Night had fully descended. Bul-Kathos and Gil sat at a plain wooden table, eating dinner. Gil sealed the milk bucket with cling wrap, storing the excess in the fridge. The bowl of boiled milk before him wafted a sweet, warm aroma, comforting just by its scent. Bul-Kathos, hands washed, broke hard black bread into pieces, placing them on Gil's plate. Another plate held a salad of onions, lettuce, cucumbers, and apple chunks.
"Soak the bread in the milk. It'll soften."
Bul-Kathos bit into a whole loaf, each crunch loud in the dim light. Gil dropped bread into his bowl and started on the salad, figuring the tough bread needed time to soften.
"Uncle, your craftsmanship is amazing. Why doesn't anyone come to buy?"
Gil poked at his salad with a fork, curious.
"This world faces no inescapable crises, so they don't value weapons. They think guns solve everything, ignoring cold steel."
Bul-Kathos chewed, expressionless.
"Maybe make fancy weapons as art? Rich folks love that."
Gil's suggestion didn't sway him. Crafting beautiful, functional gear was easy, but he disliked it. Ordinary weapons just needed to be sturdy and effective—not legendary showpieces.
"He doesn't need to sell to live, little Gil."
The Ancient One's voice emerged from a glowing portal as she stepped through.
"That's the magic milk, right?"
Her tone was certain, sensing the bowl's vibrant life force.
Bul-Kathos frowned at her.
"You've been fighting? Your body can't handle dark forces?"
She'd just "politely" dealt with an extradimensional intruder, traces of the Dark Dimension lingering.
"No big deal. My body doesn't limit my power."
Smiling, she sat naturally at the table.
"Your soul's barbarian-like, shielded by some force. But if you don't want your body dragging you down, get stronger."
His well-meaning words carried a barbarian's blunt urgency. By Earth standards, her body wasn't frail. A martial artist as well as Sorcerer Supreme, she hadn't used physical combat in ages. She thought her soul was protected by the Vishanti, unaware of the true guardian. In this timeline, diverged from the river of time, she considered his advice seriously.
"Given up on making me a barbarian?"
She smiled, ruffling Gil's hair.
"Up to you."
Bul-Kathos grabbed a bottle from a cabinet, flicking off the cap and drinking deeply, still pondering her situation.
"Got any disobedient apprentices? Send them to me."
His face stayed neutral.
"Hey, Daredevil, we've been running for half an hour. Where are we going?"
Luke Cage, hoodie up, axe hidden under his jacket, grumbled. Only the handle peeked out.
"Almost there. An abandoned factory—Hand's processing hub."
Daredevil, leaping rooftops with ease, benefited from superhuman senses and peak human agility. Hell's Kitchen's tightly packed buildings made it low-risk.
"Damn it, you said we'd end this tonight!"
Luke stopped, shouting up.
He knew little of the Hand's full strength. Since tangling with those ninjas, he'd been obsessed with a permanent fix.
"Friend, this is just step one."
Daredevil landed before him with a few deft leaps.
"I thought you had the Hand's details sorted."
Luke's hoodie revealed white teeth and rolling eyes. He felt trapped, teetering on a dangerous edge.
"Keep at it, and we'll take them down."
Daredevil moved forward, dodging lights.
"Follow, buddy."
"You should've been a lawyer. You'd bamboozle those pompous officials."
Luke cursed, trailing Daredevil's path. His dark skin was natural camouflage, but his loud grumbling fooled no one. They reached a desolate factory, surrounded by high walls and unlit.
"This place looks dead. When do those bitches you mentioned show up?"
Luke muttered. Daredevil caught the words but hesitated.
"Brother, slow down so I can keep up. Stay sharp, and our justice won't stop."
Daredevil's rhythm got thrown off by Luke's unique verbal flair.
(End of Chapter)
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