Kyoto, Japan.
The Hand's secret Base.
Murakami sat in the dim room, his expression shifting unsteadily.
Twelve people.
He had sent twelve elites to New York.
Not a single one had returned.
He sat in the darkness, motionless, like a statue.
After a long time, he opened his eyes.
In those eyes, a cold, almost crazed light flickered.
"Twelve people..." he muttered. "The elites of my Hand couldn't even make her lift a finger?"
He stood up, walked to the wall, and looked at the ancient Ukiyoe painting.
The painting depicted a massive Beast—the primordial demon worshipped by The Hand, the "Beast".
"Perhaps," he whispered, "it is time to invite it out."
Murakami picked up the phone and dialed a number.
The phone rang three times before it was picked up.
An old woman's voice came through, carrying an eerie calmness.
"Murakami, long time no see."
"Madam Gao," Murakami said, "I need your help."
The other end of the line was silent for a few seconds.
Madam Gao, one of the Five Fingers of The Hand, was an old monster who had lived for centuries.
Like Murakami, she was a servant of the "Beast".
"I heard about your situation," Madam Gao said.
Murakami's hand tightened slightly.
"Do you know who the opponent is?"
Madam Gao gave a soft laugh.
"I don't. But I am curious." She paused. "Someone who can make The Hand suffer such a great loss is worth me going to see personally."
Murakami frowned.
"You're coming to New York?"
"I'm already here," Madam Gao's voice carried a hint of pleasure. "And I've brought an old friend."
Murakami's eyes widened slightly.
"You mean—"
Murakami fell silent for a second.
Then he laughed.
The smile was cold and cruel.
"Good. Then we shall let her see the true power of The Hand."
...
Brooklyn, New York.
In an abandoned warehouse, Madam Gao stood in the darkness.
She was a small old woman, dressed in a simple grey robe, with grey hair and a kind face—looking just like an ordinary elderly Asian woman.
But the person kneeling before her knew she was anything but ordinary.
It was a young man in his early twenties, dressed in black, with his head bowed, motionless.
His body was covered in dense black runes—the mark of the "Beast," a curse passed down through a thousand years of The Hand's history.
He was the Black Sky.
The Vessel for the "Beast" in the mortal realm.
Madam Gao looked down at him, her face wearing an almost maternal expression.
"Child," she said, "are you ready?"
The young man raised his head.
His eyes were entirely black—no whites, no pupils, only endless darkness.
"I am ready." His voice was hollow, as if coming from an abyss.
Madam Gao nodded with satisfaction.
"Very good. Tonight, we go to meet those people."
She turned and walked toward the warehouse exit.
The Black Sky followed behind her like a silent shadow.
...
At dusk, the twilight of New York dyed the horizon a dark red.
At an abandoned pier in Brooklyn, Murakami stood under a dim yellow light, with fifty ninjas of The Hand behind him—this was all the strength he could gather in a short time.
Madam Gao stepped out from the shadows, followed by the Black Sky.
Murakami glanced at the Black Sky, his brow furrowing slightly.
"This is what you brought?"
Madam Gao nodded.
Murakami sized up the young man—the pitch-black eyes, the runes all over his body, and the cold aura radiating from him.
"He can deal with those few?"
Madam Gao smiled.
"The power of the 'Beast' is not something your ninjas can compare to."
Murakami was silent for a second, then nodded.
"Fine. Then let them see the true power of The Hand."
...
In Mavuika's apartment, the three siblings were having dinner.
Mavuika suddenly put down her chopsticks.
Thor and Loki both stopped at the same time and looked at her.
"What's wrong?" Thor asked.
Mavuika didn't speak.
Her gaze pierced through the window, looking into the distance—toward Brooklyn.
"Something is coming," she said.
Loki felt it too. His brow furrowed slightly.
"A very strong... cold aura. It doesn't seem like mortals."
Thor scratched his head. "What kind of thing?"
Mavuika stood up and walked to the window.
She could feel it—somewhere in Brooklyn, a powerful dark force was gathering.
It wasn't a power humans could possess, nor even a creature of this World.
It was something from an older, darker realm.
"Let's go," she said. "Let's see."
Brooklyn, abandoned pier.
Mavuika descended from the sky, her golden-red flames carving a dazzling trail of light through the night sky.
Thor and Loki followed behind her. Thor jumped down from the rooftop, smashing a deep crater into the ground, while Loki drifted down elegantly like a falling leaf.
The three stood on the pier, facing the dark crowd ahead.
Fifty ninjas, masked in black, were radiating murderous intent.
Murakami stood at the very front, holding a new Katana.
His expression was cold, and his eyes held a thirst for revenge.
Madam Gao stood beside him, a strange smile on her kind face.
Behind her, the Black Sky stood quietly like a statue.
Thor glanced at the ninjas and curled his lip.
"Again? Didn't you get enough last time?"
Murakami's voice was icy.
"Last time was merely a test," he said. "This time, it's different."
His gaze fell on Mavuika.
"You are that woman."
Mavuika looked at him without speaking.
Murakami continued, "Twelve elites of my Hand were slaughtered by you. Today, we settle this account."
Mavuika finally spoke.
"They made the first move."
Murakami sneered.
"So what?"
Mavuika sighed softly.
"I didn't want to cause trouble, but you keep coming back for more, and you even brought—"
Her gaze fell on the Black Sky.
"...this kind of thing."
The Black Sky raised his head.
Those pitch-black eyes looked at Mavuika, hollow and cold.
Madam Gao smiled.
"You feel it? Its power is far beyond your imagination."
She turned to look at the Black Sky.
"Go."
The Black Sky moved.
His speed was astonishing—not running, but more like gliding, his feet never touching the ground, like a black shadow.
He lunged at Mavuika.
Mavuika raised her hand.
A bolt of golden-red fire shot from her palm, hitting the Black Sky.
The Black Sky's body paused for a moment in mid-air—and then continued forward.
The flames scorched his body, and those black runes began to glow, writhing as if they had come to life.
His skin cracked in the fire, but what poured from the cracks wasn't blood, but black mist.
The mist condensed in the air, forming twisted, screaming faces.
Loki's brow furrowed.
"So it's a demon," he whispered. "A true demon."