The Marvel Universe, while still plagued by wars, pales in comparison to the crises looming on the horizon. Sorcerer Supreme, Apocalypse, the Hulk, and perhaps even the enigmatic Sentry – these cosmic-level entities are all concentrated on Earth, a relatively insignificant backwater in the vast universe. Garus often wondered where his own power ranked among them.
Returning home, Garus suddenly realized he hadn't yet examined his appearance since his reincarnation.
Removing his shirt, he stood before a mirror. His reflection revealed a face that remained mostly human, but the rest of his skin bore intricate, blue, rune-like patterns—eerily similar to the glyphs on his weapon. When he channeled the power of death, the runes glowed an unsettling green.
He sighed in relief. At least he hadn't fully transformed into an undead. The mere thought of decaying flesh repulsed him. Instead, he resembled a creature of dark elegance, perhaps akin to a vampire.
Most Death Knights were former Paladins, their holy light most efficiently converted into the dark energy of death. Other classes, during their transformation into Death Knights, would lose significant power in the process. Garus, however, had no trace of holy light remaining; it had all been replaced with death's cold embrace. He mused over the possibility of regaining his Paladin abilities one day, wondering if it might allow him to wield a dual energy of light and dark, like the Naaru of Azeroth.
After his experimentation, Garus treated himself to a hot shower and savored the rare tranquility of lying in bed.
The next morning, Garus sat in his living room, watching TV as he waited for Kingpin's men to arrive. He was certain that Wilson Fisk would send someone after him.
On screen, Tony Stark appeared, delivering an announcement that sent shockwaves across America. Under the scrutiny of countless reporters, Tony declared the indefinite shutdown of Stark Industries' weapons development and manufacturing division.
Garus watched as Obadiah Stane, visibly enraged, yanked Tony off the podium while plastering a fake smile and offering hurried explanations to the press. The notion of America's leading arms manufacturer abandoning its primary business caused a media frenzy, with reporters swarming the scene.
The fallout was immediate. Stark Industries' stock plummeted, and Garus couldn't help but smirk. He guessed it wouldn't be long before Obadiah made his move against Tony. Stark's decision had effectively severed Obadiah's financial lifeline.
Suddenly, a shadowy figure appeared on the second-floor balcony of the villa. It was none other than Bullseye, Kingpin's top assassin.
"Hey, don't dirty my floors," Garus called out casually. "I just had them cleaned."
Bullseye froze, startled. Stealth was a cornerstone of his craft, and he prided himself on being undetectable. Yet this young man had spotted him with ease.
Acknowledging the futility of hiding, Bullseye stepped boldly into the room, twirling a knife in his hand. He eyed Garus, whose Eastern features and youthful appearance belied an aura of chilling menace. Though he couldn't identify it, Bullseye felt unnerved by the deathly energy emanating from him.
"Kid," Bullseye sneered, "I'm Kingpin's best assassin. I'm here to kill you. Aren't you afraid?"
Garus regarded Bullseye with indifferent amusement. The assassin, after all, was merely human—formidable to some but inconsequential to him.
Irritated by Garus's dismissive attitude, Bullseye hurled his knife with lightning speed. A flash of steel glinted through the air, but to his astonishment, Garus caught the blade effortlessly.
"You..." Bullseye stammered, shocked. His knives were renowned for their deadly precision, and no one had ever caught one unscathed.
In truth, Garus's reaction was pure combat instinct, honed through countless battles.
Frustrated, Bullseye drew another knife and lunged, aiming for Garus's shoulder. While Kingpin wanted Garus alive, Bullseye figured he could rough him up a bit first.
Garus remained still, catching the blade with his hand. His pale skin glowed faintly as green runes flickered to life. To him, it felt like gripping a dull blade, completely harmless.
Bullseye stared in disbelief. What he had assumed were decorative tattoos were clearly something far more sinister.
"What... what are you?" Bullseye asked, his bravado faltering. The world had yet to fully reveal its supernatural underbelly; heroes, mutants, and gods were still largely myths or hidden entities. The only public figure of superhuman renown was Captain America, a relic from decades past.
Sensing imminent danger, Bullseye retreated swiftly, vaulting toward the window in an attempt to escape. But Garus wasn't about to let him leave.
A ghostly, spectral hand formed in the air, summoned by Garus's dark energy. It snatched Bullseye mid-leap and dragged him back into the room.
"Leaving so soon?" Garus teased, his tone icy.
Bullseye broke into a cold sweat. The unnatural magic left him unnerved and at a loss.
"Take me to see Kingpin," Garus commanded, his words polite but his intent unmistakable.
Realizing resistance was futile, Bullseye nodded, his earlier arrogance replaced by cautious submission.
Switching off the television, Garus motioned for Bullseye to lead the way. "Let's go."
Wilson Grant Fisk, better known as Kingpin, was a man of influence in America's upper echelons. To the uninformed, he appeared as a philanthropic businessman with a heart of gold. In reality, he ruled the criminal underworld with an iron fist.
Kingpin's headquarters in Hell's Kitchen was a towering skyscraper, though he rarely stayed there. Instead, he preferred his underground training facility, where he honed his formidable combat skills. Despite his massive physique, Kingpin's bulk was pure muscle, granting him astonishing strength. Even Daredevil, with his enhanced senses and martial prowess, struggled to best him in combat, opting instead to disrupt his drug and arms operations before retreating.
Garus followed Bullseye through a labyrinth of corridors, passing numerous gang members who greeted the assassin with deference. Bullseye, however, was growing uneasy. He suddenly remembered that Kingpin wasn't at the facility today. Panic began to creep in as he considered his options.
As they approached a reinforced door, an idea struck him. The room was equipped with a trap—a precaution Kingpin had installed for dealing with powerful intruders.
Seizing his chance, Bullseye darted inside, slammed the door shut, and activated the mechanism from the control panel. Thick steel barriers sealed the hallway, and Gatling guns emerged from hidden panels in the walls, their barrels trained on Garus.
The air filled with the deafening roar of gunfire as bullets rained down in a relentless barrage.
"Damn it," Garus cursed, summoning frost energy to shield himself. A layer of icy armor enveloped his body, the white frost gleaming as bullets ricocheted harmlessly off its surface. While the onslaught was intense, it posed no real threat to him. Still, the cacophony and flashing lights were disorienting.
Garus gritted his teeth, vowing to make Bullseye pay for this stunt.
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