Before the fight with Hulk had even started, Richard had already expected the San Francisco branch of the Department of Mutant Affairs to escalate. Even if their field agents doubted they could capture him, the branch leadership couldn't afford to ignore his presence. Institutions didn't operate on pride alone. They operated on optics.
After destroying the black fighter jet with a lightning strike, Richard teleported again, bringing the still-dazed Hulk back to the shattered street below.
Hulk blinked, clearly disoriented. One moment there had been missiles and fire. The next, he was standing on broken asphalt again.
"It looks like someone doesn't want us to keep playing," Richard said calmly. "Let's exchange one last move and end it."
As he spoke, a second Phantom Sword materialized in his left hand. The twin blades glowed with cold blue light, elegant and refined.
Hulk nodded seriously.
He didn't understand what was coming, but he wanted to see it.
Richard casually spun both blades in smooth arcs, then raised them into a crossed, dual-wield stance. The left-hand sword angled forward, the right-hand sword held slightly behind. It was a posture that radiated balance and lethal intent.
Hulk felt it instantly.
A bad feeling crawled up his spine.
Unfortunately for him, the realization came half a second too late.
Richard vanished and reappeared directly in front of him.
Two-Sword Style · Demon Slash.
This wasn't a technique inherited from any template. It was Richard's own creation. And unlike basic Phantom Sword swings, it required magic to unlock its true power.
The twin blades moved simultaneously.
Both slashed downward, but from opposing diagonals. The left-hand blade carved from Hulk's right shoulder toward his left waist. The right-hand blade cut from his left shoulder down toward his right side.
Chi—Chi!
The strikes landed in perfect synchronization.
A glowing cross-shaped wound split across Hulk's chest.
Against an ordinary opponent, this technique would have been instantly fatal. Even most mutants with enhanced durability would not have survived it.
Hulk was not most mutants.
Pain surged through him as the technique's secondary effect activated. Like Earth Rend, Demon Slash carried a knockback force. Hulk's massive frame lifted off the ground and flew backward.
Bang.
He smashed through the wall of a nearby building and crashed into the back kitchen of a restaurant, bricks and tiles scattering everywhere.
Richard lowered the twin blades.
He had never intended to kill Hulk.
Yes, Hulk had displayed hostility. But Richard understood the difference between murderous intent and childish competitiveness. Hulk had simply wanted to prove himself to Natasha. There had been no desire to capture or eliminate.
Richard was ruthless when necessary.
He was not cruel without cause.
If he had truly wanted to end the fight from the start, he would have opened with Eight Blades Flash at full output. Instead, he had treated the exchange as both evaluation and practice.
He released the Phantom Swords and teleported into the restaurant kitchen.
Hulk lay amid shattered dishes and fallen shelves, breathing heavily but conscious.
"Let's stop here," Richard said. "If we keep going, someone nearby will actually die."
Hulk slowly sat up and nodded.
Before he could speak, Richard continued, "You can tell Natasha we tied. You couldn't touch me, and I couldn't kill you. Your body's too tough, and your raw strength is higher than mine."
He extended his hand.
Hulk looked at it, then took it without hesitation. His grip was enormous but controlled.
Despite his childlike mentality, Hulk could sense hostility. He knew Richard wasn't his enemy.
"See you next time," Richard said with a faint smile. "Work on your technique. You've got potential, big guy."
He patted Hulk lightly on the head and teleported away.
Hulk remained seated for a moment, glancing down at the cross-shaped wound on his chest. It had already stopped bleeding. His regenerative ability was extraordinary. Even catastrophic internal damage wouldn't permanently stop him.
In other universes, he could survive decapitation and regenerate from near-total destruction. The version standing here wasn't quite that extreme, but his healing factor remained formidable.
Within minutes, the wound would be nearly gone.
Hulk stood up, waited until the pain dulled further, then walked out of the restaurant to rejoin Natasha.
…
Las Vegas.
After the brief but destructive "episode" in San Francisco, Richard teleported across state lines toward Nevada. In a series of controlled jumps, he arrived at the glittering city known worldwide as the gambling capital.
He didn't search for isolated cabins this time.
Instead, he appeared directly atop a casino building in the heart of the city.
Las Vegas wasn't surrounded by forests. It was bordered by desert and barren land. There were no quiet woodland cabins to occupy discreetly. But that wasn't a serious obstacle.
He had chosen forests previously because they offered solitude for training. Living in the city was entirely feasible. It simply required more care.
Disguise.
He retrieved sunglasses and a peaked cap from his system space. His silver hair remained eye-catching, but he wasn't overly concerned.
After the Los Angeles branch incident months ago, a wave of fervent supporters had emerged. Instead of fading, their numbers had grown steadily. Ironically, the Department of Mutant Affairs had contributed to that growth through relentless media coverage.
And America had its own peculiar culture.
In this country, charisma and uniqueness were currencies. Good looks, rebellious behavior, extraordinary ability—any of these could generate fans. Even criminals attracted admirers if they fit a certain image.
Before his transmigration, Richard had seen countless stories of infamous figures developing loyal followings purely because they were attractive.
He had never imagined he would become one of those figures.
What had begun as small, local fan forums in Los Angeles had evolved into a nationally active website. Membership spanned multiple states. Discussions analyzed his battles, his philosophy, even his fashion choices.
He had quietly registered an anonymous account. He never posted. He simply observed occasionally, curious what narratives were forming around him.
The silver-hair phenomenon was one visible result.
Many of his more devoted followers dyed their hair to match his. Others adopted the style simply because it looked distinctive. The protesters in San Francisco had been proof enough.
Silver hair was no longer rare.
Adjusting his sunglasses and lowering the brim of his cap, Richard teleported down from the casino rooftop and stepped into the neon glow of Las Vegas.
.....
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