to fight in an underground ring to make money? His abilities could be a quick cash grab.
Out of a desire to improve his life with his abilities and a youthful fascination with Night Devil's cool martial arts, Peter quickly became close to the Night Devil and learned about what he was doing.
Although Peter admired him, he felt it was unnecessary. What could one person do? He couldn't kill all the criminals in Hell's Kitchen. With his determination and perseverance, doing something else would have him settled down and leading a happy life by now.
However, soon enough, as Little Spider and Night Devil became closer, he even spent several nights at Night Devil's base during the break. He had seen Night Devil treating his wounds alone countless times, causing his attitude towards him to waver.
Indeed, the Night Devil was just an ordinary person. He didn't have any super self-healing abilities. Unfortunately, his sensation of pain was more acute than most. When he was alone at his base tending to his wounds, Peter saw him nearly faint from the pain. Yet, each day, he would go out to fight the criminals as usual.
While Hell's Kitchen was not as dangerous as Gotham, upholding justice in this neighborhood carried a high risk of injury. Sometimes he'd get grazed by a stray bullet in a mob shooting, or jumped down from several floors when evading pursuit. At other times, he'd end up with a large bruise from being punched during a fight. Every time Little Spider saw these wounds, he felt a mix of emotions.
He had started to think of Matt as a friend, and he certainly didn't want any harm to come to his friends. But how could he persuade Night Devil to stop?
Dissuade him from upholding justice? From striking criminals? But Peter is clever, and he knows that all of Matt's painfully excruciating wounds have not turned him away – how could a few light-hearted words of his possibly succeed in doing so?
Finally one day, a ninja who had once again tried to assassinate Matt, shot a bullet into his calf. Peter managed to help him extract the bullet. Peter had never seen such a wound before. The pungent smell of blood was so sickening that it made him dizzily nauseous. The torn muscles were even deep enough to expose the bone. Peter's hands shook as he examined the injury.
He was not yet the Spider Man, a true hero lifted from the iron-blooded trials. Any high-schooler exposed to such a horrific sight would not fare any better.
Under Matt's guidance, Peter helped him extract the bullet. The words from his dry voice came out raspy: "Why are you doing this… is it really worth it?"
"I thought you'd ask me sooner."
The Night Devil leaned against the wall, his posture altered, his voice trembling from the pain. He said, "You must be hailing from a modest family background, but you should have a loving elder at home. You should have had a moderately happy family, your life always steady and stable …"
"You may have had a few school-related setbacks, but most of the time you were safe. I can tell you might be upset over financial deficits, but you know what? You are truly fortunate…"
In the dim light of the small room, the Night Devil muttered disjointedly, as if he was sleep-talking, "I am lucky, too, I was born in Hell's Kitchen. But my father was not a gambler or an addict; he did his best to protect me and gave me a chance to leave this damned place for studying…"
"He was a great father. To support me and help me get away from here, he chose to become a boxer…"
"Yes, your fate was supposed to be the same as his… He refused to throw fights even when I watched his competitions. Consequently, he was murdered by the boxing gang owners."
Peter was brought to tears by the physical pain and emotional sorrow. The Night Devil, despite his semi-consciousness caused by the agony, continued to ramble:
"You and I are both fortunate. And some people are unfortunate. When their mothers were pregnant with them, they were either drinking or taking drugs. When these kids were born, they were already addicted. To survive, they either work for the mob, or do other more dangerous, inhumane jobs. Living such painful lives, they resort to drugs and alcohol, and their children are forced to repeat their agonizing existence ..."
"... this is Hell's Kitchen."
"Yeah ... I am lucky enough to leave here, to receive higher education, to practice martial arts... Since I am luckier than them, and gifted with more abilities..."
"... why shouldn't I be doing all this?"
The Night Devil often referred to Hell's Kitchen as "this damned place." Peter heard countless times how they cursed the residents of this godforsaken place and wished everyone could go to Hell quickly.
For the first time, though, he realized the Night Devil was earnestly longing to save all this. The Night Devil genuinely had an unwavering determination to lift Hell's Kitchen out of Hell.
Peter dared not imagine how, given the circumstances, anyone could consider rescuing such a place. It seemed utterly impossible.
Nevertheless, the Night Devil insisted on trying.
Peter was silent. When he extracted the bullet, the Night Devil let out a near-deathlike scream. Soon, he passed out from the pallor of pain.
Standing in the center of the room, Peter took in the shabby surroundings. In this place where they couldn't even find anaesthetic or bandages, Matt's wound had to be wrapped in strips of clothing.
Peter was filled with a rage more fierce and profound than when he complained about being broke. He felt that Matt should not be in this condition, for he was firm, persistent, and had an indomitable will.
Moreover, he was a good person. Good people should reap their rewards.
Why was it that these managers and shareholders of the underground boxing rings were living such plush lives? Even the drunks who passed out in their seats could dream peacefully through the night.
Yet, the Night Devil, a decent man, had to endure excruciating pain. In this dim and cramped room, he fell asleep in agony.
Peter, with his life experience, couldn't comprehend all of this. These emotions surged within his chest.
Leaving the Night Devil's camp, he ran through the night in Hell's Kitchen.
With his extraordinary spider abilities, he leaped across rooftops, soaring in the New York night sky. The neon lights of the casinos and nightclubs shone brightly throughout the night while the dark alleys, in contrast, were shrouded in absolute darkness – like places where dawn would never break.