//------------------------------// // Chapter 119 – Ronin // Story: Infinity Era // by JDPrime22 //------------------------------// 119 Tokyo, Japan Yakuza Stronghold 8:22 p.m. The streets of Tokyo were wet with rain and blood. Screams and neon lights painted the air. Alongside the rapid gunfire from machine guns and pistols, the cries of the Yakuza henchman were soon silenced once the shadow easily tore through them. Like a thief in the night, the shadow drove itself through the streets of Tokyo with a katana in hand, blood on its tongue, and a fiery determination glowing in his eyes. Nothing but bloodlust leaking alongside the rain that drenched the shadow. Like that thief, the shadow stole every life that came into contact with him, any life foolish enough to stand in his way from his ultimate goal. The Yakuza were helplessly unprepared, unable to perceive where the shadow would appear next. Whenever he did, he would tear right through any life that got in his way. Brave of the Yakuza to die for their leader. Brave, but foolish. The last thing any of them saw was the shadow of black and gold, followed by the slash of silver that silenced their screams. Akihiko was beginning to grow worrisome. That iron grip he held over the streets of Tokyo were starting to wane. It didn’t take long for him to realize that his Yakuza empire was finally crumbling right before him, after years of dominance and security, strength and fear, might and prowess. All of it falling apart body by body at the hands of the shadow. But Akihiko was smarter. He knew his trail was being compromised and anticipated such an attack from the likes of him. He just didn’t expect him to show up so early… and rip right through his men with such ease. By the time the shadow fought its way up the stairs into the set of building complexes, that was when Akihiko finally took action. No longer watching from the sidelines in the comfort of his secured and heavily-guarded room, his final hiding place from the shadow. Even with a man as much stature and power as him, Akihiko could feel a very weak and very human shiver travel up his spine. He stepped away from the window once the shadow vanished into the building complex, a trail of screams and gunfire leading straight to his door. The Yakuza boss slowly closed his eyes, didn’t even see as his burly henchman whipped out their pistols and pointed the barrels directly at the door’s face. He steadily breathed, tried to maintain that uncertain and fearful breathing pattern that had infected him so. The screams only grew louder, more ragged and wet as they quickly, suddenly… stopped. Akihiko breathed out. He unsheathed his katana. The door exploded inwards and pistol shots rang through the air. It was flurry of chaos in the span of a few seconds. Wood chips and pistol shells flew across the air and blinded nearly everyone in the room, save for the dark shadow. He tore through the room with such speed and ferocity that the henchmen were unable to perceive where he was. By the time they did, it was too late. Their throats gushed red geysers as the slash of silver whipped past them, leading straight to the head of the Yakuza and meeting his blade head-on. The howling pain came forth like a steaming freight train, being so utterly quick and powerful that it sent Akihiko backwards like a rag doll thrown against the glass window, only he was big enough to shatter it. He screamed in his descent, crashing on the roof of a parked vehicle and smashing it inwards. Akihiko cried out to the agony flushing through his veins and bones, katana still gripped in his bleeding arm as he pushed himself off the car’s roof and fumbled on the street. When he rose to his feet and tried to make his dastardly escape, Akihiko paused, his eyes centered solely on the road ahead. The rain tried to wash away the deeds of but one man. It fell heavily in order to cleanse the streets, but nothing could have taken away that mere image of Akihiko’s men strewn across the street. The neon lights from the building complexes to his left and right showcased the shimmering crimson glowing in the street alongside the torrents of rainwater. It covered his men, flowed from them and their wounds inflicted on their bodies. Especially their necks. All of them silenced. Nothing but the horrific sound of the rain striking the earth. … Then came the pair of boots landing in the street behind him. Akihiko couldn’t run. Not anymore. Not with the shadow standing directly behind him, rising to full height with his katana glimmering under the neon light. His time of running had finally come to an end, no men left to stand in the way, take the sword that was meant for him. That night, under the darkness of the sky and the weight of the rain, it would end between them. Akihiko’s legacy, the shadow’s hunt, and their feud. All of it would end and determine who was the stronger among them. He slowly turned around, seeing the dark hood and the face mask of the shadow standing before him, mere yards that separated his katana from Akihiko’s heart. His entire body was cloaked in that shadow, the rainwater drenching him and making him glow under the neon city. His katana dripped alongside the rain, but a separate color from it. A darker, more sinister color. Akihiko clutched his arm that dripped the same color. With his katana hanging in that same hand of that same arm, the Yakuza spoke softly, loud enough to be heard over the storm and to reach the shadow. “You just couldn’t stop, could you?” His Japanese was heavy, thick in accent and even thicker with ragged weariness. The shadow did not move. Not even a breath. The rain fell around him and created a haze of colors in the mist. Smirking, Akihiko continued. “Every outpost, every hideout, enough dead to fill a mass grave… and all of it just find me. You must be a man with quite a lot of time on your hands. Even more blood. Though, I should expect nothing less from you... The famous Ronin.” Beneath that face mask, Ronin sneered. His eyes narrowed as he slowly held out his dripping katana, pointing its crimson edge right for the Yakuza. His target. The end of his hunt. When he spoke, his Japanese was softer, more controlled and far more menacing. “All the sleepless nights I’ve tracked you down. Your crimes end tonight. The universe has Thanos,” Ronin said, bending low as his other hand fell towards his katana. He gripped the weapon with tightening ferocity, his hood dripping rainwater and shielding his eyes within those shadows. Showing nothing… especially not mercy. “You have me.” He ignored the pain tearing in his arm, Akihiko forcefully lifting his katana and gripping its handle with both hands. By the time he struck it was like a flash of lightning, Akihiko crying out with surprising speeds that any normal man would have toppled over from had they faced it. Especially with the strength of the strike added to the speed, Akihiko fully expected to at least see some form of a reaction to it. But Ronin didn’t even flinch. He only took action when it mattered, sidestepping and slashing forwards to connect his blade with the Yakuza’s. Sparks danced across the air, the two fully engaged in close, sword-slashing combat. Akihiko screamed with every swing and thrust and slice he directed towards Ronin, the shadowy figure merely dodging or blocking his attempts with relative ease. It was not uncommon for Akihiko to face a man with impressive sword-fighting attributes, as the many he had slain in the past matched up almost perfectly with Ronin, but there was something else about the shadow that caught his interests, made him hesitate… And made him feel that wretched, human feeling of fear. Especially when Ronin locked his katana with Akihiko’s, ripping it to the ground as he slammed his boot on its edge and sliced upwards. Akihiko fumbled over his feet, his breath tightening in his chest as he slowly reached for his heart. He ignored the broken tip of his katana as the fresh blood fully flowed from his chest and painted his palm a sickly red. He was still standing. He took in that breath and gasped when he realized he was still breathing. Still fighting. With a blood-filled battle cry, the Yakuza spun around and reared back with his blade, swinging downwards where the Ronin stood like a solid statue. The man sidestepped once again, keeping his katana low when he caught Akihiko by his abdomen and sliced cleanly across it. The man caught his breath like before, that time falling to his knees with his katana clattering to the street before him. Ronin caught the man by the back his shirt, tossing him with relative ease directly behind him. Akihiko lay with his back wet and bleeding against the solid concrete, groaning weakly as his body ached and cried, bled and fought. Even when his fighting spirit had died long before that. Looking up through the bright lights and the rain pelting his face, Akihiko gazed onto the face of his oppressor. His judge, jury, and executioner. Ronin stood tall over him, bloody katana in his grip. “Mercy…” Akihiko begged, shivering hand held out. “Please, mercy.” Ronin didn’t even flinch. Not even a twitch of remorse in his eyes. He merely raised his katana high above his head, its end shimmering and dripping just over the Yakuza’s heart. He whispered sharply, his final words to his mission, “No mercy to give.” “Clint!” The name shot out like gunfire, that bullet tearing through Ronin’s chest and directly into his heart. It was stronger than any strike or slash or any form of an attack that Akihiko tried to inflict upon Ronin. It was stronger merely for the fact that it was a name Ronin hadn’t heard directed his way in years. It meant something to him, something he knew very much of and hardly looked back to. What he did look to, however… was the sound of the boots hitting the street directly ahead of him. The figure was cloaked in black, much like Ronin was, except there was no gold attached to his person. His suit and armor were pitch-dark, a black mask and faceplate covering his identity. Upon that mask, a pair of horns were erected from his forehead, beneath them a pair of glowing red lenses for his eyes. It wasn’t the only red on his person, his gloves and belt also the same color. The two “D’s” laced with each other just over his heart was also that crimson. For a moment longer, Ronin continued to hesitate, continued to gaze upon the figure rising up higher and higher and turning to face him. Those red eyes glowed under the darkness of night, the rain painting the suit in droplets of the rainbow, neon lights. The ground of rain and blood was laid before them, both warriors staring intensely to one another. Ronin had abandoned his eyes, turning to something else that took his breath away. Like the glowing red Avengers symbol on his left shoulder. Ronin’s eyes grew ten times larger than they should have. While the rain continued to smack against the street, the figure took a brave step forward and spoke out. The Daredevil spoke and said, “This isn’t the way. We’ve lost too many lives already. I know you. I know you’re better than this. Let him go.” Obviously referring to the Yakuza boss completely at the mercy—or lack thereof—of Ronin, Daredevil watched as Akihiko’s head shifted in his direction, the fiery expression on his face laced with the unhinged terror. He definitely didn’t expect to be saved by a demon that night, but when Ronin surprisingly backed off, Akihiko counted his blessings and breathed again. He twisted his gaze back to the approaching Daredevil. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so mu—” He pulled something from his leg belt with such speed that Akihiko didn’t even see it. The Devil tossed his billy club directly into Akihiko’s forehead, knocking him out faster than when the club returned to his dark glove. Ronin cast his target a sideways glance before returning back to the Devil. The only reason he could find to obligate himself to back away from the Yakuza was the mere presence of the demon himself. He seemed oddly familiar, a shattered memory trying to fight its way back into Ronin’s husk of a mind, but ultimately failing. He had only backed away because that Avengers symbol simply took his breath. All he could utter was, “Who are you?” The Devil stopped, billy club in hand and rain-drenched. The second he spoke the name was the second almost everything started to click. “Daredevil. I stood with you alongside Captain America years ago,” he explained, watching as Ronin’s eyes remained just as wide, just as shaken. The truth didn’t make things any easier. It definitely wouldn’t make the next step any more so. But he said it anyway. He needed to. “You can’t fall to their level, Clint. You can’t be the monster they want you to be anymore.” He flinched to that name once again. Ronin shook his head, hand tightening around his katana’s grip. “This is all I can be,” he whispered shakily. “I don’t believe that,” Daredevil fought back. “I believe there’s a second chance.” “My second chance was taken from me!” Then he struck, swinging at the Devil with incredible speed and ferocity with his katana leading. His growing agitation had only unfurled into something horrific, the name of the past and the pains that came with it only prompting Ronin to lash out to the only thing that brought those memories back. Daredevil was ready before Ronin even had the thought of attacking, the Devil having already listened to the man’s increasing heartbeat and sensing his adrenaline-fueled attack from a mile away. He tossed his billy club with insane speed right for Ronin’s chest, the shadow blocking the club with his wrist and continuing on in his pursuit for the demon. Daredevil held out his left palm, his remaining billy club in his leg belt shooting upwards into his grasp by an invisible, magnetic pull. His open palm shimmered a soft blue from that magnetism, dying and closing over the club as he met Ronin’s katana. The two held there, Ronin’s burning glare melting through the red lenses of the Daredevil mask. Ripping his katana aside and creating a flurry of sparks against the baton, Ronin reared back with his left fist and struck the Devil across his face. The punch came fast, Daredevil falling to his knee as Ronin lifted his katana once more. Daredevil was faster that time, rearing out his right palm. In the corner of his vision, Ronin could see that palm shimmer a soft blue. Then the billy club thrown earlier was pulled by that same force, striking Ronin’s left shoulder and returning to the Devil’s right hand. Though slightly shaken from the hits they received, both men got back up fully and struck again. Ronin was on the clear offense, Daredevil holding well and deflecting the shadow’s furious and deadly slashes with even more precise blocks from his billy clubs. He responded in kind, swinging and driving his batons into any exposed area that Ronin allowed. His katana took the majority of the blows. The kick, however, was something he didn’t expect. Daredevil made some notable distance between them, waiting and watching as Ronin cut it by rushing forth with his katana leading once more. A mistake. Bending low, the Devil flipped backwards and struck Ronin at the bottom of his jaw, the strength of the kick sending the shadow flipping back. Both men miraculously landed on their feet, Daredevil on one knee and Ronin as well. He had his fist planted into the street, his free hand shivering and gripping his katana outwards. He lifted his eyes, both narrowed to see the Daredevil with both batons held outwards, head low and waiting. Then he lifted that head and the red eyes met his. “Come home, Clint,” he said. “We need you.” The rain flowed down his hood, making it so that no one could see within the shadows. No one could see the burning tears infecting his eyes. Ronin blinked, his breath shaking as he growled, “Where were you five years ago?” He nodded his head. Behind him. “Helping her.” And behind him, the Black Widow stood within the slaughter of bodies and blood and rain. None of it touched her, her umbrella held up and keeping the woman underneath it dry as a bone. Nearly. She almost broke down in tears to see what he had become, what kind of man he had aspired to be following the Decimation. The bodies said it all. After the short scuffle between Daredevil and Ronin had ended in a stalemate, Natasha made her approach and stopped just dead behind him. He didn’t even move when Daredevil motioned to her, prompting Natasha to take the next step. She blinked heavily, trying to breathe but only shaking. “I was afraid… it wouldn’t be easy when we found you. But I can tell that you’re not even willing to go without a fight.” For a while, he didn’t even act like he heard her. The continued silence pestered on and only further drove that blade in Natasha’s heart. Until finally… he stood up. She watched with bated breath as Ronin threw down his hood and took off his mask. The rain instantly covered him and his mohawk, pelting his shaved head with unending ferocity. He slowly looked back at her. And Clint Barton never looked more aged. Five years had taken more from him than anyone else Natasha knew. Definitely alongside Twilight and Thor for how much suffering he had to endure. Those five years showed themselves on every visible and painful wrinkle on his face, the rain flowing down his cheeks and emanating tears. Maybe they were tears. Natasha held her breath as the pain fully began to flush across her features, seeing Clint’s face and eyes for the first time in five years. “I’m tired of fighting,” Clint whispered, shaking his head. “But I’m not tired of running.” “If you run with us… we can help you,” Natasha retorted. She took another step closer. “We think we know how to undo everything, bring back everyone that was taken by the Snap. I know what you’ve lost, Clint. We’ve all lost something. Someone. But if you come home… come… with me… we can do this. We can save your family.” The full explanation was always difficult, but it was the individual’s reaction that was always more so. Just seeing his face contort into various levels of pain by her words alone made her feel sick, knowing with every ounce of her being and soul the amount of pain Clint had experienced. What he lost. Like him, she felt as if a family was taken from her, a niece and two nephews. That alone earned the tears in Natasha’s eyes to return. Joining Clint’s. “Don’t do that…” he whispered woefully. “Don’t give me hope.” Natasha took another step to him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to you sooner.” Daredevil’s mask retracted back, the metal forming into his suit and revealing the disheveled, weary, but satisfied face of Matthew Murdock beneath. He watched the world burn between both Clint and Natasha, their fiery bodies growing closer together as Natasha severed that distance, brought Barton under her umbrella. Her hand reached into his, fingers interlacing with his own. His was weak at first, but in time… he held her back. He always did.