"Diamond Legs! Oh, you're Diamond Legs now?!"
In the private VIP room, gunshots overlapped with Hammerhead's heart-piercing screams.
Daniel only holstered his golden Desert Eagle after emptying the entire magazine, still feeling unsatisfied.
His memory wasn't the best, so he preferred settling grudges on the spot.
That arrogant, mocking look Hammerhead had shown earlier—Daniel hadn't forgotten a bit. A mere NPC dared to provoke a Fourth Calamity player? He was begging to die.
At this moment, Hammerhead's legs were a horrifying mess, covered in dense bullet holes. Blood soaked his pant legs into a dark brown and spread across the carpet in a glaring stain.
It was hard to imagine the inhuman torment he had endured in such a short span of time.
Hammerhead lay collapsed on the ground, eyes unfocused, muttering the same line again and again: "I'm Iron Head… not Diamond Legs… Iron Head… not Diamond Legs…"
Wesley, who had been pressed flat under the sofa the whole time, witnessed this gruesome carnage and felt his throat bob painfully.
Too brutal.
Wesley prided himself on years in the underworld—he had seen all kinds of scenes.
But this?
This he had never seen.
One man nearly wiping out the entire Maggia family, and playing with a famous mob boss like Hammerhead as if he were a toy—
This wasn't combat anymore.
This was one-sided slaughter.
Wesley had never believed in gods, but now he did. He silently prayed to every deity he could think of, begging them not to let this demon notice him.
Perhaps his prayers were heard.
Daniel didn't seem to notice him hiding in the corner. Dragging Hammerhead like a dead dog, he hauled the unconscious man out of the room.
Only after the footsteps faded did Wesley feel his heart start beating again.
"Hallelujah…"
He crossed himself shakily, crawled out from beneath the sofa on hands and knees, avoiding the carnage on the floor, and immediately dialed a number.
"What is it?"
A deep, oppressive voice came from the other end.
Wesley took a breath. "Mr. Fisk, something's happened. The Maggia family is gone. Hammerhead has been taken!"
"…Hm?"
For once, there was clear surprise in Kingpin's voice. "The Hand? The Russians?"
"No! Neither!"
Wesley's voice quivered. "It was a man I've never seen before. He wiped out the Maggia by himself—Hammerhead couldn't even fight back. According to what he said… he seems to be from the NYPD."
Kingpin: "?"
Since when was NYPD this terrifying?
Meanwhile, Daniel was dragging the unconscious Hammerhead through a dark alley.
As for the small fry who escaped in the room, he didn't bother. The guy wasn't a red-name target. Killing him wouldn't even grant rewards.
"System, why can't I use the map to fast-travel?"
Daniel complained inwardly. Dragging a grown man around was tedious.
[Map fast-travel cannot transport living beings, nor objects heavier than 10 kilograms.]
"Got it." Daniel glanced at Hammerhead's body. "I'll chop him up and bring ten kilos of meat."
[…]
Before the argument could continue—
A sharp whistle cut through the air!
A short, dark-red baton shot toward him like a viper, aiming straight at his wrist gripping Hammerhead!
Bang!
The gunshot echoed almost simultaneously.
Without even turning fully around, Daniel flicked his wrist. The golden Desert Eagle spat fire, and the bullet struck the baton mid-air, knocking it aside in a shower of sparks.
The weapon clattered onto the ground.
Daniel lifted his gaze toward the source of the attack.
Atop a tall streetlamp above the club entrance stood a shadowy figure.
The man was clad in tight dark-red leather, wearing a half-mask with two sharp horns. The lower edge of the mask revealed a jaw covered in stubble.
Against the dim yellow streetlight and the darkness behind him, he looked like a demon descended from the shadows—cold, dangerous, poised like a predatory creature.
It was none other than the dark guardian of Hell's Kitchen—Daredevil.
"Hand him over."
Daredevil's voice was low and hoarse. He pointed at Hammerhead lying by Daniel's feet.
Daniel grinned. "You say hand him over, and I should just hand him over? Wouldn't that make me look bad?"
Daredevil frowned beneath the mask. "He belongs in a courtroom. Not under your vigilante justice."
"Funny. I am NYPD." Daniel shrugged.
"No, you're not."
Daredevil rejected that instantly, his tone heavy. "A real police officer wouldn't smell like you do. I can smell the blood on you—thick and overwhelming."
God closes a door but leaves a back door open.
And Daredevil was clearly the man who walked through that back door.
Though blind, his other senses were sharpened beyond human limits.
He could hear heartbeats, even the flow of blood.
He could distinguish and memorize the natural scent of any individual.
And on Daniel—
The stench of blood was so thick it was practically tangible.
Not the smell from killing ten or twenty people.
More like hundreds.
Maybe thousands.
"How many people have you killed?" Daredevil couldn't stop himself from asking.
Daniel chuckled. "Do you remember how many pieces of bread you've eaten in your life?"
This casual, almost cheerful cruelty made Daredevil's breath hitch.
As a devout Catholic, he upheld a strict no-kill rule.
Daniel, who treated human life like weeds beneath his boots, was something entirely intolerable—blasphemous, depraved.
"Those are living human beings!" Daredevil's anger spiked.
Human lives?
Daniel let out a mocking laugh. "They're just data. They don't really die."
He paused, then casually lowered the gun toward Hammerhead.
"Like this!"
Bang!!
Under Daredevil's horrified stare, the Desert Eagle roared again. The bullet tore through Hammerhead's neck.
Hammerhead, whose iron head apparently did not extend to his throat, erupted in a fountain of blood as his carotid artery burst.
His body twitched once, then went still.
Daniel looked at the corpse, mildly disappointed. "Shame. If he were alive, I'd get more completion points. But dragging him around is annoying."
Daredevil froze atop the streetlamp.
He had killed a man—
Simply because it was inconvenient not to.
A chill like ice water raced down Daredevil's spine.