Chapter 18 – "I’m Not Exactly Skilled, But My Blood Pressure’s Not Low"

"Keep drawing it!"

"This... this body is huge, 800 ml isn't enough! At least a liter and a half!"

Aron sat on a container, cold as a heartless surgeon.

He was giving orders to a group of criminals who, at his command, were drawing blood from the unconscious Kingpin.

For a body like that, he brought a special needle.

A veterinary one.

The kind used on farms for pig injections.

Blood gushed through thick tubes, filling bottles.

"What can I say... maybe you don't know how to fight, but your blood pressure's not bad."

Aron watched coldly, more like a factory supervisor than a hero.

He was a capitalist of blood.

But that wasn't all.

Not only did the wounded have to give blood.

No, they had to work too.

"Come on, survivors, organize the ceremony."

"Over there, by the wall."

"Exactly by the instructions. A mistake in the symbols?"

"Next time, you're the sacrifice."

He looked at them with half-empty eyes, full of quiet threat.

A group of terrified mobsters, used to killing and arms deals, now shook as they drew occult symbols on the warehouse floor in chalk and blood.

"Did you hear what he said? If we mess up, sacrifice!"

"Fuck… bro, this isn't normal crime. This is some crazy cult scene!"

"He really is what you think. A fanatic. A cultist. A psycho."

The warehouse was turning into something else.

Blood. Circles. Runic symbols. Latin chants. Singing in languages they didn't understand.

—

In one dark corner, Daredevil watched everything from the warehouse door.

Step by step, he backed away.

In his pocket, he gripped his phone.

His hand trembled between "call" and "cancel."

In the end... he didn't press anything.

Because he knew.

Police?

No chance.

Considering what he'd seen... not even a SWAT team would stand a chance.

Unless he could call the Avengers, nothing would help.

"And…," he mumbled to himself, "...I'm technically his accomplice, right?"

He put the phone away. Just shook his head.

---

Meanwhile, across New York...

Panic was rising.

Strange cracks were appearing on the streets.

Asphalt cracked, heat surged from below, the air filled with a sulfurous stench.

The police were the first to arrive. They found nothing useful.

Only an abyss, as if the earth led straight to hell.

Then the serious ones arrived.

SHIELD.

Agent Grant Ward came first, followed by the science duo, Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons.

"Instruments are reading strong energy oscillations. Gamma radiation is off the charts," said Fitz, scanning the fissure.

"Conclusion?" asked Ward.

"No way this is natural. Someone or something created this crack."

Ward pressed his communicator.

"Sir... did you hear me?"

On the other end of the communicator, a response came immediately:

"I'm on my way."

Just a moment later, a bald man in a black suit arrived at the scene, Agent Phil Coulson.

The same SHIELD agent who was supposedly killed during the Battle of New York by Loki's scepter.

But now he was here.

"Have you discovered what caused this crack?" he asked, walking among the damaged asphalt and fiery smoke.

"No. The energy source... it's not here. It's on the other side," Fitz replied.

"The other side?" Coulson turned, looked at them directly. "Do you think this is like a portal from the Battle of New York?"

Fitz and Simmons looked at each other, then nodded. "Yes. Only much deeper. And much... more hellish."

Coulson's face darkened.

"Everyone, evacuate the location immediately! Get me the Avenge..."

Boom!

He didn't finish.

The ground shook.

The crack spread and with a roar of lava, fire erupted into the sky.

The air filled with sulfur, the sound of burning metal, and then... a hand.

A massive, red, demonic hand grabbed the edge of the chasm, dug its fingers into the concrete, and began pulling itself up.

Then… laughter.

Rough, menacing.

Nastir.

The first demon captain of Hell to set foot in the world of the living.

His figure, as tall as a residential building, rose above the ruins.

Metal sizzled. Glass shattered. The earth trembled under his weight.

"A hundred years… I'm finally back."

He looked down at the small, frozen figures beneath him, the people. The police. The agents.

"Weak. Fragile."

He swung his arm and burned the entire facade of a nearby building.

Then raised his eyes to the sky.

"In my name... Begin!"

Demons.

Hundreds of them, thousands, poured from the portal.

Like swarms of locusts, winged, monstrous creatures with claws, blades, scorched fur, blood in their eyes.

They fell on the city.

"MORDO!"

"MORDO!!"

The demons screamed the name of the one they believed had summoned them.

—

Kamar-Taj.

Mordo was training. His palms sweaty. His body in rhythm with his breathing.

He sneezed.

For the third time that day.

He paused. Looked up at the sky.

"I can't possibly be catching a cold..."

He pondered. It didn't make sense.

But something… something was wrong.

—

Somewhere in Brooklyn.

Meanwhile, Aron sat on a concrete box, watching the summoning ritual completed with the blood of the criminals he had just defeated.

The warehouse looked like it had been redecorated by the devil himself.

Bloody symbols, demonic runes, the stench of sacrifice.

Walls like flesh, floor like a slaughterhouse.

Kingpin, still pale and exhausted, looked at him.

"Sir... I think... we've done everything you asked."

His voice trembled. He was broken, physically and mentally.

But Aron just smiled.

"Finished? Of course. And now... I have a proposal."

He approached Kingpin, patted him on the cheek.

"Considering how dangerous this is for your health… How about you pay for protection? Monthly. So I don't have to drop by again."

Kingpin just nodded.

His eyes were full of horror.

He no longer saw a young man.

He was staring at a pureblood demon in human form.