Vorusk closed his eyes. How Bul-Kathos dealt with Rathma was Bul-Kathos's business. He wasn't worried about the King failing; Bul-Kathos had never failed. No matter how terrifying the enemy, he always found a way.
"Rathma definitely has a plan similar to ours," Vorusk continued. "He might even know more than we do. It's the only explanation for why he's always there to play the spoiler."
"I believe Rathma also wants to become a Creator," Vorusk said, his expression darkening. "Every man who reaches the peak has that thought. I did. Raekor did. If you ever see Li-Ming again, she'll likely tread that path too. But as long as Rathma exists, I don't think anyone will succeed."
Necromancers were never popular, perhaps due to their methods—corpse explosions, bone armor, and haunting spirits. "So, you and Raekor tried to become gods? Which path did you choose?"
"I chose the path Malthael took: mastering the Rules. Raekor? She wanted to disrupt the Rules entirely and create a world based on her own will." Vorusk looked at Bul-Kathos. "Since we both failed, we want you to walk the Path of the First Ancestor."
"It is the closest anyone has ever come to success," Vorusk added.
"And clearly, that being has a connection to you. Is that why you became the second Immortal King?" Bul-Kathos glanced at Vorusk before turning away.
"You've seen his phantasm. I absorbed the remnants he left behind. My strength has always had a traceable source."
"Enough! I don't want to hear your history lessons!" Leoric shouted. Hearing the two of them talk in circles was making his brain-dead skull overheat. Once you grew accustomed to madness, thinking became a chore.
Bul-Kathos kicked the prone Leoric. "Leoric... do you still want to hear about Leah?"
"Speak. I'm listening. And you'd better think of a place to put me. I'm too lazy to build another catacomb." Leoric stayed on the ground. Even the undead felt pain; his soul had been singed by the Barbarians' rage—the revenge of life against the non-living.
"This is Harrogath. Do I need to remind you again?" Bul-Kathos's voice grew gruff.
"You always like to talk with your fists, but fine." Leoric sat up, the ghostly light of his soul flickering. "I was once a living man, but I never felt the 'Authority of Life.' I only gained 'Authority' after I became a pile of rotten bones. I don't know who this 'Original Barbarian' of yours is, but clearly, he never wavered in his fundamental essence as a living being."
Leoric offered this information as payment for Leah's story. "Life is your most precious asset. Even Malthael, after absorbing the Archangels and Demons, remained 'himself.' But you, Vorusk—you wanted to master the Rules as a mere mortal? Do you have any idea what Death truly represents? If you had chosen a lesser rule back then, you might not have left behind such an ugly stain on history."
Leoric turned his skull toward Vorusk, his vertebrae creaking. "Godhood? You speak of Creator Gods. But what am I? The bones of the dead rise at my command. Within my domain, they even appear to have a spark of life. To them, am I not a god? Once you master a Rule, you are a god. And becoming a god is only the first step toward the Creator's throne."
The Skeleton King removed his crown and tossed it to Vorusk. "This is my payment. I hope you haven't forgotten to look after that boy for me."
Vorusk caught the crown in silence.
"You want Bul-Kathos to walk the old path because someone 'almost' succeeded? But he failed, didn't he?" Leoric said with an air of knowing. "Failure is natural. You lot have almost never experienced it. Is victory the only thing that matters? I grew to what I am now through failure. Is Failure a 'Rule'? Is the 'Rule of Failure' simply giving up on yourself? Don't be absurd. Failure is failure. When you don't achieve your goal, you have failed. The 'Rule of Failure' is simply the universe eliminating a wrong path. Now, what paths do you have left?"
Leoric had entered "sermon mode." As a king and the man who had guided the hero Aidan, he had unique insights into many things. But he was currently trying to convince two Barbarians. And Barbarians were nothing if not stubborn.
"For all your talk, you never even touched the threshold," Vorusk grumbled. Leoric had certainly not been this powerful when he was alive.
"I thought you'd say something useful. If failure is just a process of elimination, what could someone who mastered the Rule of Failure do? Tell you that this road leads nowhere and you should turn back? Is that how you taught Aidan? No wonder he was so infatuated with Adria."
"Enough! I'm tired of listening!" Bul-Kathos barked. "Leoric, do you want to hear about Leah or not?"
Vorusk took the hint and vanished, taking Veda with him. Veda was exhausted and needed the Cube's power to stabilize his soul. Bul-Kathos then grabbed Kanuck by the arm and tossed him toward the Elder's Sanctum before glaring at Leoric with a look that said: Say one more word, and see what happens.
"Hello, Mr. Fisk. I am Officer Angel Dawson of the Major Crimes Unit. I believe you've already been informed. This is my friend; he's a lawyer."
Angel spoke to the man before her with a stoic expression. She had seen Wilson Fisk more than once, but he felt different every time. Rumor had it Fisk kept several look-alikes as body doubles. She didn't care if it was a natural resemblance or the result of surgery.
"There is no one else in this office but the three of us," Angel said. "I have something I need to ask of you."
The "Fisk" before her spoke in his usual measured tone, but Matt Murdock could hear the truth. This was a decoy. The man's heart was beating erratically—a side effect of the artificial weight gain and the stress of the role. They hadn't met the real Kingpin yet, which meant Spider-Man's warning about a "terrible change" couldn't be verified.
"Please, go on," the decoy said.
"I saw my boss today," the decoy suddenly blurted out, dropping the act. His voice trembled. "He... he isn't normal. I don't know how to explain it, but I was terrified just being near him."
The decoy didn't care about blowing his cover. Fisk wouldn't tolerate it, but the man was at his wit's end. He was the longest-surviving double precisely because he was so afraid of Fisk that he never showed an ounce of initiative. But now, even he was broken.
"I'm talking about Fisk! The real Fisk! You must know I'm not him. Everyone knows! Fisk summoned all of us doubles today. He didn't say anything. He just... looked at us. It was haunting."
The poor man had lost the ability to think straight. "He looked at us as if he were looking at stones. No—as if he saw nothing at all. He used to treat us like tools, at least, but now..."
The decoy's body shook. Suddenly, a massive crash echoed from the floor above. Matt's ears picked up the sound of Spider-Man being thrown through a wall. But he heard nothing from the attacker. No heartbeat. No breathing. Nothing.
"It's the Boss!" the decoy whimpered.
"Help me! I know secrets! Help me! Take me with you, you're a cop! Get me witness protection! Help—"
The decoy never finished. A massive figure crashed through the ceiling, landing heavily on the office floor. The man held a colossal hammer, and gold markings pulsed with light across his skin.
Matt finally sensed Fisk's presence. Not through his enhanced hearing, but through an unavoidable, nauseating aura of pure evil that hit him like a tidal wave. Matt's body went taut.
Damn it! This guy is even stronger than Spider-Man described. Can Rorschach even handle this?
"Mr. Fisk," Angel said, standing her ground. "You've clearly done something noteworthy right in front of me. Do you plan on letting me leave?"
"I have no such intention," Kingpin said. His voice was steady, but colder than it had ever been. "As it happens, I was looking for you. This fool invited you here in my name, so I decided to make an appearance."
"And you, Mr. Lawyer," Fisk said, turning his gaze toward Matt. Matt felt it instantly—a crushing weight of malice that nearly forced a war cry from his throat.
"I'm just accompanying Officer Dawson, Mr. Fisk," Matt said, his voice hitching slightly. "I'm grateful for your recent 'charity.' Many people in Hell's Kitchen have benefited from the Fisk Group's aid. I begged Officer Dawson for a chance to thank you in person."
Matt's own words made him want to gag. Fisk's charity was a business—laundering and tax evasion—though people did occasionally benefit from the crumbs.
"Clearly, you don't mean that. But it doesn't matter, as long as you understand the meaning of fear." Fisk rested the massive hammer on his shoulder.
Matt was "blind," so he was supposed to be unaware of the hammer. Angel was a normal person, but the fact that Fisk was willing to reveal this monstrous side to her was a terrible omen.
"Officer Dawson, what did you want to say to me?" Fisk walked to a sofa and sat down. The furniture groaned under his impossible weight. Everything in Fisk's life was custom-made to support his massive frame.
"I was invited. I don't know the situation," Angel said, her hands shaking as she fumbled for a cigarette. Her lighter failed to spark several times, betraying her nerves.
"Enough. Since you've already figured it out, there's no point in hiding," Matt said. He ripped off his tie, the buttons popping and scattering on the floor.
Fisk watched with open contempt. His presence was completely masked by the Stonebreaker hammer; to a blind man, he was a ghost. The power of Fear made it impossible for anyone with hostile intent to accurately pinpoint him. It was like standing in a pitch-black room, listening only to the sound of your own blood.
Silent Fear.
"I don't know how you're doing it, but I can't hear you at all," Matt said, talking to the air. "It's like you've vanished from the world."
He couldn't use his usual senses, but the thick stench of evil gave him a direction. Matt pulled his mace from his bag and lunged toward a spot next to Fisk with aggressive bravado.
Fisk was supremely confident in his abilities, so Matt played into that. Even if it made him look ridiculous, it was necessary. When facing an invincible monster, using your wits wasn't a disgrace.
"Are you ready? I'm going to get justice for everyone you've hurt!" Matt roared. He charged, leaped, and kicked off the wall.
Swinging his mace wildly like a blind man in a panic, he easily bypassed Fisk, grabbed Angel around the waist, and dove for the window. He smashed the reinforced glass with his mace and plummeted out of the building.
"Interesting. I'll remember that," Fisk said, making no move to pursue. He simply watched the shivering decoy.
Outside, Matt and Angel landed in a massive web and were lowered safely to the ground. Spider-Man was waiting for them. He looked terrible. His suit was shredded, and the mask was soaked with blood.
"I see what you mean now," Matt said, setting Angel down. "The current Kingpin isn't an enemy we can face like this."
"Next time... if there is a next time... I'd prefer not to be carried like a sack of potatoes," Angel wheezed, doubled over and gagging. The G-force of Matt's escape had left her organs feeling rearranged.
"Let's go. I'll contact some people," Matt said, glancing at Spider-Man. The youth's injuries were severe; he wouldn't be a combatant for at least a week. "I'm sorry, Mr. Murdock. I let your friend get dragged into this," Spider-Man rasped.
"Get some rest. Give me a way to reach you," Matt said. He tried to think of his strongest ally: Rorschach. He didn't like dealing with the man—he was too blunt and unreasonable—but Rumlow and Luke Cage would be useless against Fisk. Matt could sense the danger clearly. Fisk was on another level.
"I think we all underestimated him," Spider-Man coughed. "He just... casually swung that hammer and sent me flying. If I hadn't sensed it coming, you'd be scraping me off the pavement."
Spider-Man handed over a slip of paper with an address. Matt took it and turned to Angel. "You should go into hiding. If Fisk comes looking for us, you're the most vulnerable. Though I don't think he's trying to kill us yet."
Matt was confused. Fisk could have killed Spider-Man. He could have killed Matt. But he seemed content to let it play out. It made no sense.
"No one Fisk wants to find can run," Angel said, catching her breath. "I'm going to work tomorrow as usual."
Back in the office, Kingpin stared at the terrified decoy with a strange expression.
The Hammers of Kuurth were meant to spread fear, but under Diablo's influence, they were doing something much more refined. Slaughter was just a means; the fear of the unknown was the deepest instinct. Fisk was using a bizarre, unpredictable style to ensure that fear took root in everyone around him.
Just a moment ago, he had felt a deep, profound fear vanish in an instant. It had piqued his curiosity.
"Tell me... am I scary?" Fisk asked the double. His face was like a corpse's as he stared at the man who had undergone surgery to look like him.
"Scary! No! Not scary!" the poor man stammered, his mind failing him.
"Then why were you seeking protection from others? Did you have thoughts you shouldn't have had?" Fisk spoke with eerie calm. He knew this would generate the thickest, most potent fear.
Diablo didn't just need any fear. Fear was everywhere, and general dread would help him recover his power, but that wouldn't be enough to defeat Bul-Kathos. He needed something deeper, more twisted. For this, he was willing to let his "Exemplars" do seemingly "foolish" things. He was using his own will to interfere with the Hammer's choice.
Fear was a great power, but it was too diverse. People feared spiders, snakes, or the dark. Different fears allowed him to better map out human weaknesses. He didn't believe Bul-Kathos had managed to seal away all fear when he split his soul. There would always be something missed.
"Go back to your work. I will deal with you soon enough," Fisk said dismissively.
Punishing or killing the man now was meaningless. It wouldn't satisfy the "God" Fisk now served. The unknown would keep the double in a state of constant, daily terror. A man living in fear eventually convinces himself he can never overcome it. It was a form of self-hypnosis.
Willpower is the most precious strength, and it is just as effective when used to lock oneself away. To an outsider, Fisk's hesitant, lingering methods looked "foolish" for a Kingpin of Crime, but he was cultivating a harvest far more valuable than blood.
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