On the pier, the thunderous roar of gunfire cut out abruptly.
Whether it was Kingpin's henchmen or the surviving Russians, everyone looked as if someone had pressed a giant pause button. They turned their heads stiffly, staring in horror at the sedan now drenched in a mist of crimson.
The air, which had been thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and sea salt, was now overtaken by the cloying, metallic stench of fresh blood.
Peter flicked the gore off his knuckles, his gaze as calm and undisturbed as a deep, bottomless well.
He slowly let his eyes sweep over everyone present. Wherever his gaze landed, the thugs felt a primal chill surge from the soles of their feet to the crowns of their heads. Their hair stood on end.
"The boss is dead!"
"FIRE! KILL HIM!!"
Someone finally broke the deathly silence with a shrill, desperate shriek. The remaining Russians snapped out of their daze. Fear overrode reason as they swung their muzzles toward Peter and began frantically unloading their magazines.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—!
Muzzle flashes wove a web of orange flame in the dark, sending a hail of lead whistling toward Peter. Facing this storm of bullets, Peter didn't panic. Instead, a flicker of excitement danced in his eyes.
Come on! Let me see where my limit is!
The next second, Peter blurred.
His silhouette became a streak of shadow amidst the tracers, dodging and weaving with a speed and trajectory that defied every law of physics. Bullets capable of shredding steel plates couldn't even graze the hem of his hoodie.
"How... is this possible?" One Russian's face shifted from a snarl to a blank stare. He kept pulling the trigger, only to hear the hollow click-click-click of an empty chamber.
He had run dry without even noticing. As he fumbled at his waist for a fresh mag, Peter appeared before him like a vengeful ghost.
"Too slow."
The cold, indifferent voice whispered in his ear—a death sentence from the reaper himself.
Schlick!
The Russian looked down in dazed disbelief. He saw a hand pass through his chest without resistance, protruding from his back. In that palm sat a heart, still giving its final, frantic rhythmic pulses.
Squish—
The heart burst, and blood geysered out. Peter withdrew his hand with an expressionless face, letting the hollowed corpse slump to the concrete.
Suddenly, he flickered again, a blue sphere of energy swirling into existence in his palm.
BOOM!
Another Russian, attempting to club Peter from the side with a rifle butt, collided head-on with the Rasengan. In an instant, his gun and both his arms were pulverized by the grinding rotation. A massive, jagged hole was bored straight through his torso.
"AAAAAGH—!"
The last nearby Russian was paralyzed by the sight, his scream cut short as Peter's other hand clamped onto his throat. With a slight flex of five fingers—
Crack!
The crisp sound of snapping bone silenced the pier.
The slaughter continued. A fully unleashed Peter was the ultimate engine of destruction.
Makoto Kyogoku's karate techniques, amplified by a body that transcended human limits, were terrifying. Every strike heralded the shattering of bone and the extinguishing of life.
A knife-hand strike sent a head spinning away from its shoulders. A straight punch tore through a man's upper body, sending fragments of internal organs spraying from his mouth.
A knee strike folded a victim backward, his spine snapping into a grotesque "V" shape.
This wasn't a fight. It was a harvest.
Kingpin's goons, including the scarred man, were paralyzed with terror. They huddled behind cover, faces ashen, legs shaking so violently they could barely stand. Some felt a warm, wet sensation spreading through their pants.
They were hardened criminals with blood on their hands, but this? This was outside the realm of human comprehension. Even the goriest cult films lacked scenes this visceral.
In less than a minute, silence returned to Pier 9. Every Russian mobster lay in pieces. The pier had become a Shura's field—a literal hellscape.
Peter stood in the center of the carnage, his clothes pristine, forming a horrific contrast to the world of gore around him. He slowly turned his head toward Scarface and the others hiding behind the cars.
Scarface jolted, nearly falling to his knees. He fought to keep his heart from jumping out of his throat, forced a smile that looked more like a sob, and stepped out with his hands raised.
"Bi... Big Brother! That was incredible!" "You're a god! A total beast!" "With you on our side, Mr. Fisk will own the Big Apple in no time!"
The thugs scrambled over, tripping over themselves to shower Peter with desperate flattery. In their minds, this inhumanly strong individual had to be a secret ace trained by Wilson Fisk—someone sent to clean up the mess.
They assumed the Russians had been too arrogant, and this "Big Brother" had stepped in to teach them a lesson.
Scarface was flushed with excitement, already envisioning a promotion. If he could cling to this man's shadow, he could walk tall in Hell's Kitchen—hell, in all of New York!
He leaned in sycophantically, pointing at the two cases of cash. "Big Brother, these funds... do you want to hold onto them, or should we bring them back to the boss?"
Peter looked at these vultures, his heart cold.
Big Brother? Who's the brother of you scum?
His eyes drifted to the packages wrapped in yellow tape—the product. How many lives would these destroy? How many families would they shatter if they hit the streets?
His gaze hardened as he looked at Scarface. Just as he prepared to wipe out Fisk's men as well, a sharp, whistling wind cut through the air from his flank!
Peter's senses were razor-sharp. He didn't turn; he simply tilted his head an inch.
WHOOSH!
A dark red metal club hissed past his cheek, slamming into a shipping container with a heavy thud.
Immediately after, a lithe figure leapt from the top of a distant container, landing silently on the ground. The newcomer wore a dark red tactical suit and a mask with two small devil horns covering the upper half of his face, leaving only a grim, determined jaw exposed.
Seeing the man, Peter's stoic expression finally flickered with genuine surprise.
This guy... he was the Guardian of Hell's Kitchen. Daredevil.
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