“I knew it.
There’s always someone who thinks they can challenge the authority of a god.” A dagger plunged through a man’s chest, and blood sprayed like a fountain, dripping steadily onto the cold concrete.
In a flash of golden light, the man’s form flickered and twisted, transforming into the exact likeness of the Trickster Prince himself.
Underneath the gold-horned helm, Loki wore a look of utter contempt, as if the life he had just snuffed out were nothing more than an ant crushed beneath a boot.
With a sharp tug, he withdrew the blood-slicked blade, sending another spray of crimson across the night air.
“He’s a monster!
A monster!” The surrounding thugs, usually loud and aggressive in their pursuit of crime, stared in frozen horror.
The bravado that had fueled their criminal lifestyle evaporated, replaced by a primal, shaking terror.
They scrambled, turning their weapons toward the figure, desperate to vent their fear through a hail of gunfire.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
The thunder of weapons filled the air, but the bullets struck nothing but illusions.
Many of the projectiles passed through the decoys, finding purchase instead in the chests and limbs of their own comrades.
“Damn it!
Where the hell did this devil come from?” Bullseye, however, was far from panicked, though his composure was fraying.
As one of the world’s deadliest assassins, he knew exactly how a gunfight ended.
Facing a hundred men armed with automatic weapons, he would usually be forced into a defensive, lethal dance.
Yet, this man who called himself a god moved with a ghostly, effortless grace, reaping his subordinates like wheat in a field.
Seeing his side’s numbers dwindle and the remaining men nearing a total psychological collapse, Bullseye vaulted onto a shipping container.
He gripped his throwing knives, eyes scanning the chaos from above, trying to distinguish the real Loki from the shadows.
“Where are you?
Show yourself!” He leaped across the containers, a predator hunting in the dark.
Suddenly, he spotted a suspect: a stocky white man, dressed in heavy clothes, holding not a modern firearm, but two archaic-looking daggers strapped to his waist—weapons that didn’t fit the scene.
Bullseye’s keen eyes traced the intricate golden patterns etched into the blades.
“Found you!” Without a second of hesitation, Bullseye flicked his wrist.
The knife whistled through the air.
Thwack.
The metal sank deep into flesh.
The man clutched his throat, his eyes bulging as he collapsed to his knees, his pupils dilating as he stared into the void, a look of profound disbelief frozen on his pale face.
Bullseye realized with a surge of fury that the man hadn’t vanished upon death.
He had killed an innocent thug.
“A fake!
It was another fake!” He leaped again, agile as a leopard, and continued his search, his anger mounting.
The surrounding goons watched him with suspicion.
The constant illusions had them on edge, terrified that the person standing next to them might suddenly plunge a knife into their back.
Seeing Bullseye kill one of their own while acting completely oblivious only added to their mania.
“He…
he killed Quell!
He’s the monster!” Someone in the crowd screamed.
Instinctively, the thugs turned their weapons on their own commander.
“Damn it, are you all insane?” Bullseye roared, his eyes wild with rage.
Before he could react, a ghostly blue light washed over him, and he suddenly transformed into the image of Loki.
To the men below, it looked as if he had been exposed.
Oh, you bastard!
Bullseye realized in an instant what was happening: the god was using the gang to do his dirty work.
“It really is him!
Kill him!
Tear that piece of trash apart!” Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Bullets rained down, sparks flying as they hammered into the containers.
Bullseye dived, his reflexes saving him from being turned into Swiss cheese.
He leaped off the container just as the barrage pulverized the metal where he had stood a second before.
“Split into four teams!
Surround him!” “Damn it, stop!
I am—” Bullseye tried to explain, but his voice was cut off by the commanding roar of another voice—a voice identical to his own.
That tone…
that is my own voice.
He’s turned everyone against me!
Bullseye felt as if he were losing his mind.
The god’s illusions were playing him like a fiddle.
If he stayed, he would be forced to slaughter his own men to survive.
Was that what the god wanted?
Before he could decide, men were closing in, their muzzles leveled at his head.
“Die!
Die!” Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
The roar of gunfire drowned out his thoughts.
Bullseye closed his eyes for a split second, a cold resolution settling in his heart.
If I want to live, I have to kill Fisk’s men.
So be it.
“Looks like I won’t be working for the Kingpin after this,” he muttered.
Opening his eyes, Bullseye radiated a murderous intent.
He lunged upward, dodging the wall of lead, his hands blurring as he threw knives in a graceful, lethal arc.
The shooters fell one by one, throats and hearts pierced.
Loki, still hiding in the shadows and masquerading as Bullseye to direct the chaos, watched with a cruel smile.
“He’s hiding in the corridor of shipping containers.
Five men per side—seal both exits!
The rest of you, suppress him with fire!
Do not let him draw breath!” The remaining gunners, finally having a leader, moved with newfound discipline.
Bullseye, cornered, cursed Loki’s lineage.
If he were trapped, he was a dead man.
His only hope was to scale the containers again, but that would make him a wide-open target.
A gamble, or a shallow grave?
He didn’t hesitate.
He dived, sprinted, and launched himself onto the edge of a container.
“He’s on top!
Fire!
Fire!” Bullets ripped through the night.
Bullseye felt a sharp pain as a slug tore through his shoulder, but he had dodged the worst of it.
He dropped into a roll, gasping for air as he threw more blades, silencing another squad of goons.
I need to finish this fast.
The blood loss will slow me down, he thought, his chest heaving as he hid behind a concrete pillar.
Just then, a cry of pain erupted from the crowd.
Bullseye glanced up to see a dark, agile figure moving like a jungle cat, wielding a pair of short sticks and weaving through the thugs with impossible grace.
Daredevil?
Bullseye’s emotions were a tangled mess.
He had come to this port specifically to ambush the vigilante, yet here he was, being saved by his prey.
If they teamed up, these hundred thugs wouldn’t last a minute.
Daredevil sensed the presence of his old foe.
He had come here to stop a shipment, not expecting a war, but he was a man of justice—he couldn’t stand by while men were slaughtered.
Yet, as he listened to the rhythm of the throwing knives, his brow furrowed.
That technique…
is that Bullseye?
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