Luke Cage stepped into the basement of the blacksmith forge, initially with a mindset that anything was better than nothing.
With his bulletproof skin, even firearms posed little threat to him.
Thus, he held cold weapons in contempt.
That is, until he picked up a hand axe and tried shaving with it, leaving a gash over an inch long on his face, shattering his assumptions.
"Damn it, what's with these weapons?!"
Feeling the sting, Luke immediately tested his pocket butterfly knife.
Assuming his powers had failed, he was stunned when the knife couldn't even scratch his finger.
Holding the hand axe that cut him, his expression grew serious. Gripping its handle, he swung it experimentally.
Though unaware he should hold it closer to the head for combat, he felt its quality.
Simple swings brought a rush of exhilaration, momentarily convincing him he was a cold-weapon master.
Snapping out of it, Luke eyed the pile of weapons, a chilling thought forming.
After several tests, he painfully admitted his superhuman durability was like paper before Bul-Kathos's creations.
"How is this possible?"
He stabbed his thigh with the butterfly knife, hearing its costly blade snap.
Only then did he believe it.
Ignoring the stacked gauntlets and shields, his attention was consumed by the razor-sharp weapons.
He didn't consider that armor could protect Pop.
After all, he shrugged off regular firearms.
After much deliberation, he chose the hand axe that first cut him—it suited his taste for violence.
…
"Mr. Bul-Kathos, I've chosen this."
Luke's awkward formal tone, likely picked up from some movie, didn't detract from his respect.
"What's your payment?"
Bul-Kathos didn't glance at Luke's choice, focused on forging, tapping a small hammer on an iron ring.
"If I can handle those troubles, I'll return it and work for you free for three months. My strength can at least handle some chores."
Luke's words pleased Bul-Kathos. Offering to return power showed he wasn't a greedy nuisance.
"Deal."
Bul-Kathos turned, meeting Luke's eyes.
He respected those of high character.
Not glancing at the ring on the anvil, he shoved it back into the furnace with tongs.
"Tell Pop if he needs anything, he can stay here a few days."
He waved Luke off, signaling him to leave.
The critical phase of forging Unity was approaching.
Imbuing legendary powers wasn't simple.
Each power, steeped in long tales, required meticulous work to infuse into gear.
Typically, jewelry forging was left to the gem artisan, Covetous Shen, whose deft hands were unmatched.
For Bul-Kathos, forging a ring meant hammering it into a unique shape.
Jill, though at a safe distance, sweated profusely from the furnace's heat.
Yet he strained to watch, eager for his practice weapon's birth.
He wondered why forging a weapon started with a ring.
…
"So you just came back?"
Nick Fury asked Melinda, standing before him.
"Sir, I've transferred to desk work. These missions aren't for a clerk."
Melinda stood ramrod straight, eyes forward, more soldier than agent.
"Fine, I'll assign someone else. Go back to your work."
Fury pinched his nose, looking pained.
Melinda exited, slamming the door without hesitation.
"Coulson, come here."
Before Coulson arrived, Fury heard Rumlow's voice.
"Director, may I come in?"
Fury was puzzled. Per Rumlow's medical report, he should still be in the hospital, with debriefing postponed until recovery.
"Come in, Rumlow."
Fury let him enter, curious about this unscheduled visit.
Rumlow struggled through the door. He'd surrendered the knuckle-duster and Spirit Stone upon return.
His presence here was sheer willpower.
Fury watched his labored movements, not offering help.
Charitably, it was respect for a colleague's resolve; realistically, it was keeping a safe distance.
"So, why are you here?"
Fury sat at his desk, clad in his black leather coat despite the heat, perhaps thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s stellar air conditioning.
Rumlow shivered; the cold was harsh for an injured man.
"I want to request use of those two pieces of gear until I recover."
His lung injury made speaking loudly difficult, his shoulder strapped in braces.
"You know the process. File a report, don't drag your injured self to my office."
Fury frowned, sensing a change in Rumlow since his return.
Though he seemed unchanged outwardly, Fury trusted his suspicions.
The king of agents' motto: nothing and no one was fully trustworthy.
Even his most trusted subordinates were merely lower on his suspicion list.
He never shared how he lost his eye, claiming it was the cost of trust.
Maybe it sounded cool?
Or the truth was too embarrassing, or that cat was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top secret, so he spun a tale.
But who cared, besides him?
(End of Chapter)
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