Chapter 30 – The Butcher’s Proclamation

The wreckage still smoldered, blood soaking into the asphalt. A graveyard of Marco Crusetti's ambition.

And at its center? Jack. One hand rested lazily on his staff, the other stretching toward Marco's head. Marco barely had time to breathe before—

BAM.

Jack slammed his skull against the twisted metal of his wrecked SUV. Marco gasped, his vision exploding in white-hot agony. His face scraped against broken glass, skin peeling. The metal groaned under the force of impact.

Jack's grin never wavered. "Listen, fuckface." His voice was light. Casual. Almost friendly. "I'll give you one chance. One—singular—chance to confess all the heinous shit you did."

Marco sobbed, blood dribbling from his lips. "I—I don't know what you're talking about!"

Jack laughed. A deep, rolling, unhinged laugh that bounced through the ruined street like a carnival of madness.

Then—he stopped. His expression turned deathly serious. Slowly, he reached toward Marco's left hand. Marco watched in horror as Jack's fingers gently wrapped around his index finger—like a farmer picking fruit. And then—he plucked.

CRACK. RIP.

"AGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Marco's screams tore through the night as blood gushed from where his finger used to be.

Jack tilted his head, his golden eyes gleaming. "C'mon now. I even gave you a hint! It rhymes with… hmm…"

He pretended to think, tapping his chin with Marco's severed finger. "What rhymes with 'human traffic'? Oh, wait—I know! 'You fucked up, you sick pathetic prick.'"

Marco's eyes widened in sheer terror. "N-No! It was all Madam Gao!" he wailed, grasping at straws. "She monopolized it! I—I never wanted to—"

CRACK.

Jack plucked another finger.

"AGHHHHHHHH!" Marco screamed louder, body convulsing in pain.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Jesus, man. You scream like a dying cat."

He tossed the second severed finger over his shoulder. "Lemme explain something to you, Marco."

Jack crouched, his bloodied robes pooling around him like a demon kneeling at the gates of Hell. His voice lowered, dripping with venom. "I already checked every single piece of information I have on you. You're fucking scum."

Marco sobbed, chest heaving.

Jack leaned in closer, his breath warm against Marco's ear. "You didn't just profit from Gao's monopoly… oh no, no, no…"

Jack giggled, his fingers dancing along Marco's trembling chest. "You found a loophole. You little worm. You forced victims to sell their own organs for cheap before shipping them off, then further sell their body for entertainment."

Marco's breath hitched.

Jack grinned wider. "And that?" His golden eyes burned. "That is something I will never forgive."

Marco tried to speak—but his words choked on his own terror.

Jack sighed dramatically. "Ahhh, don't worry. I won't just kill you outright."

He tapped Marco's chest, fingers moving with eerie precision. Marco's body seized. His organs clenched—one by one. His lungs, his stomach, his intestines—Each one began to collapse in on itself.

Slowly. Painfully. Marco twitched, mouth open in a silent scream.

Jack watched, fascinated. "I've always wondered—" he mused. "If you squeeze a person's liver hard enough, will they piss themselves before they die?"

Marco shook violently, his face contorted in agony. His veins bulged, sweat pouring from his brow. His bladder gave out.

Jack snickered. "Huh. Guess that answers that."

But before Jack could finish crushing the rest of him—Marco died. Just like that.

Jack clicked his tongue. "Fucking pussy. Couldn't even last all the way through."

He rose to his feet, shaking the blood off his hands. Then—he turned his gaze to the sky. A hollow smile spread across his lips. And then—he called.

Jack's voice rang out—soft, yet unshakable. "I don't know who's listening." The air around him grew thick—heavy. The world itself seemed to pause. Even the shadows stretched toward him, as if drawn by something ancient and unseen.

Jack tilted his head back, golden eyes shimmering. "But I know this much."

His grin widened, sharp as a blade. "Every single bastard involved in human trafficking? They're mine. Their souls? Mine. Their screams? Mine. And if—some divine reaper, some death god, some cosmic fucking judge—thinks they can claim these pieces of shit before I'm done?"

Jack chuckled darkly. And then—his expression turned stone cold. "Then I'll follow them into the afterlife myself."

The air around him trembled. A promise. A threat. A declaration. Jack sighed, rolling his shoulders.

The smell of blood thickened the air. The wind carried the metallic scent across the ruins of Crusetti's convoy, mixing with the acrid stench of burning rubber and shattered pride.

Jack exhaled, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. The blood smeared across his cheek, staining his long dark hair as if he had just stepped out of a crimson baptism.

He sighed. Then—he reached up and plucked a single strand of hair. Biting down, he split it into several thinner strands. And like smoke catching fire, clones burst into existence around him. Identical. Perfect. Sinister.

Jack stretched lazily. "Alright, boys. Clean the Crusetti territory."

The clones scattered, leaping across rooftops, diving into alleyways, blending into the shadows like phantoms unleashed upon the city.

Jack watched them go, then cracked his neck. This was just the beginning. Jack gripped his staff, Ruyi Jingu Bang, and twisted it once.

The small, deceptively thin rod responded instantly—stretching, growing, expanding until it towered like a monolithic pillar above the ruined street.

Jack hopped onto it, balancing effortlessly as it continued to extend. The sky was darkening now, the city lights flickering to life below him. And then—he moved.

Like an artist painting a masterpiece, he carved into the city itself. The staff traced a massive arc across the Crusetti territory, glowing golden as it dragged through the air.

With each sweep, an unseen force rippled outward, embedding into the very foundations of the streets, buildings, and alleys.

And then—Jack laughed. A low, guttural chuckle. Then, it grew—into something monstrous. Unhinged. An echo of lunacy that reverberated through the city like thunder.

"KEKEKEKEKEKE!"

His voice carried across the rooftops, shaking windows, vibrating through the bones of those who dared listen. And then—he snarled. His golden eyes gleamed. His voice—razor-sharp, dripping with venom.

"YOU MIGHT HAVE THE MEDIA. YOU MIGHT HAVE THE POLITICIANS. YOU MIGHT HAVE THE RATS WHISPERING IN THE DARK FOR YOU."

Jack grinned.

"BUT YOUR SINS WILL BE REVEALED."

And then—he growled, deep and guttural.

"Lust."

The golden circle surrounding the Crusetti territory flared to life, sealing it just like Volkov's. The barrier shimmered, pulsating with power, a silent declaration that this land no longer belonged to the weak-willed bastards who once claimed it.

Jack descended from his staff, landing smoothly onto the pavement below. 

The Crusetti men, those who were scattered around the territory, stood frozen. Their territory had been taken. Claimed. Devoured. Panic set in.

The men hesitated. Then—One of them turned, bolting toward the nearest exit. Then—stopped. Because—standing there, blocking the door, was Jack. Or rather—one of his clones.

They turned toward another street. Another exit. But there—was another Jack. And another. And another. Even above them, on the rooftop, more clones stood, watching. Eyes gleaming. Smiling. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

The main Jack exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders.

Then—he spoke. "Alright, here's how this works. If you surrender, my clones will tie you up nice and proper. Maybe you live. Maybe you get to see another sunrise."

He grinned wider. "If you resist, though?"

The staff twirled in his grip, glowing faintly. "Then I make sure you join Marco in whatever hellhole he's screaming in right now."

Silence.

Then—one by one, men started dropping their weapons. The first to kneel was grabbed by a clone and restrained instantly. Then another. And another. 

But some chose differently. A few desperate idiots went for their guns, knives, anything they could find.

Jack sighed. "Alright, then."

The clones moved. And the slaughter began.

As the clones handled the bloodshed, Jack yawned, stretching his arms. His eyes wandered over the ruined battlefield, then landed on an old Mexican man standing in front of a convenience store.

The man was gripping a broom, staring at Jack with wide, unblinking eyes. Jack tilted his head. Then—he smiled. "Hey, old man."

The Mexican store owner flinched.

Jack walked up casually, hands in his sleeves. "You got a mop or a broom?"

The old man was too shocked to question him. He simply, numbly, handed Jack the broom he had been holding.

Jack took it, nodding in appreciation. "Gracias, amigo."

And then—he began sweeping. Blood. Guts. Shattered bones. All cleaned up as if it was nothing more than spilled milk. Jack hummed to himself, then started singing softly.

"Wake me up inside~"

He spun on his heel, sweeping debris into a neat little pile.

"Call my name and save me from the daaaaark~"

Behind him—the last of the Crusetti men fell, either dead or tied up. His clones handled the cleanup.

Jack was just enjoying the song. With a smile on his bloodstained face, he kept sweeping, waiting for the next fun thing to happen.

And in the distance—the city of New York trembled. Because the storm known as Jack Hou had only just begun.

…

A dark room. Dimly lit by blue monitors flickering with classified information. Nick Fury stood at the center of it all, fingers steepled as he listened.

That voice. That damn voice. Echoing once again. Declaring another territory. Carving another piece of New York under his claim.

"Motherfucker giving me more work." Fury muttered, rubbing his temples.

He wasn't particularly invested in gang wars. But this? This wasn't normal. Territory shifts happened in the underworld all the time. Silent. Discreet. With backroom deals, betrayals, and blood spilled in the shadows.

This was like some mythological warlord announcing his conquests for the whole city to hear. Not just once. Twice.

Fury sighed, turning away from the monitors. He needed more intel. Who the hell was Jack Hou? And more importantly—what the fuck did he want?

…

The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Inside, students went about their usual routine. Training. Silly match. Gossiping about each other nonsense.

Then—That voice again. It rippled across the city like a declaration from the heavens. And once more—Jack Hou claimed another piece of New York.

At the cafeteria, Tenzin stiffened. He turned to Rogue, his expression uneasy. "Are you sure we're safe here?" he asked, voice carrying a slight tremble.

Rogue paused, caught off guard. Her eyes darted toward the other students, some murmuring amongst themselves, others shifting uncomfortably.

Then—she forced a smile. "Well... at least he ain't claimin' our school."

It was meant to be a joke. But Tenzin didn't laugh. And deep down—Rogue wasn't entirely sure if she meant it.

…

A conference room. Thick cigarette smoke hung in the air. The New York Mayor sat at the head of the long, polished table, surrounded by his advisors, legal teams, and—most notably—Wilson Fisk.

Fisk had remained quiet throughout the discussion. Until now. Until that voice echoed once again. Until Jack Hou declared another piece of New York his own. The tension in the room became suffocating. 

The Mayor, already on edge, slammed his fist onto the table. "How dare that lunatic claim my New York City?!" he bellowed.

Silence.

Then—a shift in atmosphere. A chill creeping up the Mayor's spine. He realized—too late—that he had misspoken. Because across the table, Wilson Fisk turned his head.

Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze—heavy. Suffocating.

The Mayor's rage fizzled out instantly. He swallowed thickly, throat dry. "I-I mean, your territory specifically, Mr. Fisk."

Fisk didn't blink. Didn't respond. Just stared. And in that moment—the Mayor remembered. Jack Hou wasn't the only monster in this city.

**A/N**

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**A/N**