Kamar-Taj, Earth's Magical Nexus
A somber stillness hung over Kamar-Taj, as if the land itself sensed the weight of fate shifting. The birthplace of Earth's greatest sorcerers thrummed with mystical resonance, but today its energy felt disturbed—frayed, unmoored.
Acolytes wandered the temple grounds, dazed, drawn like moths to the strange pulse emanating from the anomaly beyond the veil. Something was emerging, and the land remembered what it meant to tremble.
Inside the Sanctum's Grand Chamber, the Sorcerer Supreme sat cross-legged upon an invocation mat, her frame gaunt, her breathing shallow. Her eyes, half-lidded and ancient, flickered toward Wong, whose rigid stance at her side spoke of loyalty strained by silence.
One of the Masters opened his eyes. "Such raw potential," he murmured. "Are we truly sure of this path?"
Another master, voice heavy with grief, added, "A path of least resistance. How far we've fallen…"
The murmurs grew, doubt curling through the circle of Earth's most powerful magical practitioners like smoke.
A female master frowned. "And we truly believe this man is preferable to the anomaly?"
The Sorcerer Supreme—The Ancient One—finally opened her eyes fully. She saw them now: her chosen council, each a wielder of arcane legacies vast and terrible. She sighed, knowing how close to unraveling they all were.
"The anomaly is not the answer," she said at last, voice ragged with centuries. "Nor is he the cause. He is as we are. He exists—just not along the stream as we know it."
"And anomalies," the female master pressed, "have always meant catastrophe."
A younger master across the circle spoke up, voice calm. "Our order itself was born from an anomaly."
The Ancient One nodded gratefully at the reminder. Wong caught her gaze but said nothing.
Then the druid, wrapped in green and time-worn wisdom, rose to speak.
"Forgive me, Sorcerer Supreme… but you allowed that fool to sway your hand. Now, we face war against the only known blood mage since primordial times."
The room tensed.
"Not since your master walked this world," he added, words striking like stones.
Aaggamotto, she thought. Her ancient teacher had long since faded into legend. And now, she had exceeded even him… and perhaps failed far greater.
Mordo had seen through her choices and walked away. For now, Wong remained, but she could feel his trust thinning like parchment. His questions were coming.
They all were.
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The Winfrey District — Hell's Kitchen
Snakeroot assassins circled like wolves around fire. Their movements sharpened with each moment, but they all felt it.
The blade had awakened.
Muramasa's curse was more than steel. The weapon carried the malignant soul of its infernal smith. It offered its wielder unholy strength, unnatural resilience, and madness. The longer it remained in a host's grip, the more it consumed, forming armor forged from ancient bloodlust.
And the one wielding it now… was being changed by it.
Black Sky.
The whisper rippled through the ranks. This was the one. The boy who survived the blade's bite. If he defeated the master and bested Hiryu, prophecy had found its vessel.
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Somewhere Nearby
The phone buzzed for the seventh time. He barely noticed.
Sebastian's son stood before him. Not a boy anymore—but not yet a man. Rage clung to him like armor. His stance, his smirk—God, even his hair—he looked just like Sebastian.
And Yuko's eyes. Piercing. Regal. Divine.
She'd hated the word goddess. Not out of vanity, but pain. In her culture, goddess wasn't a compliment. It was a reminder.
How old was Cole now? Fifteen?
Shame hit like a punch. He didn't even remember his godson's birthday.
You should be in bed. Not here. Not in this.
Sebastian had trusted him. So had Yuko.
He remembered the night Sebastian whispered about the vultures circling his company.
"Go to the police," he had said.
The police didn't help.
So he became Daredevil to protect the innocent.
And in doing so, he abandoned the only child he'd sworn to protect.
Sebastian once joked, "You'll be his father if I die."
He had laughed.
He didn't laugh now.
______________________________________
Two impossibilities collided—Muramasa steel and Nth-Promethium. Sparks screamed between them as blades locked and danced.
The master, Hiryu, moved with terrifying precision. But the boy… wasn't a master.
Not yet.
Still, his instincts were unnatural. He could've incinerated them all—but he didn't. He fought on their level. Choose to learn. To grow.
"Mongrel," Hiryu spat.
Cole echoed, stepping forward. The floor blackened beneath his feet.
"Mongrel?"
The next slash tore through Cole's arm. Victory should've followed.
It didn't.
Crimson light pulsed from the wound. It closed.
No… not healed—overwritten.
The Red Lantern ring flared. Infernal light bathed the chamber.
"What are you?" Hiryu demanded.
Their blades clashed again. Cole's form shifted—tight, efficient. League of Shadows. Rain Taijutsu. All-Caste. Bruce Wayne. Clandestine roots, realized.
With a growl, Cole struck. Hiryu deflected—but barely. The return hit forced him back into a shield of red light.
"You dishonor this fight, Seed of the Nail!" the master roared.
Cole smirked, eyes glowing.
"That name again… What does it mean?"
He advanced—slow, deliberate—the predator's walk.
And for the first time in his life—Hiryu backed away.
Muramasa slashed. Cole stepped into the arc, redirected, and drove his elbow down. Bone cracked. Hiryu faltered.
That wasn't swordplay.
That was rage.
Cole's Red Lantern aura pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He blurred—Body Flicker. Rain Shinobi speed. Tayuya'sfinesse. The afterimage flickered red behind him like a ghost of fury.
He reappeared at Hiryu's flank. A blow to the hip cracked something beneath the armor.
Steel met steel.
Then—BOOM.
A construct erupted. A colossal red gauntlet smashed into Hiryu, hurling him into a pillar. Stone fractured. Dust fell.
Cole didn't stop.
He hurled his blade—it ignited midair, screaming toward Hiryu's pinned form.
Muramasa deflected at the last second, but the blood was real now.
"You're just a boy…" Hiryu gasped.
"I was."
The blade returned to Cole's hand with a hiss of summoned metal and wrath.
"But you people keep killing what's left of him."
A red shield was locked across his forearm. A chain construct slithered around his waist like a serpent coiled for judgment.
Hiryu rose, slower now.
"You're more your mother than your father," he spat. "Of all the cursed legacies… the spawn of the Nail."
Cole dragged his blade beside him, a red trail bleeding from its edge.
"What does that mean?"
They clashed again—fire and form, will and death. The room burned around them. Muramasa screamed against Nth-Promethium. And then—
Cole roared.
A shockwave of red will erupt. Shinobi were blasted from their feet, weapons torn from their hands.
Cole moved through the haze like vengeance itself.
A brutal kick cracked Hiryu's armor and sent him through the pillar behind him. He collapsed in rubble.
Muramasa trembled in his grip.
Cole's boot pinned it down.
"Tell me. What does 'Seed of the Nail' mean?"
Silence.
Then laughter.
"You don't know, do you?"
The blade pressed to Hiryu's throat.
"Tell me."
Hiryu bled, smiling with spite.
"You think you're the only one? You're not special. That rage—it's the mark of Black Sky. You're just another attempt. Another vessel. Another child that belongs to us."
Cole's laugh was bitter now.
"You think I belong to you? That this power makes me yours?"
He raised the blade, light blazing from the ring, voice low and final.
"So be it. Stand and fight—for tonight, you will be judged."