The Chaste, though long suppressed by the Hand, had survived through cunning and patience. Their true strength lay not in brute force but in the shadows—gathering intelligence, mapping out networks, and watching. By avoiding rash actions and staying low-profile, they had carved out a fragile pocket of safety amidst the Hand's relentless pursuit.
It's survival, under such suffocating pressure, was a testament to this strategy.
Stick didn't bother with elaborate explanations. His presence alone spoke volumes, and Daniel understood the unspoken truths.
A magician appearing out of nowhere in New York—someone like Daniel—would inevitably draw attention. Already, he had rattled the city's underground. Attempts to probe his past had all hit dead ends. Even SHIELD's operatives, with all their resources, found nothing but a trail of corpses and missing agents. Investigators sent into Daniel's orbit would often vanish without a trace—wiped out before they could report back.
Sunil Bakshi's own paranoia ensured that anyone foolish enough to dig too deep would never live long enough to regret it.
To this day, Daniel's background remained a mystery—an enigma that neither Chaste, the Hand, nor even SHIELD could unravel. It didn't matter. As long as Daniel was useful to the United States, no one seemed eager to pry further.
The same logic applied to the Avengers. Many of them had shadows in their past—Wanda, Vision, even Natasha Romanoff's past was barely understood. What mattered was power. When someone's strength was overwhelming, their secrets stayed buried.
Daniel leaned back, and said, "Frankly, I'm not the type to go looking for trouble. But the Hand made the first move. They crossed the line. Once that happens… I don't leave threats half-dead. For my own safety, I'll erase them. All of them."
Stick's white brows lifted slightly. His old, battle-scarred face didn't betray much emotion, but inwardly he took note of Daniel's sheer audacity.
'So, this young man doesn't just fight enemies—he annihilates them.'
If the entire world stood in his way, would he really burn it all down?
"The world is full of war," Stick murmured, voice like worn gravel. "No one escapes it. Not me. Not you."
Daniel smirked and replied, "This is my war with the Hand. And it's your war too, isn't it?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, gleaming with interest. "You came here tonight for one reason, because you want an alliance. You want to join forces with me."
Stick didn't bother denying it.
"That's right," he said bluntly. "I've fought this war alone for too long. I've trained countless warriors, but most of them were weak. Shackled by fear, blinded by the hollow laws of this world. Few truly understand what lurks beneath the surface… and fewer still are strong enough to stand against it."
Stick's gaze sharpened. "Then let's be clear. Cooperation demands honesty. If you want my help, I need to know everything about the Hand."
Stick hesitated, then with a heavy sigh, he found a seat across from Daniel. The dim clinic lights cast deep shadows on his scarred face as he began to speak.
"Everything—Roxon, Midtown, that cursed pit… Elektra—it's all connected. And it all started centuries ago…"
His voice trailed off as memories—long buried—resurfaced.
"Back then, warlords ruled with blood and iron. Gangs tore apart cities, carving the land like wolves fighting over a carcass. Greed for power, gold, women—it's always the same." His voice was weary, as though recounting a history that had repeated itself for far too long.
Daniel sat silently, listening. He could tell this was no fabricated tale; Stick's tone carried the weight of someone who had lived through the echoes of this past.
"One day," Stick continued, his voice lowering into something almost reverent, "a warlord stumbled upon something no mortal should touch. Not gold or jewels. Something far greater—something that defied the natural order. The secret of immortality. The power to raise the dead."
At this, Daniel's brows furrowed. This lined up with rumors he'd already heard—whispers of Kunlun, of forbidden arts, but Stick's words were layered with half-truths and deliberate omissions. Daniel could smell the misdirection, yet the core of it rang true.
"You believe this?" Stick's milky eyes turned toward him, as if challenging him.
"I don't deny it," Daniel said coolly. "But resurrection, as I understand it, isn't what people think. The dead can't come back as they were. At best, they return… altered. Hollow."
He thought of Norse myths—the warriors of Valhalla, forever fighting and feasting at Odin's call. Beautiful illusions masking the truth: they were neither alive nor dead, but something else entirely. Tools of death.
"In my view," Daniel continued, "resurrection is just a pretty lie. Once someone truly dies, what comes back… isn't them."
Stick shurgged and replied, "Perhaps. But to the Hand, it doesn't matter. To them, the ability to rise again is real enough. They killed their masters, seized power, and drowned the Far East in blood to achieve it. Over time, their numbers grew. Their wealth, their influence… until their name was whispered with fear: Yamete. Or as you call them now—the Hand."
Daniel leaned forward slightly, studying the old man. Stick's tale was convincing, but there was something beneath it—a pulse of truth wrapped in centuries of legend.
'Could the Hand's origins trace back to the betrayal of Kunlun disciples? Or… even further?'
If the Hand truly dated back to the 16th century or earlier… what kind of monsters had they become after centuries of blood rituals?
"Even with magic," Daniel said at last, "eternal life isn't cheap. Healing alone can burn through energy like wildfire. For the Hand to resurrect entire battalions, there has to be… something else. A price."
Stick's lips curled into a grim line. "Blood. Slaughter. They steal life from others to fuel their own twisted existence. Once, they'd slaughter villages without hesitation. Now, in this modern age, they have to tread carefully. A single misstep, and their entire operation could be exposed."
He let out a dry chuckle. "But don't be fooled. Hundreds of years have only made them bolder. Their roots spread across Asia, Europe, Africa, the Americas. Their enemies are many—mutants, Inhumans, Hydra, the Hellfire Club… even my Chaste Society. But they endure. Because death means nothing to them."