CHAPTER 115 — THE CITY THAT TURNS
Florida no longer looked like a city.
It looked like a verdict.
Morning came without warmth. Clouds hung low and heavy, pressing down on the skyline like a lid over a boiling pot. News screens flickered in shop windows and shattered bus stops, replaying the same footage on loop—streets swallowed by shadow, people frozen in terror, buildings collapsing into silence.
And always, at the center of it all, one name.
IRON FIST.
Silva stood on the rooftop of his mother's bookstore, watching crowds gather below. Not riots. Not protests.
Something worse.
Debate.
Fear.
Distrust.
The Iron Fist pulsed beneath his skin, weaker than it once was, but sharper—like a blade stripped of decoration. He felt the city watching him now, not as a savior, but as a question no one wanted to answer.
Lyra joined him quietly. "They're blaming you."
Silva nodded. "I know."
A man below pointed up at the roof. Another shouted something Silva couldn't hear, but the intent carried easily enough. Phones were raised. Faces twisted with suspicion.
"He fights monsters," someone yelled. "And monsters follow him!"
Lyra clenched her fists. "They don't understand."
Silva's voice was calm, but hollow. "They don't have to. Fear doesn't need understanding. It just needs a target."
Behind them, the door creaked open.
Silva's mother stepped onto the roof.
She looked smaller than he remembered. Tired. Her eyes held pride—but also fear she could no longer hide.
"I heard shouting," she said softly.
Silva turned, heart tightening. "You shouldn't be here."
She smiled faintly. "I run a bookstore in a dying city. I stopped listening to 'should' a long time ago."
She looked down at the crowd. At the name being shouted.
"They're afraid of you."
Silva swallowed. "I never wanted this."
She placed a hand on his arm. "No hero ever does."
For a moment, the Iron Fist reacted—not glowing, not flaring—listening. As if the ancient power itself recognized the truth in her words.
Then the scream came.
Not close.
Far.
But wrong.
Silva felt it tear through him like a blade. The Iron Fist flared instinctively, pain lancing up his arm.
Lyra stiffened. "That wasn't human."
Eroth appeared from the stairwell, his expression grim. "Jared has changed tactics."
The ground shook.
From the far end of the city, something massive rose—not a Nullborn, not shadow, but a fusion of both. Buildings bent toward it, gravity twisting unnaturally, streetlights snapping like brittle bones.
People ran.
Others didn't.
Some stood still, staring, as if the thing was whispering directly into their minds.
Silva stepped forward.
His mother grabbed his wrist. "Silva."
He looked at her.
"If you go," she said quietly, "they may never forgive you."
Silva met her gaze. "If I don't… they won't survive."
She nodded slowly.
"Then go," she said. "But remember what I told you."
He leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers.
"You were born to be a savior," she whispered. "Not a god."
Silva turned and leapt.
The Iron Fist carried him across rooftops, each landing precise, controlled. He felt the limitation constantly now—a governor on a roaring engine—but he welcomed it. It reminded him who he was.
He landed near the epicenter.
The creature loomed—towering, silent, its surface rippling like liquid night. Faces pressed against its form from the inside, screaming without sound.
Silva's stomach turned.
Jared's voice echoed from everywhere.
"Do you see them, Silva?"
Silva clenched his fists. "You're using people."
Jared laughed softly. "No. I'm using belief. They believe you bring destruction. And belief… manifests."
The creature moved.
Silva struck.
Not with rage.
With intent.
The Iron Fist connected, golden light ripping through the creature's outer shell. It recoiled—but did not fall. The backlash slammed into Silva, sending him skidding across the street.
Pain exploded through his arm.
Blood dripped onto the pavement.
Civilians watched from behind cars and broken walls.
"He's bleeding," someone whispered.
"He's not invincible," another said.
Silva forced himself up, breath ragged.
Good, he thought.
Let them see.
He attacked again—redirecting, disrupting, weakening the structure rather than destroying it outright. Each strike freed trapped civilians, ejecting them safely from the creature's mass.
But with every rescue, the thing grew more unstable.
Jared appeared at last, standing atop a streetlight, applauding slowly.
"Beautiful," he said. "You chose them over efficiency."
Silva glared. "You lose."
Jared tilted his head. "Do I?"
The creature began to collapse.
But not inward.
Outward.
A shockwave tore through the street.
Silva threw himself between it and the crowd, Iron Fist blazing brighter than it had since the limitation. The force slammed into him like a tidal wave.
The world went white.
For a moment, Silva felt nothing.
Then—
Hands pulled him back.
Voices shouting.
Lyra's face above him, streaked with tears.
"You did it," she said breathlessly. "You saved them."
Silva coughed, pain screaming through every nerve. He looked around.
The creature was gone.
The city still stood.
And the crowd…
They were watching him differently now.
Not with worship.
Not with fear.
But with something fragile.
Understanding.
Jared's voice echoed faintly, fading into the air.
"Round one, Iron Fist. Enjoy their faith while it lasts."
Silva closed his eyes.
The Iron Fist dimmed, steady and quiet.
This wasn't the end.
But it was the first time the city hadn't turned away from him.
And that terrified Jared more than any punch ever could.