C79: One Failure
Boom—
Sidestepping swiftly, Huoyun Evil God dodged the heavy traffic pole Jessica had hurled from mid-air. His gaze lowered, noting the cracked pavement and cratered asphalt beneath him.
Flight via enhanced physiology or psionic augmentation was indeed tactically advantageous—Jean Grey or Carol Danvers had proven that. But Jessica Jones, despite her Alias Investigations reputation, wasn't trained in aerial combat. With a sneer, the Fire Cloud Evil God glanced upward and said disdainfully, "Throwing things from above? What are you, a teenager playing with action figures? Don't assume just because you've taken to the skies, I can't bring you down."
With a flick of his wrist, golden light shimmered in his palm. It carried the echo of chanting—tones reminiscent of K'un-Lun mantras, but twisted and ancient, more akin to dark Shaolin rituals.
Jessica's body seized mid-air as if struck by a psychic sledgehammer and plummeted like a ragdoll, crashing into a parked car below.
Before the impact registered, the Evil God was already upon Matt Murdock and the clone of Wesley Gibson. Two precise palm strikes—one full force for the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, one muted for the expendable double—sent them flying like bowling pins.
"Tiresome. Monotonous," he muttered, brushing off his robes like an offended mystic from a Zhang Yimou film. "This little posse of vigilantes—more boring than a night in Arkham. At least lunatics there talk back."
The commentary wasn't just theatrics. Li Ran, puppeteering the battle through his Heretic God avatar from the antique store in Harlem, was pacing the tempo of the encounter. Despite the overwhelming power differential, he wanted to extract every ounce of drama and "reputation points"—after all, this was the Marvel Universe. Heroes needed time to rise.
And so, when Wesley stirred, Li Ran had the clone feign unconsciousness once more. It was almost time for a dramatic pivot.
On the battlefield, Bullseye, ever twitchy and eager to kill, watched from the sideline. Though renowned for his deadly precision—whether throwing playing cards or shattered glass—he knew that next to this so-called Evil God, his talents were ornamental.
"Evil God," Bullseye called, hiding his envy behind a smirk. "Want me to clean up these losers? You've clearly got more important things to do."
Without even turning, the Evil God responded, his voice icier than Victor Fries, "Did I ask for help? Or do you think I'm incapable of slaughtering a few masked amateurs?"
"N-no, not at all," Bullseye stammered. Even for a man who killed without blinking, the weight of this being's presence throttled his arrogance. He lowered his head like a schoolboy caught with a slingshot.
Meanwhile, Li Ran, watching through the mystical feedback loop of his clone, considered escalating. He turned his attention back to Matt, approaching his downed form with dramatic flair.
"To think you all collapsed so easily," the Evil God scoffed, crouching beside the bruised Daredevil. "That bulletproof tank—what was his name? Luke Cage?—at least managed to eat a few slaps before crumpling. But you? You're not even trained in Shaolin tiger form, are you?"
"Not... telling you... anything," Matt hissed, blood on his lips but defiance in his tone. The Catholic guilt may weigh him down, but it also propped him up when everything else failed.
"Shame." The Evil God raised a glowing palm again, fingers poised to end Matt's story mid-issue.
Back in the antique shop, Li Ran activated a contingency: the other Wesley clone tensed, ready to leap in should reinforcements not arrive in time.
Just as the palm was about to strike, a familiar voice—worn from guilt, yet determined—echoed behind him.
"Hey!"
The Evil God turned his head just in time to see a golden fist punch through the air like a comet.
Danny Rand. The Immortal Iron Fist. Protector of K'un-Lun.
Golden chi roared around his knuckles as the living weapon made impact. The fist, powered by the molten heart of Shou-Lao the Undying, struck Huoyun Evil God square in the chest, launching him like a rocket into the side of a crumbling brick building.
In the antique shop, Li Ran grinned.
Perfect timing.
Although Iron Fist was far from his peak—he lacked the inner fire of Orson Randall or the discipline of Lei Kung—he was still the chosen of K'un-Lun. Li Ran had carefully ensured this Iron Fist hadn't landed any clean hits before. This was the first blow he'd allowed. And it served the story beautifully.
As bricks and mortar collapsed, Danny panted. He had no idea how he'd found the location—only that Colleen had mentioned strange tremors, and Misty Knight's surveillance had pointed him here. And here he was, squarely in the middle of chaos.
From the rubble, Huoyun Evil God rose slowly. He wiped blood from his mouth not from pain, but from performance.
Danny's punch had felt... real. It was real. The chi had burned his clone's flesh. Good. That meant the audience would feel it too.
Boom—
Stone exploded as the Evil God stepped out from the demolished wall. He dusted himself off, cloak fluttering, expression unreadable.
His eyes locked on Bullseye.
"Where are they?"
"They—uh—Iron Fist grabbed them and vanished. Real quick, I swear. Some kind of smoke bomb or mystic teleport."
For once, Bullseye's bravado was gone. He sounded almost like a teenager explaining to the Punisher why his gun jammed.
The Evil God said nothing. His silence was more terrifying than rage.
And far away, Li Ran adjusted his position, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Perfect pacing. Drama restored. Next step: raise the stakes.
And this time, he thought, Danny Rand might actually deserve a round two.