The Mark I had been assembled from whatever crude materials Tony could find inside the cave, and the torrent Sherlock sent through the wall had interrupted the installation of its operating system.
Although Sherlock’s alchemy had forced the armor to start, its self-diagnostic process remained painfully slow.
That gave Sherlock more than enough time to handle his own business.
He had accepted the mission for two reasons.
The first was to test the Holy Lance of Longinus, while the second was to send Hydra a warning.
If someone had asked Sherlock what created the most effective warning for an enemy, his answer would have been immediate: A skull pyramid.
Actually building one, however, would make it far too easy for Hydra to portray him as some deranged occult murderer who needed to be eliminated.
There was a meaningful difference between simply killing enemies and decapitating them before stacking their remains into a monument.
Hydra was still hiding inside S.H.I.E.L.D., which meant Sherlock needed a display brutal enough to frighten them without allowing them to claim the moral high ground.
Fortunately, history offered another method that was almost as effective, considerably less elaborate, and extremely easy to reproduce with alchemy.
Impalement.
Anyone unfamiliar with the term would understand once they heard the name of the man who had made it infamous: Vlad III Țepeș—the Impaler.
And even those who did not recognize the historical ruler would certainly know the fictional monster he inspired.
Dracula.
Sherlock intended to borrow the Impaler’s methods and transform the valley into a scene straight out of hell.
Whether S.H.I.E.L.D.
or Hydra discovered the aftermath first, he wanted them to understand one thing clearly: They should stay away from him and leave his peaceful life alone.
More importantly, impalement was one of the simplest large-scale techniques his alchemy could perform.
After leaving the foul-smelling workshop, Sherlock rounded a corner and quickly found John and Yinsen.
Yinsen was curled up behind John, clearly terrified by the storm of gunfire around them.
That was perfectly understandable.
Having the courage to pick up a rifle and buy Tony time did not mean Yinsen was unafraid of dying.
Any untrained civilian would panic when bullets were tearing through the air only inches away.
John, meanwhile, was proving exactly why the underworld called him the Baba Yaga.
He had taken an assault rifle from one of the terrorists and was firing controlled three-round bursts with almost mechanical rhythm.
Every pull of the trigger claimed another life, and despite facing an entire group alone, he had pinned the gunmen down so completely that none of them dared expose themselves.
When he saw Sherlock emerge from the cave, John discarded the empty rifle and drew the pistol at his waist.
“If you’d taken any longer, I would’ve had to drag the doctor back into the cave,” he snapped.
“There are too many of them.” Sherlock remained entirely unconcerned.
“Relax.
Leave the rest to me.
Just keep Dr.
Yinsen safe.” He lightly tapped himself twice with the Holy Lance, then stepped openly into the line of fire.
Yinsen instinctively reached out to stop him.
The next moment, both he and John stared in stunned silence.
The instant Sherlock entered the open, bullets poured toward him from every direction like a swarm of locusts.
None of them reached his body.
Whenever a bullet entered the space around Sherlock, it transformed into a cluster of pure white petals.
They brushed harmlessly across his clothes before drifting gently to the ground.
As Sherlock continued walking, he left a path of white petals behind him.
That alone would have been spectacular, but not truly horrifying.
The Holy Lance moved constantly in Sherlock’s hand.
Although it appeared to be a close-range weapon, he wielded it like a scythe capable of harvesting lives from across the battlefield.
Wherever the spearhead pointed, enormous stone spikes erupted from the earth.
Gunmen firing at him were impaled where they stood.
Those attempting to flee were caught from below and lifted high into the air.
The spikes did not kill them immediately.
Blood sprayed across the ground as screams filled the valley.
Crimson drops stained the white petals scattered along Sherlock’s path, creating a beautiful yet nightmarish scene that unfolded before John and Yinsen like a painting of hell brought to life.
Gradually, the gunfire faded.
Soon, the only sounds left were Sherlock’s measured footsteps and the agonized cries of the dying men suspended above the ground.
The sight made Yinsen tremble, but even John—who had killed more people than he cared to remember—felt his scalp prickle.
To an assassin like John, killing was straightforward.
You took a life quickly, completed the assignment, and moved on.
What Sherlock was doing was something else entirely.
It was not merely death.
It was a deliberate spectacle meant to inspire terror so profound that even the survivors would feel it in their souls.
John had understood from the beginning why Sherlock had accepted the mission.
Even so, witnessing his idea of a “warning” firsthand was deeply unsettling.
“W-w-what…
are we supposed to do now?” Yinsen stammered.
The poor man was shaking so violently that he could barely form the words.
Even so, he forced himself to ask John, because the assassin had just saved his life and was currently the only person he trusted.
John lowered his gaze and considered the question.
Then he gritted his teeth.
“We follow him.” Yinsen began trembling even harder.
He did not know Sherlock, and after witnessing what the young man had done, he was terrified that he might suddenly end up skewered on one of those stone spikes as well.
Honestly, if that happened, Yinsen would rather be shot.
At least a bullet would kill him quickly instead of leaving him hanging in the air to suffer like the men screaming throughout the valley.