Deep in Hell’s Kitchen, beneath an abandoned slaughterhouse.
The air inside the ventilation shafts was thick with the stench of cigars, sweat, and copper rust.
Matt Murdock crouched behind a ventilation grille, his dark red suit almost invisible in the shadows.
He kept his eyes closed.
Yet everything inside the illegal casino was clearly “drawn” within his mind.
Twenty-three heartbeats.
The crisp clinking of casino chips.
The friction of the spinning roulette wheel.
And at the very back, behind a thick steel door, the ink-scented smell of stacked paper bills.
There was also…
Gravity.
“Like transparent threads…” Matt murmured silently, his hand lightly cupped.
He could feel invisible “threads of weight” wrapped around every gambling table, every chair, and every single person.
It was time.
He spread the five fingers of his right hand, aiming directly at the massive crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the casino floor.
With a slight shift of intent—
The chandelier’s original weight was instantly amplified tenfold!
*CRACK—BOOM!!!*
The retaining bolts snapped apart, and the chandelier crashed down with a deafening roar!
Crystal shards exploded in every direction, gambling tables flipped over, and terrified screams tore through the air.
“What happened?!”
“Enemy attack!”
The mobsters instinctively drew their guns, but Matt had already moved.
He leapt down from the vent, landing without a sound.
Four gunmen opened fire simultaneously, bullets whistling through the air.
Matt didn’t dodge.
He simply raised his left hand, palm facing outward.
*Gravity Control: Localized Weightlessness.*
Half a meter before reaching him, the incoming bullets suddenly seemed to plunge into transparent glue.
Their speed plummeted until they floated eerily in mid-air, slowly spinning.
Total silence fell over the room.
“M-Monster…”
A thug retreated in sheer terror.
Matt moved.
His body shot forward like an arrow.
Using his blind cane to pivot off the ground, he kicked off the edge of the weightless zone, boosting his speed even further.
He charged into the crowd, his fists and kicks kicking up gusts of wind.
Yet every blow he delivered was infused with “gravity multiplication.”
A single punch struck a thug’s abdomen.
*Pfft!* The man’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he felt like he had been rammed by a semi-truck.
He flew backward, shattering the roulette table behind him.
A sweep kick slammed into a mob captain’s lower leg.
*CRACK!*
The sharp sound of bone snapping echoed out.
The captain shrieked and collapsed to the floor, as though three hundred kilograms of lead had suddenly been chained to his calf.
Five seconds.
Five men were down, unable to crawl back up.
“Fire!
Open fire!”
The casino manager bellowed from behind the bar counter.
More gunmen poured out, pouring a hail of bullets toward Matt.
Matt’s expression turned cold.
He pushed both hands forward simultaneously, his mental energy surging!
*Gravity Control: Tenfold Pressure!*
*BOOM—!*
The bar counter, along with the manager hiding behind it, was suddenly struck by an invisible, colossal force!
Wood splinters flew as the manager was slammed flat against the floor, blood spraying from his mouth and nose, his firearm twisted into scrap metal.
The remaining gunmen froze in sheer horror.
Matt walked slowly through the suspended hail of bullets, stopping in front of the manager.
“Vault keycard.
Password.”
Trembling, the manager pulled out a keycard and blurted out six digits.
The vault door slid open slowly.
Stacks of hundred-dollar bills were piled like a mountain, glinting with a cold, greenish hue under the emergency lighting.
The accountant who opened the door shrank into a corner, his face pale as death.
Matt ripped a black hiking backpack off the wall and began packing the cash inside.
One stack, two stacks…
His movements were precise, like a lawyer organizing evidence in court.
He counted out thirteen million dollars, filling the backpack to the brim.
Then he stopped, turning his gaze toward the remaining mountain of cash.
This money was stained with the blood of drug trade, the despair of gamblers, and the tears of desperate women forced into prostitution.
He turned around, pulling two cans of gasoline from a fire safety cabinet.
“W-What are you doing?” the accountant stuttered.
Matt didn’t answer.
He unscrewed the caps and poured the gasoline directly over the mountain of bills.
A pungent odor filled the vault.
A flick of a lighter.
The flame caught the fuel.
*WOOSH—!*
Flames instantly erupted, swallowing the entire mountain of money.
A wave of heat washed over Matt, casting an orange-red reflection across his mask.
He stood before the inferno, remaining silent for three seconds.
“Tell Kingpin,” he spoke, his voice slightly distorted through the mask, “this is just the beginning.”
With that, he heaved the heavy backpack filled with cash onto his shoulders, turned, and walked away.
Behind him, the blazing fire burned the byproduct of evil down to ash.
…
At eleven-thirty at night, Dragon Pavilion.
Jessica finished mopping the floor and wiped down the last table.
“Boss, I’m heading out!”
She waved and pushed open the door to leave.
The bell chimed softly.
Shaun was auditing the accounts behind the counter, without even looking up.
“Cash or transfer?”
Matt Murdock pushed open the door and stepped inside, having changed back into his dark suit and sunglasses.
He set the heavy hiking backpack onto the counter.
“Thirteen million.
Principal and interest.”
Shaun unzipped the bag, revealing stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside.
He casually pulled out a stack to inspect it; it was genuine.
“Casino money?” Shaun raised an eyebrow.
“You certainly didn’t hold back.”
Through the Mirror-Mirror Fruit’s ability, he had used the lenses of Matt’s mask to watch every moment of the raid on the casino.
“I burned the rest,” Matt said flatly.
Shaun smiled.
He pulled out the loan contract from a drawer and, right in front of Matt, set it ablaze with a lighter.
The paper curled into black ash, falling into the ashtray.
“Debt cleared,” Shaun said.
“By the way, how does using the ability feel?”
Matt paused briefly.
“Like plucking invisible strings.
The heavier the object, the tighter the string…
but the more tangible it feels to manipulate.”
“Understood,” Shaun nodded.
“Gravity is a power with an extremely high ceiling.
Develop it well.”
Matt gave a subtle nod, turned, and took his leave.
The glass door closed.
Shaun closed his eyes as the system light panel unfolded in his mind:
[Ding!
Press-Press Fruit Sync Rate Updated: 0.3% → 5%]
[Ability Branch Progress: Gravity Control (Proficient), Localized Weightlessness (Unlocked 3%), Gravity Field Generation (Locked)]
[Notice: Sync target “Matt Murdock” completed initial combat.
Ability adaptation rating: A (Protagonist-level Talent).]
[Worldline Fluctuation Rate slightly increased: 43% → 44%]
The corners of Shaun’s mouth turned up.
“Protagonist-level talent…
Sure enough, these ‘core figures’ of the Marvel universe develop Devil Fruits at an absurd speed.”
He looked down at the bag of cash.
Illicit money?
Didn’t matter.
Tomorrow he would pay Tony a visit and have Jarvis run it through a few legal procedures.
The money could then be legitimately deposited into a Swiss bank account.
What he cared about more was Matt’s growth rate.
“Perhaps…
I should actively seek out more of these ‘high-quality clients.'”
…
In a penthouse in Manhattan, the bright, glittering night view of New York stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
A snow-white tablecloth covered the long dining table, where silver cutlery reflected a cold sheen.
Kingpin, Wilson Fisk, dressed in a tailored silk robe, was leisurely cutting a medium-rare ribeye steak.
His movements were elegant, forming a bizarre contrast with his massive frame—standing over two meters tall and weighing nearly two hundred kilograms.
Bullseye stood to the side, a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his right eye, his face deathly pale.
A henchman stood trembling as he delivered his report:
“…Combining liquid cash, equipment, and projected revenue loss, the total damage is estimated at over one hundred million dollars.
Daredevil also…
burned the remaining cash.”
Fisk chewed the last piece of steak and wiped the corners of his mouth smoothly with a napkin.
There was no explosion of fury.
In fact, there was no change in his expression at all.
Bullseye couldn’t contain himself any longer.
“Boss!
Let me take a team and crush him!
And that bastard who runs the Chinese restaurant!”
Fisk raised a hand.
Bullseye instantly and sensibly shut his mouth.
“Burning money…
wasn’t for personal gain.
Interesting.
This blind man has found a new set of principles, or rather…
a new source of power.”
Fisk looked over at Bullseye.
“You said yesterday that he was critically injured and near death, saved by that Chinese restaurant owner?”
“Yes!”
Bullseye gritted his teeth.
“That man uses sorcery!
A wave of his hand summons a freezing mist, and he caught my throwing knives with his bare hands!”
Fisk offered no comment.
He turned to his butler.
“Bring me that menu.”
The butler quickly presented a menu—the very one brought back from Dragon Pavilion.
Fisk’s thick yet remarkably nimble fingers flipped directly to the final page.
*The Devil Fruit Illustrated Guide.*
His gaze lingered on the lines reading “10,000,000 USD per fruit” and “Grants superhuman abilities upon consumption” for ten full seconds.
The look in his eyes shifted from curiosity to deep deliberation.
Ever since Tony Stark returned from Afghanistan, he had stopped making public appearances, yet Iron Man had burst onto the scene.
SHIELD agents were paying an unusual amount of attention to that restaurant.
And Daredevil, mortally wounded last night, was able to wipe out an armed stronghold today while displaying bizarre powers…
“It’s no coincidence,” Fisk muttered softly.
“This is a ‘source of power’ that mainstream society has yet to detect.”
He closed the menu and addressed the butler:
“Tomorrow night, book a private dining room at Dragon Pavilion.
I will be taking Vanessa there for dinner.”
Bullseye froze.
“Boss?
You’re going to…?”
Fisk cast a glance at him.
The look was calm, yet it made Bullseye feel as though he had fallen into an ice cave, choking back the rest of his words.
“To eat,” Fisk said.
“Vanessa has taken a liking to Chinese food lately.
I’m taking her to try it.
Is there a problem?”
Bullseye understood instantly.
Vanessa—Fisk’s white moonlight, the only woman to whom he was willing to show gentleness.
In front of her, Wilson Fisk was an elegant art dealer, not the underworld emperor Kingpin.
On this trip, no anomalies could be exposed.
Bullseye lowered his head.
“…No problem.
I’ll arrange security right away…
low-key.”
Fisk added, “Don’t alarm anyone.
Especially the owner of that shop.
I want to…
‘see’ first.”
“Understood!”