Matt Murdock, attorney at law, had just changed into his combat gear, a hand axe and mace secured at his waist, ready to confront the city's sins. On his return, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had cleared the streets, ensuring his blood-soaked appearance didn't spark chaos. His last fight had been shirtless, a raw, unbridled slaughter. Now, the combat suit felt constricting compared to that liberating carnage. The sensation of blood and flesh splattering across his skin had been exhilarating.
The Hand's ninjas posed no threat anymore. They didn't know his true identity, and after gaining the power to wound souls, Matt ensured their defeated foes stayed dead—no more resurrections. Enemies near him had no chance to flee or hide; no human could evade his heightened senses. As the Hand's attacks dwindled, Matt grew confident he could eradicate them entirely at their next encounter.
He pulled a large, weathered trench coat from his closet, its size perfect for concealing his muscular frame and weapons. From the outside, no one would guess his strength. With some time before nightfall, he could grab dinner. The thugs he'd beaten only knew him as Daredevil, and they'd likely return to crime—a nagging frustration. A vigilante who killed might deter evil more than one who spared lives. Matt decided it was time to debut as a vigilante under his own name. S.H.I.E.L.D. likely had his identity on file, whether as Matt Murdock or Daredevil.
As he pulled his microwaved meal from the oven and tore open the packaging, a speeding RV roared past his building. Matt couldn't see its trash-truck exterior, but his senses caught an unmistakable demonic aura—sulfurous, yet oddly free of the stench of sin, layered with a faint human essence. Intrigued, he set down his dinner and gave chase. Demons, no matter the time, couldn't be ignored.
The source of that aura was Hellboy. His fighting style was brutally simple but effective, his superhuman physique making him a war god against monsters. Human martial arts, designed for human foes, were largely useless against creatures like octopuses—joint locks wouldn't help there. A well-timed slide tackle often outperformed fancy techniques. Having never met an unbeatable foe, Hellboy saw no need to refine his combat skills. For him, brute force worked miracles.
Stuffing chocolate bars into his pocket, cigar in hand, Hellboy savored the sweetness that soothed him, especially after being doused in demon blood. As a half-human, half-demon descendant of Arthur's bloodline, he wasn't consumed by the dark emotions that plagued pure demons. He had a choice—and as the Honored Human, he chose humanity's side.
"Hey, can you speed up? That thing's moving faster than this heap," Hellboy urged the driver, still pocketing candy. Leaping across the ground might be quicker, but with pedestrians around, he was bound by his agreement to avoid public exposure.
"You know I can't push a garbage-truck RV to 300 kph. That'd be more shocking than you jumping," the driver grumbled, slamming the accelerator. His finger hovered over a red button on the gearshift.
"Quit stalling and hit it! What's a speeding ticket at a time like this?" Hellboy said, lumbering to the driver's cabin and slamming his massive hand on the button. The RV surged, throwing him to the floor, where he rolled, his sawed-off horns sparking against the metal with each collision.
"I'd have pressed it myself! Why didn't you strap in?" the driver shouted as Hellboy tumbled.
"Next time…" Bang! "…I'll remember!" Bang! The cabin floor dented with each impact.
Matt Murdock, chasing on foot, cursed as the RV accelerated. His burst speed wasn't much slower, but sustaining it drained too much stamina. Unable to unleash a full barbarian charge, he watched the vehicle pull away. Sprinting at full tilt wasn't smart.
"Next time, I'm begging Bul-Kathos for a damn bicycle!" Matt growled, running on. A sturdy, eco-friendly bike, unbreakable under a barbarian's strength, could hit astonishing speeds with a robust rider. For now, pursuit felt futile.
Hellboy avoided leaping to avoid panic. Could Matt really sprint at 80 meters per second in front of a crowd, becoming a living legend?
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