CHAPTER 112 — THE WEIGHT OF GODS
The city did not sleep.
Even when the fires were extinguished and the wounded carried away, Florida breathed like a restless animal—sirens echoing in the distance, helicopters slicing through the clouds, shadows shifting where no light should move. Silva stood at the edge of a rooftop, rain beginning to fall, thin and cold, washing soot from broken concrete.
The Iron Fist pulsed beneath his skin.
Not violently.
Not eagerly.
It pulsed like a heartbeat that did not belong entirely to him anymore.
Lyra watched him from a few steps back, her coat pulled tight around her shoulders. "You've been standing there for hours," she said quietly. "If you keep letting the Iron Fist pull at you like this, it's going to hollow you out."
Silva didn't turn. His eyes were fixed on the city below—on the streets where people still whispered his name like a prayer and a warning combined.
"I can feel them," he said. "Every fear. Every regret. Jared didn't just wound the city… he branded it."
Lightning split the sky, briefly illuminating the skyline. For a moment, Silva saw something impossible—dark symbols etched faintly across rooftops and streets, like veins of shadow running beneath the city's skin.
Then they were gone.
Eroth emerged from the darkness behind them, his presence as quiet and heavy as ever. "You are beginning to see beyond the surface," he said. "That is both a gift and a curse."
Silva finally turned. "Tell me the truth. What is Jared really doing?"
Eroth's eyes hardened. "He is reshaping the battlefield. Not with armies. Not with weapons. With belief."
Lyra frowned. "Belief?"
"Yes," Eroth replied. "Fear, hope, despair—these are tools older than war. Jared is preparing the city to accept something far worse than him."
The Iron Fist flared suddenly, golden light rippling across Silva's arm. He clenched his jaw as pain shot through him—not physical, but emotional, crushing and intimate.
"Something is coming," Silva said. "I can feel it pressing against my thoughts."
Before Eroth could respond, the rain froze in midair.
Every droplet hung suspended, glittering faintly under the city lights.
Time… stuttered.
Lyra gasped. "Silva—"
The world folded inward.
And then Jared was standing there.
Not as a shadow. Not as a whisper.
As flesh.
He wore a dark coat, rain frozen around him like a crown of glass. His eyes glowed faintly red—not with rage, but amusement.
"Happy New Year," Jared said softly.
Silva's fists ignited instantly. "You're brave," he growled. "Showing yourself now."
Jared smiled. "Bravery has nothing to do with it. I came because you're finally ready to understand."
Eroth moved, hand reaching for something unseen—but Jared raised a finger, and Eroth froze mid-step, locked in time.
Lyra tried to scream. No sound came out.
Only Silva could move.
"Why?" Silva demanded. "Why all this suffering?"
Jared walked closer, boots crunching against frozen rain. "Because heroes lie to themselves. You think strength is about saving everyone. It's not." He leaned closer. "It's about choosing who deserves to be saved."
The Iron Fist roared, golden light blasting outward—but it struck an invisible wall inches from Jared's chest.
"Ah," Jared said. "There it is. The weapon that pretends to be a conscience."
Silva felt it then—the truth slipping into his thoughts like poison. The Iron Fist wasn't just power. It was a judgment engine. Every strike reshaped reality slightly. Every decision tilted the scales.
"You're turning me into a god," Silva said hoarsely.
Jared's smile widened. "No. I'm revealing that you already are one."
The rain shattered. Time snapped back into motion.
Lyra screamed. Eroth broke free.
And Jared vanished.
Silva collapsed to one knee, breathing hard, golden light flickering violently across his arms.
Eroth knelt beside him. "What did he show you?"
Silva swallowed. "The future… or one version of it."
Lyra grabbed his shoulders. "Say it."
Silva looked up, eyes haunted. "If I keep using the Iron Fist like this… the city will survive. But I won't be human anymore."
Silence fell between them, broken only by distant thunder.
That night, Silva didn't go home.
He went underground.
Deep beneath the city, past abandoned subway tunnels and forgotten storm drains, Eroth led them to a sealed chamber carved with ancient symbols—older than Florida, older than the country itself.
"This is where the Iron Fist was broken once before," Eroth said. "When its last bearer lost himself."
The walls whispered as Silva stepped inside. Memories not his own slammed into his mind—cities burning, crowds kneeling, fists glowing brighter than suns.
A voice echoed through the chamber.
"BEARER."
The Iron Fist flared blindingly.
Silva screamed as pain tore through his body—not tearing flesh, but identity. He saw himself standing above the city, alone, worshipped… feared.
"No," he gasped. "I won't become that."
The voice answered, cold and ancient.
"THEN YOU MUST LEARN LIMITATION."
The chamber shook. Stone cracked. Golden light collapsed inward, compressing around Silva's arm like a burning shackle.
When it ended, he lay on the floor, shaking.
The glow was weaker now. Controlled.
Eroth exhaled slowly. "You chose restraint. That choice may save you… or doom you."
Lyra helped Silva to his feet. "How do you feel?"
Silva looked at his hands. "Smaller," he said. "And somehow… stronger."
Above them, far beyond stone and steel, the city stirred.
And in the highest tower, Jared watched through a wall of living shadow.
"So," he murmured, eyes glowing. "You chose to limit yourself."
He smiled.
"Good. That will make breaking you so much more satisfying."
The shadows behind him began to move—forming shapes not seen before, things with too many limbs and too much hunger.
The war was no longer coming.
It had already begun.