[FOR EVERY 100 POWERSTONES = 1 EXTRA CHAPTER]
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Within the sacred, sun-drenched chamber carved deep into the mountain, Indra's body lay in perfect stasis. But his mind, untethered from the physical world, had plunged into the deepest, most scarred recesses of his soul. He was not dreaming of his Uchiha life, of chakra and clans. He was John Pendragon again, and he was drowning.
The dream was not a memory; it was a reliving. He stood on the pristine, manicured lawn of the courthouse, the Indian sun beating down on his cheap, ill-fitting suit. The verdict had just been read. The gavel's crack was not a sound; it was the shattering of his universe.
"...given the lack of evidence and the questionable circumstances, the court finds the late Vidya Joyce-Pendragon primarily liable for the incident. The case against Mr. Aditya Singh is dismissed with prejudice."
The words were a physical blow. He saw the smug, triumphant face of Aditya Singh across the aisle. The young politician's son, his designer suit worth more than John's entire life, sauntered over, the scent of expensive cologne and unearned privilege clinging to him like a miasma.
"See, John?" Aditya's voice was a venomous whisper, meant only for him. A camera-friendly smile was plastered on his face for the press outside. "Your wife was 'innocent'. I was the one driving the car. Drunk off my ass, if you must know. The feeling of her body crumpling under the fender… it was almost poetic."
John tried to speak, to roar, to tear the man's throat out with his teeth, but he was paralyzed, a ghost in his own nightmare.
"Where is the proof, John?" Aditya leaned in, adjusting John's frayed collar with a mockery of tenderness. "See now? The criminal has become your wife. The woman who did nothing but walk home with her husband. And you… you are the widower of a negligent, drunken woman. How does it feel?"
He pulled back, his eyes gleaming with malevolent joy. "In this world, money and political power can do anything. I heard your wife was such a righteous advocate. If she was involved in a case, she would win. But see now? After her death, you, her husband, can't even get her justice." He leaned in one last time, his breath hot against John's ear. "So go home. Go and die silently. If you try to file another case, if you so much as whisper my name in public again… I will bury her name in so much filth, they'll dig up her body and throw it in a landfill for vagrants. Do you understand?"
The scene dissolved and reformed. He was in his small, silent apartment. The home that had once been filled with Vidya's laughter, the scent of her perfume, the stacks of legal briefs, was now a tomb. He stood before the hallway mirror. The man staring back was a stranger—disheveled hair, hollow eyes, a five-day stubble, clothes stained with tears and cheap whiskey. He was a ghost.
Aditya's words echoed in the silence, a hellish mantra. "Go and die silently… I will bury her name… Do you understand?"
But something in those hollow eyes in the mirror began to change. The grief, the bottomless despair, began to curdle. It solidified, compressed under the immense pressure of injustice, and transformed into something else: a cold, chilling, absolute killing intent. The eyes were no longer those of John Pendragon, the peaceful man. They were the eyes of An Phantom.
He moved with a purpose that was not his own, a muscle memory from a life he had tried to bury. He walked to the second floor, to a forgotten storage space, and pulled down a large, heavy, dust-covered travel case. It was not a normal suitcase. It was a matte black, military-grade Pelican case, made of reinforced polymer, with a complex electronic lock system that looked like it belonged on a nuclear warhead.
He pressed his right eye to a small, recessed scanner on the handle. A red laser scanned his retina. A soft beep. He then input a 24-digit alphanumeric code into the keypad. There was a series of heavy, metallic clunks as the internal bolts retracted. The seal broke with a hiss of equalizing pressure.
He opened the case.
Inside, nestled in custom-cut high-density foam, was an arsenal that would make a special forces commander weep. A suppressed HK417 sniper rifle, disassembled. A pair of custom Glock 34 pistols. Blocks of C-4, detonators, throwing knives of a strange, non-reflective alloy. In one corner, neatly folded, was a black combat uniform without any insignia. And nestled beside it, looking incongruously modern, was a smartphone. It was thick, ruggedized, with a satellite uplink port.
John picked up the phone. He pressed his thumb to the screen, then his eye again for a retinal scan. The device unlocked, displaying a stark, black interface with a single, pulsating red dot in the center. He opened the dialer and input a number he had sworn he would never call again.
His thumb hovered over the keypad. For a moment, the ghost of John Pendragon, the husband, the man who wanted peace, flickered. Then it was extinguished, He dialed.
He pressed call.
It rang once. He cut the call.
He called again. Two rings. Cut.
A third time. Three rings. Cut.
A fourth. Four rings. Cut.
A fifth and final time. Five rings. Cut.
It was a sequence. A code of resurrection.
Five seconds later, the phone in his hand vibrated, the screen flashing with an incoming call from an encrypted number. John answered.
The voice on the other end was male, strained, its throat dry with a mixture of fear and awe. "Code name Golden Lion, online, Sir."
The reverence in that single word, 'Sir', was palpable, a testament to the legend he was about to resurrect.
John's voice was flat, devoid of all emotion, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him. It was the voice of pure function. "Code name Black Dragon, online."
A pause, as if the man on the other end, Golden Lion, had stopped breathing.
"I want," John continued, his words precise and final, "the current, verified list of all underground world Crime Lords and A-to-Z tier corrupted politicians.
John's voice was devoid of emotion, a machine stating its requirements. "Global scope. Full dossiers, locations, security details. You have thirty minutes."
He ended the call.
The ripple effect was instantaneous and global.
In a secure bunker deep under the Alps, a Swiss intelligence analyst stared at a screen that had just lit up with a priority-one, crimson-level alert. "Mein Gott… 'Black Dragon' is Online."
In Langley, Virginia, the CIA director was pulled out of a budget meeting. Her aide whispered three words in her ear. The director's face lost all color. "Activate Cerberus Protocol. Now."
In a high-tech facility in Beijing, In a high-tech command center in Beijing, the alert triggered an automatic lockdown. The head of intelligence stared at the screen, a cold dread settling in his stomach. "Tā huíláile," he whispered. He's back.
In Moscow, a grizzled FSB general poured himself a large vodka. In New Delhi, the head of RAW received a call that made him drop his teacup.
In MI6 headquarters in London, in the DGSE in Paris, in Mossad's headquarters in Tel Aviv—across every powerful intelligence apparatus in the world—the same alert flashed. Code Name: Black Dragon. Status: Online.
The news reached the World Security Council within minutes. An emergency session was convened via secure holographic conference. The faces of the directors of the world's most powerful intelligence agencies flickered into view around a virtual table. The atmosphere was thick with a tension none of them had felt in years.
The Director of the Council, an elderly man named Arthur Stirling with a face like a weathered map, broke the silence. His voice was gravelly with concern. "Stella. Confirm it. Is he really back?"
All eyes turned to Stella Washington, the Director of the CIA. In her early forties, with sharp features and eyes that had seen too much, she was the council's foremost expert on their most volatile asset. She leaned forward, her expression grim.
"It's confirmed, Arthur. The authentication is flawless. It's him."
"But why?" asked the director of MI6. "He vanished. We thought he was dead, or finally done."
Stella's lips tightened into a thin line. She took a slow breath, as if steeling herself. "He went home. To India. He did what none of us thought was possible—he built a life. He forgot the agent, the killer. He became John Pendragon. He fell in love. Married a woman named Vidya. She was… good. A brilliant advocate. They were happy."
She paused, the memory of the dossier she'd read—filled with photos of a smiling John, so different from the phantom she knew—painting her face with a rare sadness.
"And then, recently… a fool. A mindless, drunken fool in a Porsche Macan Turbo EV, high on his father's power and immunity, hit them as they were walking home. Vidya was killed instantly. She was… she was pregnant. The child died with her."
A sharp intake of breath came from the Indian representative, a man named Shiva. His face paled, sweat beading on his forehead. This was his country. His jurisdiction. His failure.
Stella continued, her voice hardening. "The problem started after the funeral. Black Dragon… John… he followed the law. He filed a case in the Supreme Court. He believed in the system his wife had fought for."
She looked directly at Shiva's hologram, her gaze accusatory. "But the boy, Aditya, son of a powerful regional politician, bribed everyone. The advocates, the witnesses, even the judge. They turned the case on its head. They presented 'evidence' that Vidya was drunk, that she had stumbled into the path of the car. They absolved the killer and painted the victim as the criminal."
She gritted her teeth, the professional facade cracking to reveal raw fury. "And then, outside the court, that little bastard Aditya confronted John. He bragged about it. He told John he had gotten away with murdering his wife and child. He provoked him. He told him to 'go and die silently' or he would drag Vidya's name through the mud forever."
Stella leaned back, the picture of grim finality. "That was the push. That was what broke John Pendragon and resurrected the Black Dragon. He's not just back. He's back with a personal, burning mission. He just requested a global hit list. He's not going after Aditya. He's going to clean the entire board. He's declaring war on the very concept of corruption."
Shiva, who had been about to stand and leave to inform his government, slowly sank back into his chair. The color had drained completely from his face. The scale of the disaster was dawning on him.
Arthur Stirling, the Council Director, let out a long, slow breath. He didn't look at the others; his gaze was turned inward, towards a past filled with operations best left forgotten. "Help him," he said, his voice soft but firm.
The statement was met with stunned silence.
"Arthur, you can't be serious—" the Russian director began.
"I am deadly serious," Stirling interrupted, his eyes now sharp and clear. "We've been playing whack-a-mole with these corrupt syndicates and politicians for decades. We contain, we sanction, we occasionally eliminate. But the rot is systemic. We are gardeners pruning weeds. What we need… is a surgeon."
He looked around the virtual table, his gaze landing on each director in turn. "Black Dragon is that surgeon. The corrupted politicians, the crime lords… they are the gangrenous flesh. He is the scalpel. He will cut, and he will not stop until the infection is gone."
Shiva, looking shell-shocked, managed a weak, hysterical chuckle. "Does anyone have any wine? I need to drink something strong to cool my head."
A few nervous smiles flickered around the table.
Stirling allowed himself a small, grim smile. "Perhaps later, Shiva. The rest of you… you think you know what he is from files and debriefs. You don't. I worked with him. I saw what he could do. He is not an agent from your movies. He is a force of nature. A phantom. If he decides the moon is his target, he will find a way to pull it from the sky. He does not consider risk. He considers only the mission."
He folded his hands on the table. "So, I am not asking. I am informing the Council. We will provide him with any and all intelligence he requests. We will clear his path. We will be his unseen hand."
He looked at Stella. "Stella, you're the point of contact. Give the Dragon his list. And then… stand back."
Stella Washington nodded, a fierce light in her eyes. "Understood, sir."
Arthur Stirling's final words to the council were delivered with the weight of a prophecy. "I suggest all directors prepare their agencies. In three days, the world is going to get a lot quieter. And a great deal cleaner. The hunt has begun."
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[I have decided to start a brand new fanfiction. To involve you all in this fresh start, I will present three story options in a follow-up post. Please comment on which one you prefer.]
[Marvel X Harry potter crossover fanfic]
[I can summon heroes and villain's from Anime's and Movies]
[In marvel I create an Powerful Hero Organization With Mod game]
[THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT PLEASE SUPPORT MY FANFIC WITH YOUR POWER STONE'S AND REVIEW'S]