As the weather grew warmer, a cargo ship slowly docked at the port of Manhattan, carrying a standard forty-foot container with a load capacity of 26,500 kilograms. The moment the ship moored, N'Jadaka jumped off eagerly—after so long at sea, he missed solid ground terribly. Due to the sensitive nature of the cargo, he didn't join the sailors for drinks or women at the dockside bars. He had to guard the shipment at all times. After all, he was also considered part of the cargo.
Two expressionless men accompanied him. One bore a scar running from his throat to his brow, slicing his pale eye clean in half; the other had short hair, a cold expression, and frequently polished his sidearm. N'Jadaka knew they were there to watch him, though he had no idea what their true objective was. The only instruction from the Undying City was to travel to New York—more orders would come later.
The journey, however, hadn't been without incident. Beyond run-ins with coast guard patrols cracking down on smuggling, several grisly murders had occurred on board. One involved the cook, found dead in his own pot—his head boiled beyond recognition. Another time, a sailor pulled a severed arm from the ocean while fishing; the tattoo confirmed it belonged to the first mate. They later found the rest of the mate dismembered in the bathroom—his head was missing. Thankfully, the captain was a seasoned smuggler and managed to complete the voyage. Any other skipper likely would've abandoned ship.
N'Jadaka quickly realized there was more to this mission. When he discovered all the victims had unidentifiable lower lips, he immediately suspected the mission had something to do with Wakanda. Later directives confirmed his hunch. He also occasionally overheard the two men watching him mutter a cryptic word in Old Latin—it meant "Shadow of the Sovereign." But whenever he tried to confront them, they feigned ignorance.
Regardless, N'Jadaka was more than happy to take this job.
Whatever the bosses of the Undying City were planning, this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. He didn't mind being used—he believed he could outplay them all. Had he known that the so-called "Shadow of the Sovereign" referred to assassins altered and brainwashed through both magic and science, he might've realized the Undying City never truly trusted him. His life was always just one flick of a wristblade away from ending (not to mention the toxin-dart pistol [1] or the bone-shattering claw ring [2]). These assassins had even participated in assaults on CIA headquarters at Langley—walking through one of the most secure buildings in the U.S. as if it were empty. A single assassin would be enough to eliminate N'Jadaka before he could ever betray them.
But N'Jadaka could never know this. If the Undying City chose to keep something secret, no one could uncover it.
Not even the Wakandan agents aboard the ship.
The heavy weaponry inside the container had been modified by the Undying City. It could go toe-to-toe with the National Guard if deployed in New York City—but only if N'Jadaka completed his mission. He came ashore alongside the weapons. Awaiting him wasn't just anyone—it was Wilson Fisk. Now Solomon's partner, Fisk had arranged for the unloading and inland transport of the cargo. In return, he would receive one-tenth of the small arms shipment. That mere tenth still marked the single largest gun deal in New York black market history.
Fisk had no reason to refuse such a lucrative deal and no desire to touch the rest of the shipment. Black-market handguns were one thing—but high-caliber war-grade weapons capable of leveling buildings and toppling governments were another. If he ever put them to use, not even the political shields he bought with bribes could keep him safe.
Such actions lay far outside what the government was willing to ignore—those kinds of deals got people killed, even men like him.
"Come with us. We'll take you to the safehouse." A man with a tattooed scalp approached N'Jadaka. The mercenary heard the roar of car engines and spotted a bulky figure climbing into a black vehicle behind the man. N'Jadaka had already received information about his contact; it was no surprise Wilson Fisk wasn't greeting him personally—he'd already seen the cargo off and would soon receive his share.
No contracts. No oversight. Solomon's name and authority were guarantee enough. Fisk would handle delivery to the Undying City's warehouse and had to ensure the cargo made it past the masked vigilantes of Hell's Kitchen. Only then would he qualify for the next deal. To that end, he'd deployed every armed man under his command. Despite having only met Solomon once, Fisk found him more terrifying than the most ruthless gangster. In Solomon's presence, he reverted to the timid fat kid who couldn't protect his mother from his abusive father.
Everything was still brewing. And amid the whirlwind, Solomon carved out time for one solemn task.
Unannounced, he walked into a small house on the outskirts of London, holding a bouquet of flowers. He had visited this place many times before and knew exactly who lived there. This time, he came not for the Undying City, Kamar-Taj, or himself—but simply to say goodbye.
Peggy Carter had fewer and fewer moments of lucidity. Solomon had to use magic to gently rouse her from unconsciousness. Medical machines stood around the bed, and the attending staff told him her condition was highly unstable—his visit had to be short. After completing the necessary protocols, Peggy Carter had the room cleared.
"White roses," she said, watching him place the bouquet in the vase. "How much time do I have left?"
"Do I look like a harbinger of death?"
"You're wearing mourning robes," Peggy's breath was as thin as paper. "I've seen you before—back in 1943. But you didn't use this name. Wherever you appeared, death followed. And now you're here. I must be close. Some questions that have haunted me all my life deserve answers. Who exactly are you, Solomon Damonet? How old are you? What's your connection to Dottie—the first Black Widow?"
"I believe the man you knew was me, but I have no memory of what happened," the spellcaster replied, settling into the chair beside her bed. "That was likely the result of a temporal loop. Still, let's leave a little mystery—don't tell me more than I need to know. Where is Steve Rogers? You know who I mean, Agent Carter. He's the other reason I'm here."
[1] Toxin-Dart Pistol: As the name suggests, it fires poison-tipped darts propelled by compressed gas. The wounds are nearly invisible to the naked eye, and the venom is potent enough to kill instantly. However, the weapon has a range of only ten meters and such precise kill conditions that users must undergo extensive physical modifications to accurately target vital areas.
[2] Bone-Shatter Ring: A magical-tech weapon embedded in an assassin's fingertips. When the razor-sharp nail blade pierces the target, mystical circuitry engraved on the blade activates a brutal curse, causing the bones near the wound to spiral clockwise and shatter violently. This experimental weapon isn't even officially documented and hasn't seen large-scale deployment. But due to the gruesome nature of its effects, assassins often use it to spread fear and achieve their objectives.
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