"Thanks for the assist, friend."
Blade reached Luke's window, perched on the ledge with the casual balance of someone who'd spent decades scaling buildings. His coat was torn in several places, and there was ash on his shoulders—remnants of the vampires he'd killed on the way up.
Random civilians didn't carry silver-loaded sniper rifles. Whoever had helped him was either another hunter or something else entirely.
He found Luke putting away his rifle. Two women flanked him, both armed with bladed weapons—a massive runic sword and an equally massive lance—both radiating an aura that said come closer and die.
Blade had met dangerous people before. These two were in a different category entirely.
"Blade?"
The question came from the man in the center. Young, average height, nothing particularly impressive about his physical appearance. But there was something in his eyes—a calculating intelligence that didn't match his circumstances.
"That's me. And you are?"
Blade kept his distance. The two women had positioned themselves between him and their apparent leader, their body language screaming protective aggression. He wasn't sure he could take both of them in a fight, and that was a very rare feeling for the Daywalker.
"Watch yourself next time." The man's voice was cool, almost dismissive. "You might not be so lucky."
That was all he said before the white-haired woman closed the window in Blade's face.
"...Alright then."
Blade didn't take offense. He was used to cold receptions—warmer than most, actually. Some hunters treated him with open suspicion due to his hybrid nature. Others actively wanted him dead, viewing him as just another vampire to be purged.
Finding someone willing to actually sit down and talk was rare. This guy's attitude was almost friendly by comparison.
Besides, Blade hated his own half-vampire blood as much as anyone. He understood the distrust. Lived with it every day.
He left without another word. But he'd remember this debt. The vampire hunting community was small, and debts mattered.
Inside the apartment, Riven and Skadi had no objections to Luke's decision.
They didn't like strangers getting close. The concept of "allies" was still something they were adapting to in this new world. Back in Runeterra and Terra, trust was earned through years of shared combat. You didn't just walk up to unknown fighters and start making friends.
"Was that wise?" Riven asked, though her tone suggested she already agreed. "He might have been useful."
"He'll be more useful if he owes us a favor." Luke set the rifle back in its case, checking the remaining ammunition. "Blade's going to win his fight with Deacon. The movie makes that clear. What matters is positioning ourselves to benefit from the outcome."
He was thinking about drops.
The game system in his head worked on logic he still didn't fully understand. Killing vampires had given him Skadi. Killing more vampires had given him equipment, weapons, consumables. But the really good stuff—the character drops, the power-ups—seemed to come from significant kills.
If Deacon completes the Blood God ritual, and I get the first hit on La Magra...
That was a boss fight by any definition. A literal god of blood summoned into the physical world. If there was ever a kill that would trigger a rare drop, that would be it.
"We'll need to monitor the vampire situation over the next few days," Luke said. "Deacon's making his move. The ritual is happening soon."
His bluff had worked on Fury. His hunting had been productive. But that didn't mean he could stop now. As long as he kept producing results—kept demonstrating capability, kept building power—the deception would hold.
And the moment it stopped holding, he needed to be strong enough that it didn't matter.
Alexander Pierce lived in a Georgetown brownstone that probably cost more than most people earned in their lifetimes.
The neighborhood was quiet, wealthy, the kind of place where senators lived next door to defense contractors and everyone pretended not to know what their neighbors did for a living. Private security patrols supplemented the regular police presence.
Pierce's personal security was even more impressive.
State-of-the-art alarm systems. Biometric locks. Motion sensors that could detect a mouse crossing the living room. Pressure plates hidden in the floors. And the Winter Soldier on call—HYDRA's most lethal asset, available within minutes if needed.
All of it useless.
Pierce came home that evening expecting nothing unusual. A quiet dinner, perhaps some reading, some encrypted communications with his various operations. The life of a secret supervillain was surprisingly mundane most days.
He opened his front door.
He disabled his alarm.
He walked into his living room.
And found a figure sitting on his couch.
White robes. A hood pulled low. A featureless mask covering their face—no eye holes, no mouth slit, just smooth white material.
"Good evening, Secretary Pierce."
The voice was calm. Conversational.
"Who are you?"
Pierce's expression hardened into the cold mask he'd perfected over decades. His hand moved toward the panic button in his pocket.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
The figure hadn't even turned their head. But somehow they'd noticed.
Two more figures emerged from the shadows—women in black robes, the same style but darker. One near the hallway, one by the window. Both held weapons.
"You may call me the Assassin."
"Assassin?" Pierce's voice turned cold. "So you're here to kill me?"
"No. I'm here because I want to become one of HYDRA's heads."
The words hung in the air like a grenade.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Pierce's face betrayed nothing. "HYDRA was destroyed decades ago."
He hadn't risen to his position by being easy to read.
"There's no need for pretense, Secretary Pierce. I wouldn't have come if I didn't already have the full picture."
Luke's tone was pleasant, almost friendly.
"HYDRA's current structure has several factions. Your lineage traces back to Red Skull—the new school. After World War Two, only two of his direct disciples survived to the present day."
Pierce's expression stayed frozen.
"Werner Reinhardt—Daniel Whitehall now. And you, Secretary Pierce. A second-generation disciple, yet somehow the most powerful HYDRA operative in existence. You've infiltrated SHIELD so thoroughly that the organization might as well belong to you."
Luke recited it like reading from a dossier.
"The various factions don't share intelligence freely. The Countess. The Chieftain. The Banker. Dr. List. Baron Strucker in Eastern Europe. Gideon Malick on the World Security Council. They all operate independently, but the broad structure is known."
Pierce's composure finally cracked.
Not because of the intelligence—though that was alarming enough. Because of what emerged from his hallway.
One of the women in black robes dragged an unconscious body into the room.
The Winter Soldier.
HYDRA's most lethal asset. The ghost who had shaped fifty years of history. Pierce's personal weapon.
Captured. Incapacitated. Dropped at Luke's feet like a hunting trophy.
The woman who'd carried him showed no strain. She'd handled two hundred pounds of super-soldier like he weighed nothing.
Pierce finally accepted reality.
These people were real. Their capabilities were real. And they had him completely at their mercy.
"Assassin. You want to join HYDRA? Become a head?"
"Correct. I considered approaching Daniel Whitehall, but he's too old-fashioned. The Countess? The Chieftain? The Banker? Baron Strucker?" Luke listed the names casually. "None of them suit my needs."
He paused.
"Only you, Secretary Pierce. You're exactly what I'm looking for."
Pierce was silent for a long moment.
"I can introduce you to the organization. Whether you become a head—that's not something I can guarantee. The other leaders will need to be convinced."
"I understand. I'm confident I'll demonstrate sufficient value."
Luke shrugged beneath his robes.
"In the meantime, I have a favor to ask."
PLZ THROW POWERSTONES.
300 , 500 , 1000 for each milestone 1 Bonus Chapter.