"How would you like me to send you to hell?"
Bul-Kathos glared at the oblivious punk before him, his muscles visibly swelling.
For him, taking a human life was a rare experience, no matter the circumstance.
Yet, in his long combat-filled career, he had witnessed human lives snuffed out by demonic tides more than once.
In that world, humans always stood united. No one would dream of attacking their own kind.
The relentless onslaught of demons drained every ounce of strength, leaving no room for human conflict.
Fights between humans were a rarity.
Killing intent surged from Bul-Kathos, not as a chilling dread but like standing at the mouth of an erupting volcano—a suffocating blend of death and searing peril.
"Sir, please, calm down!"
Luke, the towering figure, called out to Bul-Kathos.
"I want to crush this guy too, but if you do this, you'll bring down endless gang retaliation!"
Luke keenly sensed the blistering killing intent that made breathing a struggle. He had no doubt this white-haired, burly old man could squash the thug like an ant.
He might even escape unscathed.
But the gangs would stop at nothing to hunt this old man down, and their methods would undoubtedly involve investigating everyone nearby.
And gang investigations always ended in violence.
Luke wasn't worried for himself—most attacks barely tickled him—but the old man at the barber shop couldn't withstand such relentless trouble.
"Damn it, why does this troublemaker have to be that damn gang boss's cousin!"
Luke cursed inwardly.
Though this cousin held no real status, and even breaking his legs would stir little trouble, killing him was another matter—especially at the hands of an obvious outsider.
To a gang, an outsider killing one of their own was the gravest provocation, sparking a vendetta they'd pursue to the death.
Especially for these bottom-tier gangs, who relied on hatred and brutality to build their reputation, brains were never part of their problem-solving toolkit.
"Young man, you won't sway me!"
Bul-Kathos strode toward the loudmouth, his work clothes clinging tightly to his frame in the wind, revealing his massive physique to both onlookers.
"I don't think he's joking. You'd better run—next time, I'll break your legs."
Sweat beaded on Luke's forehead as he sensed an invincible strength.
"This is Hell's Kitchen! Luke! Luke Cage! You're telling me to run?"
Lowlife gang members often lacked brains, their stupidity almost comical.
On any other day, Luke would've laughed about it with buddies at the bar.
But the pressure bearing down on him grew overwhelming, rendering speech impossible. He was starting to regret his superhumanly sharp senses.
A massive hand seized the top of Sheet's skull, the immense strength in those fingers signaling danger.
Even the densest thug wouldn't stay calm with a gun to their head. For Sheet, the pressure now surpassed even the terror of glimpsing Kingpin from afar.
"Speak. I'll give you a choice—how do you want to die?"
Bul-Kathos's unwavering, thunderous voice echoed through the street, its resolve palpable to all.
Luke Cage, standing before him, felt an almost primal suppression, as if his very bloodline quailed.
"If I can choose, I'd like to die of old age."
The thug, head still gripped, whimpered in the most pathetic voice of his life.
Gone was his earlier arrogance; he now resembled a cat grabbed by the scruff—pitiful and helpless.
"Old friend, let him go."
The barber shop's door creaked open, and an elderly black man with close-cropped white hair shuffled out.
"I feel your rage and believe you're no ordinary man. But we who live here can't act as recklessly as you."
The old man's voice carried a faint plea, causing a flicker of hesitation in Bul-Kathos.
His face bore a resemblance to Tyrael's, and his actions showed courage, naturally earning a sliver of Bul-Kathos's favor.
"So, what can I do?"
Bul-Kathos spoke with a hint of amusement, his beard twitching with his smile.
For him, wiping out the annoying riffraff here would be no challenge, but he wanted to know what choice the people of this place would make.
The world held countless heroes, many harboring a savior complex, yearning to rescue others and step up in times of crisis.
Bul-Kathos was different—he was a warrior, nothing more.
His focus was on hacking enemies to pieces; only then did he consider matters of salvation.
Salvation? Merely a byproduct of the fight for survival.
"Old friend, you don't need to do anything. Just let go of that annoying punk and go home for a good night's sleep."
The old man's tone was low and earnest.
"If you come back here, my shop's services are free—complete with a custom haircut. Now, let him go and head home."
The thug in Bul-Kathos's grasp strained to nod, but his pinned head couldn't budge under that iron grip.
"Demons? Just a bunch of trash! Their dining table deserves nothing but a pile of dog shit—and even that's too generous!"
Bul-Kathos gradually loosened his grip, his fury and killing intent subsiding under the old man's near-pleading voice.
Not far off, a mage stood, cold sweat dripping down their forehead.
After the Ancient One sent this mighty barbarian here, they had sternly warned New York's resident mages to prevent any foolish provocations against him.
No one understood Bul-Kathos's power better than the Ancient One.
If he fell into a rage, even she might have to emulate Doctor Strange, using a time loop to stall him until his anger cooled.
The situation had turned out better than expected—the barbarian's fury was subsiding, and calm would soon return.
At most, it'd become gossip in Hell's Kitchen.
Perhaps tales of a hulking old man thrashing Sheet, embellished with claims of him being ten feet tall and just as wide.
"If I hadn't swapped shifts with Sly, I wouldn't be dealing with this mess."
The moment Bul-Kathos was provoked, the mage wanted nothing more than to grab that thug and pummel him with eighteen sets of military punches.
Bul-Kathos was undoubtedly a hero, but barbarian heroes were a unique breed, heedless of others' opinions.
Even witch doctors dabbling in mysterious voodoo were more reasonable than an enraged barbarian.
In this world, only death—or the barbarian himself—could quell their fury.
Thankfully, today's incident was merely a false alarm.
(End of Chapter)