Although the name Nikolai Kravinoff hadn’t rung an immediate bell yesterday, seeing the man’s grand display and his two sons at his side sparked a faint memory in Lee.
It was mainly because of those two sons—both would grow up to be fairly famous in the Marvel universe.
The elder son would eventually become the anti-hero known as Kraven the Hunter, while the younger would become the supervillain Chameleon.
Their common arch-nemesis was Spider-Man.
At the moment, however, the two brothers were nothing more than a pair of young kids accompanying their father to Alaska to get a taste of bear hunting.
“Seryozha,” the younger brother, Dimitri—the future Chameleon—muttered quietly to his big brother as he grew tired of walking through the forest.
“Look at that hunter’s kid.
His hair is bright green.
Do you think it turned out like that because he ate too much broccoli?” “Mikhail, it’s not nice to make fun of people,” Sergei replied, grabbing his brother’s hand to help Dimitri leap over a fallen log on the trail.
“Maybe he dyed it green on purpose so he could camouflage better in the forest.” Dimitri wasn’t convinced by his older brother’s gentle scolding.
“Camouflage?
His dad said he just had his fourth birthday!
He’s two years younger than me—how could he possibly be a real hunter?” The boy spoke his mind; the main reason he was mocking Broly was that Broly was only four.
Yet despite being only four years old, Broly stood nearly five feet tall, towering over the six-year-old Dimitri.
Knowing his little brother better than anyone, thirteen-year-old Sergei chuckled and ruffled Dimitri’s hair.
“Mikhail, maybe you should eat more fruits and vegetables when we get home.
You’re short because you’re such a picky eater.” Up ahead, Nikolai suddenly turned around and shouted at his two sons caught in the middle of the procession: “Hey!
Seryozha, Mikhail!
Stop blabbering and keep up with the group!” After shouting, Nikolai turned back toward Lee and Broly, who were leading the way.
A flicker of envy flashed in his eyes.
He was jealous of Lee for having such a sturdy son.
As a Russian-American, Nikolai Kravinoff ran a thriving business in New York, but his trade was far from legal.
Because of the nature of his work, he had to project an aura of ruthless strength at all times.
Only then would his rivals fear him and his subordinates obey him.
However, now in his fifties, he had to start considering the question of a successor to his “throne.” He had two sons.
Though both seemed decent enough, Nikolai always felt they lacked the aura of a true predator that he had possessed in his youth.
Perhaps it was because their mother was a scholar.
Compared to their father, Sergei and Dimitri seemed to carry an innate scholarly air.
In an ordinary household, a father might happily go with the flow and nurture his sons to become lawyers, doctors, or academics—respectable members of high society.
But Nikolai couldn’t afford to do that.
The underworld he inhabited operated on a single unwritten rule: advance or perish.
Those who retired from his business almost always ended up erased from existence entirely.
Therefore, at least one of his two sons had to inherit his empire.
Otherwise, the Kravinoff family would likely be wiped off the map sooner or later.
Even if his rivals spared them, his own lieutenant bosses would find ways to seize the wealth he left behind.
To groom his sons, Nikolai took them into the wild to hunt whenever he had the chance.
Through hunting, he wanted Sergei and Dimitri to grow stronger, braver, and tougher, carving out the instinct of an apex predator at the top of the food chain.
Over the years, Nikolai felt he had done a respectable job as a father and that his educational methods were on the right track.
While Dimitri was still too young to show much progress, his eldest son, Sergei, was gradually beginning to display the aura of a formidable survivor.
Yet this trip to Alaska to hunt bears had poured cold water over his modest pride.
He had just witnessed a prime example of the ultimate “child next door.” The hunting guide’s son was only four years old, yet he was built like a stone monument.
Carrying a backpack that probably weighed more than he did, the boy moved through the dense forest with light, effortless strides, without a single word of complaint or fatigue.
When they paused at noon for lunch, the kid ate an entire pot of meat stew all by himself without being picky in the slightest.
He even gobbled down vegetables like carrots and broccoli with evident relish.
Nikolai had seen one of his bodyguards offer Broly a can of soda.
After getting Lee’s permission, Broly took a tiny sip, only to immediately decide he disliked it.
The boy’s reasoning was that soda had nowhere near the nutritional value of moose blood, and tasted far worse than his dad’s meat broth.
When the bodyguard tried to tease him further, suggesting a friendly wrestling match, do you know what Little Broly said?
The boy looked the man dead in the eye and said in absolute seriousness: “You can’t even defeat a brown bear.
If you wrestle me, I might accidentally kill you.” Aside from Lee, everyone present assumed Little Broly was just putting on a big display of bravado.
Yet Nikolai noticed that the bodyguard—who rubbed his nose and walked away amid the chuckles of his comrades—had a flash of genuine terror in his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Broly, a four-year-old child, had actually terrified a hardened mercenary who prided himself on being a tough guy.
Nikolai was green with envy.
He even tried to subtly persuade Little Broly, asking if the boy wanted to take him as a godfather.
Little Broly, however, replied with solemn gravity: “First, I already have the best dad in the world, and I don’t need another one.
“Second, if you try to make me call you dad, my one and only real dad will be very unhappy.
And then you’ll be in big trouble.” Hearing the child’s words, the New York crime boss was about to make another joke, but a sudden, involuntary shiver ran down his spine.
Goosebumps erupted all over his skin, as if he had just been targeted by an unseen apex predator.
Turning around, he caught Lee looking straight at him.
The warning in the guide’s eyes was stark and undeniable.
Nikolai could swear that back in New York, no one except Kingpin himself would dare to direct such a threatening glare at him.
Yet here in the Alaskan wilderness, facing Lee’s gaze, Nikolai uncharacteristically backed down.
With a forced grin, he stood up and ambled away from Broly’s side.
Even though Lee was carrying nothing more than a cheap hunting rifle likely pieced together in some backwoods workshop, while Nikolai’s bodyguards were armed with automatic weapons, a sixth sense warned him: if a fight broke out, his entire crew might actually end up dead.
*Alaska is a weird place,* Nikolai thought to himself.
*Once I go back, I’m never coming back here to hunt bears.
Next time, I’ll take Sergei and Dimitri to Africa to hunt big lions instead.*