Guns were simply too efficient.
And Ben liked the feeling of killing with a gun.
Sure, there were easier ways—huge quantities of explosives, homemade bombs, synthesized chemical charges. A few blasts could wipe out entire crews, numbers be damned.
But too often, alongside the gangsters were women and other people who were more or less innocent.
Ben couldn't cross that line.
He didn't want to become someone without limits. Besides, the Sorcerer Supreme—the Ancient One—still watched over Earth. If he truly turned into a bottomless Grim Reaper, who's to say that bald sorcerer wouldn't appear out of nowhere and erase him?
Ben knew he was dancing on the edge, flirting with death every minute.
He wasn't sure whether the Ancient One had noticed him yet, but he believed she probably had.
With his appearance, the louder the noise he made, the more he risked shifting the future timeline. Would a time-savvy sorcerer like the Ancient One miss that?
As for tracing the source? Ben didn't doubt she could—if she wanted. If she hadn't, maybe Dormammu's constant probing kept her occupied. Or maybe she was simply observing him.
So for now, while he was still weak, he'd behave. If he wanted to play with gods, he needed sky-father-level power first.
His current path was clear: kill those who had truly earned it. And when he grew further, hunt werewolves, vampires, demons—anything that threatened Earth.
While the future unfolded, it wouldn't hurt to leave a good first impression on the Ancient One.
He did intend to approach them eventually.
From both self-interest and strategy, establishing a relationship with Kamar-Taj—and the Ancient One—was wise. The safest, most stable pipeline for magical knowledge was Kamar-Taj. The Darkhold existed too, of course—but that came with terrifying debuffs.
Reading it, learning the black arts inside, could rot your soul—and draw the gaze of elder gods.
Not worth it.
Factoring all this in, Ben knew he should advance his next-phase plan.
At his current life level, unless an army boxed him in and rained missiles, his solo combat ability already ranked on the world stage.
As long as he didn't provoke someone like Professor X—
Ben wouldn't get cocky. Until he hit true apex, caution came first.
Execution would always drift from theory, but as long as he kept to the main line, he could ignore the incidental chaos. Reality was unpredictable by nature.
Meanwhile, Queens was locked down. Months of massacres had everyone on edge. The gangs weren't all idiots.
Herman Odea's Gunslingers had been one of Queens' most prominent crews. With them wiped out, other gangs would abandon the area. No one wanted Death knocking on their door.
With police pressure increasing, Ben planned to expand his hunting grounds.
He was tired of picking off small fry.
He could feel that a life or two barely moved the needle now.
His life level had climbed into the extraordinary.
In plain terms, he'd leveled up—mobs now gave tiny experience.
Quantity could still stack gains, but the efficiency was awful. He needed better targets: mutants, werewolves, vampires.
For now, he'd spend time polishing his newly strengthened physique—mastery first. Call it disciplined obsession, but it paid off.
"Sleep."
Evening drowsiness settled in. Ben stretched, washed the dishes, and headed to bed. Whatever storm his actions had stirred outside, it wasn't his concern tonight.
…
Hell's Kitchen was one of New York's most chaotic—and most "peaceful"—districts.
Chaotic because gangs were everywhere—arson, assault, murder, turf wars. Residents woke each day praying to avoid bad luck.
The police couldn't clean it up.
Entangled interests left NYPD unwilling—or unable—to crack down, creating an anomalous zone in New York.
And yet, there was peace. Because of one man.
Kingpin.
A ruler who commanded legions of thugs and gunmen, he controlled Hell's Kitchen—and much of New York's underworld. He maintained a kind of peace and enforced rules.
He understood the balance. Chaos could exist—but not enough to draw absolute government focus and NYPD wrath. If the city ever decided Hell's Kitchen produced only trash instead of profit, it would cut the rot out without mercy.
Kingpin's presence kept the gangs in line.
In a high-rise in Hell's Kitchen, on the top floor's vast, luxurious office, a massive, bald man—nearly six-foot-three, heavyset, in a gray-white suit—sat in a custom chair, paging through important documents.
A knock. The handle turned. A man stepped in.
"Got a job?"
He was a slightly weathered man with a bullseye tattooed on his forehead. Facing the terrifying figure behind the desk, his expression stayed cold—neither fearful nor deferential. An employee addressing his employer.
Because that's what they were.
"A butcher's been cutting through Queens," the big man said. "Take a look. I'm very interested, Bullseye." He smiled—a feral curl—and slid a dossier forward with a ring-laden hand.