The street directly in front of Fisk Tower—renamed for Wilson's "charitable donations"—had become a war zone.
Cars riddled with bullet holes lay overturned or wrapped around tree trunks, burning. Acrid black smoke rolled skyward in thick columns. The air tasted of gunpowder and burning rubber.
The closer one moved toward the building's main entrance and parking garage, the worse it became. Bodies with missing limbs littered the pavement. Blood pooled in the gutters and spread across the asphalt in dark rivers.
The entire exterior of the building below the fifth floor had been sealed. Thick metal armor plates covered every window and entrance, transforming the structure into an impenetrable fortress. No one could see inside.
Only the occasional muffled explosions proved that a brutal gang war continued within.
Inside the building, at the junction between the second and third floor stairwells.
Madam Gao, dressed in tight black tactical gear, squeezed the trigger with mechanical precision. Her submachine gun spat fire at the enemies continuing to pour down from above.
Muzzle flash illuminated the blood streaked across her face. Her white hair had come loose from its pins, hanging in tangled strands. The tight bun she'd maintained so carefully was gone, replaced by battlefield chaos.
The situation had deteriorated badly. Her forces had suffered catastrophic casualties.
Madam Gao—who should have been coordinating from the rear—had been forced to the front lines herself.
Even with her personal intervention, only about fifty fighters remained from the three hundred who'd begun the assault. The aggressive offensive had stalled completely. Her people couldn't advance even a single meter further.
Suddenly, a shuriken flashed through the air from behind the formation!
The spinning blade sliced across the throats of several unfortunate gang members. Their blood sprayed hot across the walls as they collapsed. But the shuriken's momentum barely slowed. It continued straight toward the back of Madam Gao's skull, trailing crimson droplets.
Madam Gao moved without looking. She released her weapon and threw herself sideways into cover in one fluid motion.
Then one hand snapped up. Two slender fingers caught the shuriken mid-flight, stopping it dead just centimeters from her face.
In that same instant, a slim figure wrapped in gray smoke erupted from the shadows at Madam Gao's feet. The assassin wore a blood-red haori over dark crimson ninja garb.
A katana gleamed as it swept toward Madam Gao's neck with lethal precision.
Madam Gao's eyes remained cold, almost bored. She ignored the blade rushing toward her throat as if death held no meaning.
Her other hand curled slightly, fingers forming a claw shape. As if gripping something invisible.
The air itself seemed to twist and compress in her palm.
She thrust forward. The invisible force shot outward and slammed into the assassin's chest like a cannonball.
The impact hurled the ninja five meters backward. His entire body embedded itself in the corridor wall with a sickening crunch of breaking drywall and cracking ribs.
Madam Gao slowly lowered her hand and exhaled calmly. She dropped the captured shuriken, letting it clatter on the floor.
"Murakami." Her voice emerged cold and contemptuous. "If you intend to assassinate me, you'll need better technique than that."
Her surviving gang members reacted belatedly, turning their weapons toward the embedded figure with expressions of shock.
"He's immortal. Save your ammunition." Madam Gao raised one hand, stopping them from firing.
"Madam Gao... we have known each other for centuries."
Murakami's voice emerged muffled behind his dark red mask, which rose and fell with labored breathing. He placed one hand over his chest.
"I never imagined our long acquaintance would end in conflict."
He pulled himself free from the wall and landed soundlessly on his toes, back straight despite the devastating blow he'd just absorbed.
His hoarse voice continued, "Surrender. In the name of the Index Finger of the Hand, I guarantee your life will be spared."
Madam Gao's expression remained glacial. She reached out without looking, and one of her subordinates pressed a fresh weapon into her palm. She raised the barrel toward Murakami.
Just as her finger tightened on the trigger, Murakami shook his head with something like regret.
His entire form dissolved into wisps of gray smoke in the span of a heartbeat.
He vanished completely from sight.
Faced with this supernatural disappearance, Madam Gao's remaining fighters exchanged uncertain glances. Several made warding gestures, as if confronting evil spirits.
One lieutenant with his head wrapped in bloody bandages stepped closer to Madam Gao. His voice carried desperate urgency.
"Madam, the assault has failed. The Hand has betrayed us completely. Please withdraw while you can! We'll hold them here, buy you time to escape!"
A flicker of sickly green light pulsed in the depths of Madam Gao's eyes.
She opened her mouth to respond, then paused. Her gaze dropped to the tactical display strapped to her forearm. Something on the screen made her lips curl into a thin smile.
"Reinforcements have arrived." Her voice rang with renewed confidence. "Hold your positions and keep the enemy engaged. Victory in this war... is within our grasp."
Gray smoke coalesced in a shadowed corner of the building's first floor.
Murakami materialized silently, his blood-red haori settling around his shoulders like wings. He exhaled slowly, regaining his composure after the violent exchange.
Then he froze. His head snapped to the side, every instinct screaming danger.
Cold eyes stared out from behind his mask, focusing on something behind him.
Five meters away stood a tall figure.
The stranger wore a black helmet and gas mask that completely obscured his features. A brown military greatcoat hung from broad shoulders. He carried an unusual firearm—some kind of gun—slung across his back on a power cable.
In one hand, he gripped a massive serrated weapon that hummed with barely restrained power.
In his other hand...
He held the upper half of a black-clad ninja's corpse.
Murakami's chest heaved as his breathing accelerated.
His gaze swept the surrounding area and horror crept into his bones.
The mysterious figure stood amid a carpet of mutilated bodies—all wearing the Hand's signature black garb. Murakami counted at least twenty corpses, each one torn apart with savage efficiency.
Fear overrode centuries of discipline. Murakami raised his katana and opened his mouth to shout—
The mysterious figure said nothing.
He simply discarded the corpse in his hand like trash. Then his entire posture shifted, back lowering, weight dropping into his legs.
He charged forward like a maddened rhinoceros, boots hammering against the floor.
Simultaneously, the massive serrated weapon in his hand swung in a horizontal arc, sweeping toward Murakami's waist with devastating force.
The distance between them was too close. Murakami had no time to perform the hand seals necessary for his shadow-walking technique.
He could only leap backward desperately while flicking shuriken from his sleeve with practiced speed. His katana came up to intercept the incoming attack.
BRRRRRRRRRT—
But as the weapons met, the mysterious figure's serrated blade erupted with a terrifying roar.
Countless metal teeth covered in blood and tissue fragments spun at impossible speeds!
The shuriken struck the whirling chainblade and bounced away harmlessly, as if they'd hit an invisible barrier.
Murakami's eyes widened in horror behind his mask. He had no time to adjust his strategy.
The katana—folded steel that had served him for a century—shattered like glass against the chainsword's teeth.
The screaming blade buried itself in Murakami's torso, chewing through flesh and bone.
Before the ancient ninja could even process what was happening, the roaring chainsword carved completely through his waist.
Nolan's free hand shot out and grabbed Murakami by the throat, yanking hard.
The ninja's body separated cleanly in two. His legs toppled one direction while Nolan held his upper half aloft.
Blood poured from beneath Murakami's dark red mask, soaking Nolan's brown gloves. The ninja's throat worked, struggling to form words. Perhaps a curse. Perhaps a plea.
Nolan had no interest in hearing it.
He threw the upper torso away carelessly. It tumbled through the air and collided with the legs still standing a few meters away, both pieces crumpling together.
Without a word, Nolan drew his plasma pistol. He leveled it at the two halves of the corpse and squeezed the trigger.
Superheated plasma consumed what remained of Murakami, reducing centuries of accumulated skill and immortality to ash and melted bone.
As the plasma dissipated, Nolan finally exhaled and muttered under his breath, "Damn ninjas. Appearing and disappearing like ghosts. Nearly gave me a heart attack."