Daredevil was caught completely off guard by Peter's sudden surge. The punch sent him hurtling backward, tumbling across the pavement in a messy, undignified roll.
Shaking his throbbing head, Matt Murdock fought the very un-lawyer-like urge to curse at the top of his lungs.
He couldn't tell if this guy was just a battle-crazed lunatic or a sociopath who didn't care if he accidentally killed his own "allies" in the crossfire.
He looked up. Peter was standing there, silent and still. He didn't press the advantage; he just waited, watching with an eerie patience for Matt to stand back up.
Daredevil gritted his teeth. His grandmother always said there was a devil in the Murdock heart. Right now, Matt decided to let that devil out just a little bit.
He scrambled to his feet, no longer holding anything back. He unleashed every ounce of his training, diving back into the fray!
The battle instantly hit a fever pitch.
Matt's movements were no longer restricted to boxing and joint locks. Stick fighting, Judo, Aikido—he blended various disciplines into a seamless, torrential storm of strikes that blanketed Peter.
His custom billy clubs seemed to come alive in his hands. One moment they were like a striking viper, the next they were a spinning shield of indestructible alloy.
But as the minutes ticked by, a sense of dread began to pool in Matt's stomach.
He realized that no matter how much he varied his rhythm or how lethal his strikes became, he couldn't take the mysterious man down. Worse, the stranger seemed to be... evolving. At an incredible speed.
Earlier, when Matt was holding back, he could find openings in the stranger's transitions. But now, even with Matt going all out, the masked man maintained an orderly defense within the chaos.
Every experience, every high-level feint Matt used was being swallowed up and digested as fuel for the stranger's growth.
The most terrifying part? The man had taken several of Matt's hardest hits, yet he reacted as if he'd been brushed by a feather.
Matt was beginning to gasp for air, his muscles screaming with fatigue. But the stranger? His movements hadn't slowed a fraction. He moved with a terrifying, tireless precision.
What kind of monster is this?!
Finally, after one last explosive clash, Matt's stamina failed him. Peter sent him flying with a heavy blow. Expecting a killing strike to follow, Matt was stunned when the stranger stopped again, watching him with that same unnerving silence, waiting for him to get up for more.
Matt's mental fortitude flickered. He didn't stand up immediately. Instead, he hissed through the pain:
"Who... who the hell are you?!"
He was certain now: this wasn't one of Kingpin's men. A Fisk assassin would have taken his head and gone for the reward ten minutes ago. But if he wasn't with Fisk... then why the hell was he dragging this out?
Peter didn't answer immediately. He was busy cataloging the fight. One session with Daredevil had allowed him to fully synthesize Makoto Kyogoku's karate insights. It was no longer a set of memories; it was his own skin and bones.
He had officially stepped into the hall of Grandmasters.
If he had to score his technical skill, he was at a 5.5—slightly below Matt's legendary versatility, but while Matt knew many styles at an A+ level, Peter had pushed his Karate to a singular S-rank perfection.
And that was just technique. Factor in his inhuman strength, the Horse Talisman's infinite recovery, and the Rasengan? Forget Daredevil—even if the Hulk showed up, Peter could give him a very long, very painful lesson in "Infinite HP + Spiral Spheres."
Having squeezed the "whetstone" dry of its value, Peter finally looked down at the panting hero. He offered an incredibly gentle, harmless-looking smile and spoke in a light, relaxed tone:
"You're pretty good, Daredevil."
"I had a lot of fun tonight."
"So... I think our game can end now."
Daredevil: "???"
Wait, you're not a mute? And 'fun'? You were using me as a... sparring partner this whole time?!
The realization hit Matt like a thunderclap, bringing a wave of unprecedented humiliation. But he didn't have time to process it. The moment he blinked, Peter moved.
This time, there was no suppression of strength. No nerfing of speed.
WHOOSH!
Peter flickered out of existence and reappeared behind Daredevil.
So fast! Matt's internal radar screamed, but his exhausted body couldn't keep up.
THUD.
A clean, surgical knife-hand strike hit Matt's carotid sinus. Daredevil's world went black instantly. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Peter nodded, satisfied. He walked forward and, without a hint of hesitation, began stripping the high-grade, dark red tactical suit off the hero, along with the cowl and the billy clubs.
The texture was even better than he'd thought. A little dye, a few structural tweaks, and he had his professional suit.
He looked down at Matt, who was now shivering in his underwear in the biting sea breeze.
Peter felt a twinge of "sympathy." He found one of Fisk's goons who hadn't soiled himself, stripped that guy, and put the cheap mobster clothes on Matt. Then, he dragged the unconscious hero into an empty shipping container and thoughtfully closed the door.
This would keep him safe from any arriving Fisk reinforcements and prevent him from catching a cold. Truly, a win-win.
Finally, he fished a phone out of a goon's pocket and dialed 911.
"Hello? NYPD? There's a major illegal shipment being moved at Pier 9 in Brooklyn..."
After hanging up, Peter picked up the two suitcases stuffed with millions of dollars and strolled away into the night, whistling a cheerful tune.
"Man," he muttered to himself. "I really am such a kind, good-hearted person."
Tonight was a very productive hunt.
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