"What kind of favor?"
Pierce's voice was carefully neutral, the tone of a man who'd negotiated with terrorists, dictators, and worse. Whatever this "Assassin" wanted, he would evaluate it rationally. Emotionally compromised decisions got people killed in their line of work.
"Our organization has existed for a very long time," Luke said, improvising freely. The words flowed easily—he'd always been good at bullshitting, and having an actual mask to hide behind made it even easier. "We've operated from the shadows since before your country existed. Before HYDRA existed, for that matter."
He let that sink in for a moment.
"But now that I've become the leader of the Assassins, I've decided it's time for a change in approach."
Pierce's mind immediately started constructing theories, filling in the gaps that Luke was deliberately leaving open.
Organization? Leader of the Assassins?
So this was a succession situation. An ancient group of assassins, hidden so deeply that even Pierce's extensive intelligence network had never detected them, and now under new leadership. New leadership that wanted to change the old ways.
It made sense, in a twisted way. Every organization eventually had generational conflicts. The old guard clinging to tradition, the young blood pushing for modernization. Pierce had seen it happen in HYDRA itself—the tension between Red Skull's original disciples and the newer members who cared more about results than ideology.
Like The Hand, he thought. An ancient assassin cult, operating in secret for centuries.
The Hand was real—Pierce knew that much. A ninja organization based in Japan, involved in everything from corporate espionage to supernatural rituals. They'd clashed with HYDRA a few times over the years, competing for the same resources, the same influence.
If this "Assassin" represented something similar—something older, something more capable—then Pierce needed to treat carefully.
"What kind of change are you looking for?"
"I want to step into the light." Luke gestured vaguely at the opulent living room around them. "Build legitimate infrastructure. Establish a presence that can't be easily destroyed."
Pierce nodded slowly. That was a reasonable concern. Shadow organizations were vulnerable to exposure—one leak, one traitor, and decades of work could collapse overnight. Building legitimate fronts was standard practice.
"And you came to me because...?"
"Because you understand how to operate in both worlds." Luke let a hint of admiration creep into his voice. "HYDRA hides within SHIELD. The serpent coiled around the eagle's heart. You've managed to build an empire while everyone thinks you're a loyal servant."
The flattery was calculated. Pierce's ego was one of his few weaknesses—the man genuinely believed he was smarter than everyone around him.
"That's the kind of expertise I need access to."
HYDRA was aware that other organizations existed in the shadows. They weren't arrogant enough to think they were unique. The world was full of secret societies, criminal enterprises, terrorist networks, and stranger things besides. HYDRA was simply the largest, the most successful, the most patient.
Interestingly, most of these shadow groups knew HYDRA still operated—it was only SHIELD's leadership, Nick Fury especially, who remained ignorant. The irony of that never failed to amuse Pierce.
"What do you need specifically?"
Pierce recognized value when he saw it. The Assassin had demonstrated capabilities that would be useful to HYDRA. Better to cultivate that asset than make an enemy of it.
Besides, Pierce was genuinely curious. Any organization capable of taking down the Winter Soldier was worth understanding better.
"First, I need a legal identity."
Pierce agreed to everything.
Not immediately, of course. There was negotiation, back-and-forth, the careful dance of two predators establishing boundaries. But in the end, the deal was struck.
The favor would need to be repaid, naturally. Luke readily agreed to that condition with apparent sincerity. He had no intention of actually following through—by the time Pierce called in the debt, Luke planned to be powerful enough that it wouldn't matter.
The result exceeded his expectations.
A legal identity as the heir to a wealthy businessman from a small European country—the kind of nation that didn't ask too many questions when money was involved. The inheritance totaled three billion dollars, transferred through shell companies and offshore accounts, completely untraceable.
And since Luke wasn't technically a US citizen under this new identity, he owed no inheritance tax. The American government would never see a dime.
Three billion dollars.
Luke had gone from broke transmigrator to billionaire in a single conversation. It was almost anticlimactic.
The first purchase was obvious: a mansion in Los Angeles. They needed a proper base of operations. With more characters potentially coming through his drop system, the cramped New York apartment wouldn't cut it anymore. He needed space, security, and—if he was being honest—a little luxury.
The mansion was ridiculous. Twenty bedrooms. Private grounds. Security systems that would take days to fully map. The kind of place that movie stars and tech billionaires called home.
Luke felt like a fraud walking through the front door. But that was probably normal for new money.
The remaining funds went into Stark Industries stock.
Obadiah Stane had been quietly buying back shares for weeks, preparing for Tony's presumed death. The plan was obvious to anyone paying attention—consolidate ownership, push through a board resolution declaring Tony legally dead, then take full control of the company.
Luke entered the market late, so he couldn't acquire a controlling stake. The major institutional investors weren't selling, and Stane had already gobbled up most of the available shares.
But that wasn't the point.
When Tony returned—and he would return, Luke knew that much from the movies—the stock price would skyrocket. Luke's investment would double or triple overnight. And more importantly, he'd have a legitimate reason to be in Tony's orbit.
There will be other opportunities to make money, Luke told himself. Focus on positioning.
More importantly, this whole experience had expanded his thinking.
Luke had been so focused on waiting for Tony Stark's return—the inciting incident of the MCU, the beginning of the superhero age—that he'd overlooked the resources already available to him.
For instance: after Blade dealt with Deacon Frost, what would happen to the vampire nation's assets?
In the original movie timeline, the purebloods died during the Blood God ritual. Their accumulated wealth—centuries of hoarded riches, investments, real estate, corporate holdings—eventually fell to the next generation of vampire leadership. The Damaskinos family, primarily.
Centuries of compound interest. Centuries of infiltrating human institutions. Centuries of wealthy humans paying tribute for the promise of immortality.
That was a lot of money just sitting there, waiting to change hands.
What if I changed whose hands it ended up in?
The idea crystallized into a plan almost immediately.
Money bought manpower. Manpower gathered intelligence. Luke spent a fraction of his new fortune hiring investigators, bribing informants, accessing databases that weren't supposed to be accessible. Within days, he'd located Deacon's ritual site.
The elaborate setup wasn't easy to hide, even in a remote location. Ancient temples required specific architectural features. Blood channels needed proper construction. Security for twelve captured purebloods demanded significant infrastructure.
All of it left traces, if you knew where to look.
Armed with the address, Luke mobilized his forces—all two of them, plus the weapons cache he'd been building.
Time to rescue some vampires.
And shake them down.
The ritual chamber was everything the movie had depicted and more.
Ancient stone walls covered in blood-red sigils. Channels carved into the floor, designed to direct sacrificial blood in precise patterns. Twelve marble slabs arranged in a circle, each one occupied by a bound pureblood vampire.
And at the center of it all, suspended from chains, Blade.
The Daywalker hung limply, tubes running from his arms and neck into the ritual array. His unique blood—half vampire, half human, the only substance capable of completing the summoning—dripped steadily into the channels below.
Deacon Frost paced around the chamber like a man on the verge of ecstasy. After years of planning, years of research, years of being dismissed by the pureblood elders who thought they were better than him, his moment had finally arrived.
Tonight, he would become La Magra. The Blood God. A being of infinite power, capable of crushing the purebloods who'd sneered at him, of bringing the entire world under vampire dominion.
"What do you want?"
Gitano Dragonetti's voice cut through Deacon's reverie. Even bound, even captured, even facing the death of everything he'd built, the pureblood elder refused to show fear. His contempt was palpable.
"It doesn't matter anymore, Frost. Whatever you're planning, it won't work. The council will hunt you to the ends of the earth."
Deacon crossed the distance between them in a blur, his hand cracking across Gitano's face with enough force to split the elder's lip.
"This is what I want."
He leaned close, fangs gleaming in the candlelight.
"I want to see that look in your eyes when you realize how wrong you were. When you watch me become something you could never imagine. When you understand that you—all of you—were nothing but stepping stones."
None of the twelve purebloods would lower themselves to plead for mercy. Their arrogance was bred into them, refined over centuries of believing themselves superior to every other form of life. Even facing extinction, they wouldn't bend.
It infuriated Deacon beyond words.
But it didn't matter. Not anymore. After tonight, he would be a god.
The ritual was moments from completion. Blade's blood flowed through the channels, spreading across the stone floor in intricate patterns that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. The purebloods' heads were forced back by their restraints, their foreheads exposed, waiting for the final drops that would seal their fate—
"Excuse me. Did someone order delivery?"
A voice echoed through the chamber, casual and amused.
Behind one of the purebloods, a vampire guard crumbled to ash without a sound. Silver blade, Luke noted distantly. Efficient.
"WHO'S THERE?!"
Deacon's roar echoed off the stone walls. His soldiers—what remained of them after weeks of attrition against Luke's hunting—moved to intercept the threat. The remaining vampires hissed and scattered, trying to identify the intruder.
He couldn't allow any interference. Not now. Not when he was so close to everything he'd ever wanted.
BRRRRRRRT.
The sound was deafening.
Two minigun emplacements opened fire simultaneously from concealed positions in the chamber's upper galleries. Their rotating barrels spat silver rounds at a rate of several thousand per minute, filling the air with a wall of gleaming death.
Soldiers and vampires alike were shredded where they stood. The ones who didn't disintegrate immediately fell with dozens of holes punched through their bodies, blood and ash mixing on the ancient stones.
The suppressive fire lasted maybe ten seconds. It felt like an eternity.
When the guns finally fell silent, Deacon's forces had been annihilated.
And the purebloods—all twelve of them—had been cut free from the ritual array. But not released. Luke's people had simply transferred them to new restraints, silver-lined handcuffs that wouldn't kill but would definitely hurt.
Deacon's roar of fury died in his throat as he assessed the situation.
He was alone. His soldiers were dead or dying. The ritual was interrupted, Blade's blood no longer flowing properly through the channels. Everything he'd built, everything he'd sacrificed—
Escape. Regroup. Try again.
He ran.
Even now, his vampire speed might save him. Silver bullets killed vampires as dead as anyone else, but you had to hit them first. If he could make it out of the chamber, lose himself in the surrounding forest—
Skadi appeared in front of him.
The Deep Sea Hunter hadn't even seemed to move. One moment the path was clear; the next, she was there, her lance held casually in one hand.
Her kick connected with Deacon's chest before he could even register her presence.
CRASH.
The wall didn't just crack. It exploded outward, taking a significant portion of the building with it. Stone and mortar flew in all directions. The ritual chamber—the carefully prepared site that had taken months to construct, that represented the culmination of Deacon's entire existence—collapsed into rubble.
Deacon lay in the debris, body shattered, staring in disbelief at the destruction around him.
His spine was broken. Several ribs had punctured his lungs. One arm bent at an angle that shouldn't have been anatomically possible.
He would heal, eventually. Vampires always healed. But not quickly enough. Not in time to salvage anything from this catastrophe.
Even if he survived—even if he somehow escaped—the ritual site was gone. He had no resources left to rebuild. No followers to command. No time to try again before the purebloods hunted him down.
It was over.
Riven moved through the remaining enemies with a silver-plated blade, methodically eliminating anyone still standing. Her movements were efficient, almost bored—these vampires weren't even worth the effort of using her broken sword's full power.
Within minutes, Deacon's entire operation had been dismantled.
"Mr. Dragonetti." Luke approached the bound purebloods, still wearing his white Assassin robes and featureless mask. He toyed with a silver dagger, letting it catch the flickering light from the few torches that hadn't been destroyed. "A pleasure to finally meet you."
Skadi dragged Deacon's broken form across the rubble and dropped him at Luke's feet. The vampire lord made a weak sound of protest that nobody acknowledged.
"Who are you?"
Gitano's voice was cautious now. He'd watched his would-be executioner get dismantled in seconds. He'd seen the power these strangers commanded. Whatever assumptions he'd made about the situation, they were clearly wrong.
This stranger had come specifically to "rescue" them. But the pureblood elder had survived for centuries by understanding that nothing came without a price.
"Who I am doesn't matter."
Luke's smile was invisible behind his mask, but it carried through in his voice.
"What matters is this: what are you willing to pay, Mr. Dragonetti?"
He gestured at Deacon's crumpled form.
"For your life... and for his?"
Gitano understood immediately.
This wasn't a rescue. This was a shakedown. These strangers had crashed the ritual not to save the purebloods, but to position themselves as the purebloods' new creditors.
The vampire nation had just acquired a very expensive debt.
"Very well," the elder vampire said slowly, his ancient mind already calculating costs and benefits. "You'll receive something... satisfactory."
Luke's masked head tilted slightly.
"Oh, I'm counting on it."
PLZ THROW POWERSTONES.
300 , 500 , 1000 for each milestone 1 Bonus Chapter.