Daredevil. Real name: Matt Murdock.
Blinded by chemical waste as a child, his remaining four senses were hyper-enhanced to a superhuman degree. By day, he was a blind lawyer fighting for justice for the downtrodden.
By night, he became the "Devil of Hell's Kitchen," using his fists and billy clubs to purge the darkness.
Clearly, he had intercepted chatter about tonight's deal from one of Kingpin's underlings.
At this moment, Daredevil's heart was seething with rage.
In his world of sensory perception, over a dozen corpses were scattered across the pier in various states of horrific dismemberment.
The air was thick with the suffocating stench of blood. And right in the center of that bloody aura stood a masked figure, surrounded like a king by Kingpin's thugs, "enjoying" their sycophantic praise.
To Matt, the conclusion was instantaneous: this mysterious, dangerous individual was a new, high-level assassin recruited by Wilson Fisk—someone in the same vein as Bullseye.
"Fisk's lapdog!"
Daredevil let out a low roar. His body coiled like a tensed bow and snapped forward, launching directly at Peter! He didn't hesitate; he didn't offer a chance for explanations.
To a butcher with hands this bloody, the only form of communication was a fist to the face, followed by a trip to court.
Noticing the red blur, Kingpin's men froze before recognizing the newcomer.
"Crap! It's the Devil of Hell's Kitchen!" "Run! If we don't leave now, we're toast!" "Wait—what are we scared of? With Big Brother here, icing this guy will take ten seconds!"
Their initial instinct was to flee, but looking at the masked Peter, their courage returned. Instead of scattering, they began cheering maliciously, eager to watch the show.
Listening to the goons' jeering, Peter decided to postpone wiping them out. He turned his attention to the charging Daredevil.
This wasn't because he wanted to be a villain, nor did he intend to kill a "Saint" like Matt Murdock. He just... had his eyes on the man's gear.
Peter's gaze swept over the high-quality, dark red tactical suit. Strength, durability, flexibility—it had everything. It was the perfect material for his own costume.
The clubs, too, were made of a special alloy he could either repurpose or sacrifice to the system.
Since the hero surely had spares, Peter figured Matt wouldn't mind "sponsoring" a poor high schooler's start-up.
Besides, Peter had no interest in a "misunderstanding leads to mutual respect" trope. Having read the source material, he knew their philosophies were incompatible.
Matt insisted on procedural justice and never killed. Peter believed in results—if you cross the line, you go to hell. Words would be a waste of breath.
If Matt had some crazy superpower, Peter might have tried to recruit him. But Daredevil was a loner without flashy abilities.
Even Captain America had been rejected by him multiple times in the comics; Peter didn't think he had more "face" than Cap.
So, let's just use him as a whetstone.
It was the perfect time to test his newly mastered Kyogoku-style Karate against a Tier-1 combatant.
In a flash, Daredevil's fist was inches away!
Peter's eyes narrowed. He deliberately suppressed his strength and speed to near-human levels, reaching out to catch Matt's wrist.
THUD!
Fist met palm with a muffled crack. Peter's body swayed slightly, absorbing the momentum. He shifted his footwork, moving like a butterfly through a garden to slip to Matt's flank, driving an elbow toward the hero's ribs. The movement was fluid—a display of "violent aesthetics."
Though blind, Matt's radar sense was unparalleled. He tilted his body, narrowly evading the elbow, and swung his club toward Peter's face in a counter-arc.
For a time, the pier was filled with the sounds of rhythmic impacts. Two shadows blurred between the shipping containers, clashing and separating with blinding speed.
As the exchange continued, Peter grew internally impressed. In official power rankings, Daredevil's fighting skill is a "6"—a grandmaster of multiple martial arts.
Experiencing it firsthand confirmed the hype. With his stats nerfed to match Matt's, Peter found himself being led by the nose, nearly falling into a disadvantage.
It wasn't that Kyogoku's Karate was lacking; it was Peter's own lack of live combat experience. He hadn't fully synthesized the memories into instinct yet.
Peter's eyes sparkled with excitement. Daredevil was, without a doubt, the best sparring partner he could ask for.
Under the pressure of the "Devil," the stiff combat memories were being digested at high speed, melting into his very bones. He cleared his mind and focused entirely on the dance.
Slowly, his strikes became smoother. More lethal.
While the two were locked in their high-speed duel, Scarface and his crew exchanged glances. The "Big Brother" seemed occupied. Maybe... this was their chance to bolt?
Scarface gave a subtle nod. Two lackeys grabbed the money cases and began creeping toward the exit.
They hadn't made it five steps before—
"Where do you think you're going?" "Don't even try to run!"
Two voices rang out simultaneously. One from Peter, one from Matt.
In a rare moment of unspoken coordination, both fighters broke away from each other and lunged at the thugs. Daredevil executed a sweeping kick that leveled three men.
Peter exploded with a burst of speed, kicking one lackey so hard his torso separated from his legs, before pivoting to punch another goon's head into a red mist.
The sheer brutality made Scarface scream until his throat went raw.
Huh?!
Daredevil paused. Feeling the "mysterious man's" actions and the genuine terror coming from Fisk's men, he was bewildered.
Did I get this wrong? If he's Fisk's lapdog, why is he stopping them from taking the money? Why is he destroying the deal?
Matt quickly neutralized the thugs nearest to him and turned to Peter. "Wait! You—"
He wanted to pause the fight and talk. But Peter wasn't giving him the chance. After exploding Scarface's head, Peter closed the distance instantly, throwing an uncompromising, heavy punch!
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