Daredevil stood there, completely at a loss, his mind struggling to keep up with everything that had just happened. The words Donnie casually threw around—especially that mysterious "adult"—left him confused and uneasy. He had no idea who that person was, but one thing was painfully clear: whatever group this turtle belonged to, it was far from ordinary.
Before he could dig deeper into that thought, a sharp hiss escaped his lips as pain surged through his injured ankle again. The burn wasn't just surface-level—it felt like a blade was being driven straight through his leg, twisting with every pulse of heat. The sensation was relentless, gnawing at his nerves and making it hard to stay focused.
Matt clenched his teeth, forcing himself to endure it. He'd dealt with injuries before—plenty of them—but this was different. This wasn't something he could just grit his way through and ignore. If anything, it felt worse than a clean cut, because the damage ran deeper, more insidious.
Looks like I'll have to rely on Claire again, he thought grimly, already picturing the familiar backroom clinic where she patched him up time and time again.
But when Donnie stepped closer and took a look at the wound, his tone immediately crushed that hope. "That injury of yours? A nurse won't be able to fix it."
Matt frowned instinctively, disbelief flashing across his face. He didn't want to accept that, so he reached down and tore open part of his suit, exposing the damage beneath.
The sight made his breath catch.
His calf was completely charred, the flesh blackened in a way that didn't look remotely natural. The damage wasn't limited to the skin—it had penetrated deeper, eating into muscle, and even the bone beneath showed signs of scorching. It was as if the heat had seeped into every layer of his leg, corrupting it from the inside out.
"How… how is that possible?" he muttered, his voice tight with disbelief. "It was just a graze…"
The words sounded hollow even to himself. Panic crept in, slow but steady, eroding the confidence he usually carried like armor. This wasn't something he could fight through. This wasn't something he could ignore.
For a moment, he felt completely lost.
Then Donnie spoke again, and just like that, a spark of hope reignited.
"My family can definitely fix this," he said confidently. "The guy I follow? He's ridiculously powerful."
As he spoke, Donnie casually gathered chakra into his hands, shaping it into sharp, invisible wind blades. With a flick of his wrist, the energy skimmed across the ground, carving deep grooves into the surface with effortless precision.
Matt tilted his head slightly, sensing the destruction through vibration rather than sight. The sheer sharpness of that attack was undeniable. It wasn't brute force—it was something far more refined, controlled, and deadly.
"How long did it take you to reach that level?" Matt asked, his tone shifting. There was curiosity there now, but also something deeper—something closer to longing.
Donnie shrugged lightly. "Not long."
Matt pressed further, trying to anchor it to something realistic. "Ten years? Five? Three?"
Each guess was met with a shake of the head.
"…Half a year?" he tried again, pushing the limits of what he thought possible.
Still no.
A strange unease settled in Matt's chest. Then he ventured one last guess, almost reluctantly. "Don't tell me… three months?"
Donnie grinned.
"Not even close. Just over a month."
Silence.
Matt froze where he stood, his entire body going still as that answer sank in. It didn't just surprise him—it shattered everything he thought he understood about growth, training, and limits.
A month.
He had spent more than a decade honing his abilities under Stick's brutal guidance, pushing himself past human limits again and again. And yet, despite all that effort, he was still just that—human. He still bled. He still got beaten down.
But the person in front of him?
In one month, he had reached a level that made someone like Whiplash look trivial.
It was absurd.
Unfair.
And yet… undeniably real.
A storm of memories surged through Matt's mind. The Avengers agents who attacked him without hesitation. The criminals of Hell's Kitchen ganging up on him, forcing him into desperate battles night after night. The constant struggle, the endless cycle of pain.
He was tired of it.
Tired of being the one who barely survived.
Tired of losing.
When he lifted his head again, something had changed. The hesitation was gone, replaced by clarity.
"Take me to your organization," he said.
Donnie blinked, then broke into a wide grin. "Seriously? That's great."
Without wasting another moment, he helped support Matt as they left the ruined battlefield behind.
The journey took them through increasingly secluded areas, past rows of lavish villas that hinted at immense wealth. Eventually, they arrived at a massive manor that resembled an ancient castle, its presence imposing even without sight.
Matt could feel it—the scale, the silence, the weight of something hidden beneath the surface.
Before he could ask anything, figures began to emerge from the surrounding mist. They moved silently, dressed in full ninja attire, their presence barely detectable unless you were paying close attention.
Without a word, they escorted the two inside.
The interior was just as extravagant as the exterior suggested. Soft orange light illuminated intricate murals lining the walls, each one radiating a sense of history and value. Even without seeing them, Matt could tell—these weren't decorations. They were treasures.
Footsteps echoed through the room, steady and unhurried.
Then—
A presence.
Matt stiffened instantly, his body reacting before his mind could process it. The aura was unmistakable, burned into his memory from a previous encounter.
Bloodhand Butcher.
His heart skipped, and instinct took over. He hopped back on one foot, putting distance between them as best as he could in his injured state. If his leg had been fine, he would've retreated much farther.
He had seen what this man was capable of.
The carnage. The brutality. The sheer disregard for life.
It wasn't a fight—it was a massacre.
There had been a time when Matt would have stepped in without hesitation, driven by his sense of justice. He would have confronted that kind of violence head-on, no matter the cost.
But that version of him felt distant now.
Reality had beaten something out of him—replaced it with something colder, more pragmatic. After being pushed to the brink again and again, he had learned a harsh truth.
Morality alone didn't keep you alive.
Power did.
He needed that power.
And standing in front of him was someone who clearly had it.
Locke stepped forward, his expression calm as he looked Matt over. "You good now?" he asked casually.
Matt exhaled slowly, forcing himself to steady his nerves. "I lost control earlier," he admitted.
Locke waved it off. "Happens. Anyone would react like that seeing someone like me standing here."
There was a deliberate emphasis in his tone, a subtle reminder of exactly who—and what—he was. Matt caught it immediately, the implication settling uncomfortably in his chest.
Then Locke smiled faintly.
"But that's not how it's going to be anymore," he continued. "Because from here on out, we're going to be gods in the eyes of New York."
"Gods…?" Matt echoed, the word feeling foreign on his tongue.
Before he could process it further, another presence entered the room.
Doctor Octopus.
Matt recognized him instantly—not just from reputation, but from the weight of his presence. Yet something was different. The man standing there wasn't the same unstable figure people whispered about.
He looked… composed. Refined.
Behind him, four mechanical arms moved with smooth precision, holding a glowing sphere that radiated intense energy. Even without sight, Matt could feel the heat, the contained power within it.
"A controlled fusion reactor…?" he murmured, stunned.
Technology like that wasn't supposed to exist outside of Stark's reach. And even then, it had never been made public. There were always excuses—limitations, costs, feasibility.
But standing here, seeing this?
Those excuses suddenly felt hollow.
More importantly, Doctor Octopus stood slightly behind Locke, his posture respectful, almost deferential.
That detail said everything.
Matt's focus snapped back to the man in front of him.
This wasn't just a group.
This was a hierarchy.
And Locke was at the top.
"Locke," Donnie began, stepping forward eagerly, "this is Daredevil. I brought him here. He's injured and needs—"
"I'm here to join," Matt cut in.
The words came out clean, decisive, leaving no room for hesitation.
Donnie blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting things to move that fast. He had planned to ease him in, let him see the benefits first.
Instead, Matt had already made his choice.
"…Guess I was overthinking it," Donnie muttered, scratching his head with a small laugh.
Locke, however, didn't look surprised at all.
From the beginning, he had already laid everything out—power, resources, results. If that wasn't enough to convince someone like Matt, then the man simply wasn't worth recruiting.
"Fix my leg," Matt said, his tone steady now that he had committed.
Locke snapped his fingers.
A pale blue glow appeared instantly, drifting through the air before settling over Matt's injured ankle. The energy seeped into the charred flesh, repairing it at a visible pace.
Within seconds, the blackened tissue faded, replaced by healthy skin. Muscle regenerated, bone restored, until there was no trace of the injury left.
Matt flexed his leg, disbelief washing over him. "That's… incredible."
Locke glanced toward Ivan's unconscious form on the ground and smirked slightly. "That's not the only impressive thing here."
Then he turned his head slightly.
"Doc, take a look at his gear."
.....
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