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Hell's Kitchen.
An unsettling quiet blanketed the abandoned construction site, which should have been bustling with activity. Tower cranes stood like sentinels, and cement mixers sat motionless, their presence a stark reminder of halted progress.
Only a small group of individuals prowled the area, their expressions etched with tension and purpose.
"Are you absolutely certain this is the location?" Sowande asked, his gaze piercing as he turned to his subordinate.
"It's one of the three sites we identified," the subordinate replied carefully, his tone deferential. "We can't confirm yet, but the evidence suggests this is a strong contender."
Sowande nodded, his mind calculating their next move. "Then don't waste time. Begin digging immediately!" he ordered, his voice firm and decisive.
The site, now under the control of the Hand, concealed secrets buried deep beneath its surface—secrets that had driven them to this exact location. Madame Gao and Murakami, two of the Hand's most influential operatives, had flagged this area while relentlessly pursuing a single, ancient objective: the Dragon Bones.
Their public personas as Hong Kong drug lords or Yakuza figures were nothing more than elaborate disguises. Beneath these facades lay the true nature of their mission.
This construction site was one of several locations deemed "suspicious" by Madame Gao and Nobu during their meticulous search for the elusive Dragon Bones. Under Madame Gao's original strategy, excavation was supposed to have started months ago. Everything had been planned down to the last detail.
But unforeseen events had thrown their plans into chaos. Before work could even begin, a calculated move by Wilson Fisk—better known as the Kingpin—had decimated their ranks. A ruthless strike wiped out Madame Gao, Murakami, and several of the Hand's core members.
With the Hand's leadership in shambles, operations had ground to a halt. Yet the mission itself was far from abandoned.
Sowande had returned to Hell's Kitchen under the cover of secrecy, stepping into the power vacuum to ensure the Hand's mission stayed on course. The stakes had never been higher—recovering the Dragon Bones was vital to achieving their ultimate goal. Failure wasn't an option.
Just as Sowande was preparing to issue further orders, his face shifted abruptly, tension rippling through his expression. He froze momentarily, his eyes narrowing as if sensing an unseen threat.
He snapped his head around, and his instincts proved correct—a figure stepped out from behind a towering concrete pillar. In their hand was a longsword, its gleaming blade still wet with fresh blood, dripping steadily onto the ground.
*Swish!*
Before Sowande could react, another shadow moved. A fiery-red blur streaked through the air, descending with precision and force from above. The figure landed heavily on the ground, their presence commanding attention.
The two mysterious intruders now flanked Sowande's group, moving forward in perfect synchrony.
"Sowande," one of them spoke, his voice a cold rasp filled with disdain.
Sowande's sneer deepened as recognition dawned. "Stick," he said, his tone laced with contempt.
Stick, a thorn in the Hand's side for years, stood before him. Once a leader of the Chaste, a group that had posed a serious threat to the Hand, Stick now represented the remnants of a shattered faction. The Chaste had been reduced to scattered survivors, launching sporadic, underhanded strikes from the shadows. They were no longer a force to be reckoned with—or so Sowande had believed.
The sight of Stick here was both unexpected and infuriating. 'Did this relic of a bygone era honestly think he could exploit the Hand's recent challenges? Did he believe the Hand had grown weak enough to be taken lightly?'
Sowande's sneer turned into a twisted smirk. Even in their current state, the Hand remained a power Stick couldn't afford to provoke.
"Stick," Sowande repeated mockingly. "You should've stayed in hiding."
Stick's expression was cold and unyielding. He wiped the blood from his sword with a casual swipe of his coat. "This place is perfect for burying trash like you," he retorted, his voice sharp and devoid of emotion.
Sowande's icy demeanor didn't falter. He raised his hand with a dismissive wave. "No, old man. The only grave being dug here is yours."
At his signal, a swarm of ninjas unsheathed their weapons, their deadly intent clear as they charged toward Stick.
But Elektra was not someone to underestimate. With a mocking laugh that sent a chill through the air, she sprang into action, her fiery-red outfit creating a streak of color as she darted forward. Her movements were impossibly fast, a blur of precision and power. She engaged the ninjas in mere moments, her lethal strikes and flawless technique keeping them all at bay.
Meanwhile, Stick remained composed, his focus unshaken. He strode forward with deliberate steps, his sword gleaming in the dim light, a deadly promise of what was to come.
"Very well," Sowande snarled, his voice dripping with disdain as he unsheathed his own blade. The metal glinted ominously in his hand. "If you want to die so badly, I'll handle you myself."
But Sowande had no time to act. Stick raised his hand abruptly, releasing a blinding wave of light. It burst forth with devastating intensity, so sudden and so close that Sowande couldn't possibly evade it. The light struck him with overwhelming force, leaving him frozen in place.
His body betrayed him, every muscle seizing as if locked in a paralyzing spell. He struggled desperately, his mind commanding movement, but his limbs refused to obey. Each effort to summon strength was futile—his movements were sluggish, agonizingly slow.
"Impossible!" Sowande gasped, his voice trembling with shock and rising fear. His expression twisted as realization dawned. He was utterly helpless.
*Slash!*
Stick was already upon him, his blade a blur as it sliced through the air. The sound was sharp and final. A crimson arc followed in its wake as the sword found its mark. Blood erupted from Sowande's throat, spraying out in a violent, unrelenting torrent. It painted the ground beneath him in vivid red, his life spilling away in moments.
His eyes widened in disbelief, a silent question frozen on his lips. 'What… was that?' He wanted to speak, to demand answers, but his voice failed him. His consciousness wavered, and the world around him grew distant.
With a heavy, lifeless thud, Sowande's body collapsed to the ground. Another leader of the Hand was no more.
Stick didn't even glance at the fallen body. His expression remained cold, his voice devoid of mercy as he murmured to himself, "Alexandra… you're next."
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A Bar on 62nd Street.
"Another whiskey, bartender." Lucien's voice carried a new sense of boldness as he slammed his empty glass on the counter. He had never felt this sure of himself before. With a casual wave, he motioned for another round as if the night belonged to him.
The bartender raised a skeptical eyebrow, eyeing Lucien with a mix of amusement and caution."Take it easy, champ," he said, his tone light but firm. "No one's going to take the bottle away from you. Just don't go overboard."
Lucien chuckled, his confidence bordering on arrogance. "Overdo it? Who's overdoing anything? Just pour the damn drink. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
With a resigned shrug, the bartender muttered, "Suit yourself," and poured another glass for him.
Lucien grabbed the drink and threw it back as if it were water, the burn of the alcohol barely registering. His lips curled into a satisfied grin. 'This is incredible!' he thought, his heart pounding with exhilaration. For the first time in his life, he felt like nothing could hold him back.
The alcohol coursing through his veins seemed to amplify everything—his confidence, his sense of freedom, and the thrill of indulgence. At that moment, Lucien felt untouchable, as if the world's rules no longer applied to him.
His eyes wandered across the dimly lit bar until they landed on a striking woman seated near the far end. Without hesitation, he sauntered over, his swagger fueled by the buzz in his head.
"Hey there, gorgeous," he said smoothly, flashing what he thought was his most charming smile. "Mind if I join you?"
Before the woman could speak, a towering, broad-shouldered man stepped into view, his presence as dominating as his size. The man's glare was cold and unyielding.
"Back off, punk," he growled, his voice like rolling thunder. "She's with me. You think you can just waltz over and hit on my girl?"
Lucien barely had time to respond before the man shoved him hard. He stumbled but managed to regain his footing, his jaw tightening as he steadied himself.
For a fleeting moment, rage surged through him like a tidal wave. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to let loose, to transform and show this man exactly who he was messing with. The thought of tearing him apart flashed vividly in Lucien's mind, but he pushed it down.
Instead, he smirked, his expression unreadable, and adjusted his jacket. He turned on his heel and walked out of the bar without another word.
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About half an hour later, the burly man and the woman stumbled out of the bar, their voices loud and filled with mocking laughter as they relived the encounter.
"What a pathetic loser!" the man roared, doubling over with laughter. "Can you believe he actually thought he had a chance? Unbelievable!"
The woman chuckled, leaning on his arm. "Some people just don't know their limits," she said with a smirk.
Their amusement was short-lived. A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the dim light of the alley.
"Well, well," the burly man said, his grin returning as he recognized Lucien. "Back for more, huh? Round two, coward? What's the plan this time? Gonna slap me around with those dainty little fists of yours?" His tone dripped with contempt.
Lucien didn't respond right away. Instead, his smirk widened, sharp and predatory, sending a chill down the man's spine. Something about Lucien's confidence was different now—darker, more menacing.
Lucien's form began to shift before the man could say another word. His features twisted, his bones cracked, and his skin seemed to ripple unnaturally. His eyes gleamed with an otherworldly glow, and his human laughter morphed into something far more sinister.
The burly man's bravado faltered, his confidence crumbling as Lucien's transformation continued. The creature that stood before him was no longer a man but a monstrous, bat-like being, its wings stretching wide and its fangs glinting in the faint light.
"What the—?!" the man stammered, his voice shaking with fear.
The woman shrieked and backed away, but the man stood frozen, rooted to the spot by sheer terror.
Lucien let out a bone-chilling screech, his massive wings beating the air with a deafening force. The sound echoed through the alley, mingling with the man's screams as Lucien lunged at him, his shadow swallowing the pair in an instant.
The night swallowed their cries, leaving only silence and the faint sound of wings flapping as Lucien disappeared into the darkness.
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Next Chapter: Clint Barton Visits to Purchase a Devil Fruit
Next Next Chapter: Hawkeye's Dilemma – The Most Frustrating Devil Fruit
Next Next Next Chapter: The Zoan Fruit That Caught Clint Barton's Eye
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