Solomon had no intention of wasting more time with the sixty-sixth Iron Fist.
Daniel Rand's cultivation was appallingly poor—there was no point in even having a conversation. According to Rand himself, he had trained in K'un-Lun since childhood, but his grasp of Zuo Xian Taixu Zhenren's seated-forgetfulness and breath-guiding internal methods was barely entry-level, and even that was only because his teacher had forced him to learn. His level didn't even match that of a novice Arcanist apprentice. Perhaps it was a cultural barrier—Daniel Rand clearly had no understanding of what "yangsheng" techniques, namely the immortality methods from the Tai Shang Huang Ting Nei Jing Yu Jing, were capable of. He simply thought his martial arts were strong.
When questioned by Solomon, Daniel claimed the young man had no idea how powerful the Iron Fist was. Moments later, he had to pay to repair the wall of the rental apartment he had just smashed—because Solomon's retaliatory punch had no intention of sparing his wallet. It was simply to get Rand to stop pestering him. Given Solomon's growing impatience, that was already quite merciful. Otherwise, he might've demonstrated a real Palm Thunder for the so-called Iron Fist.
In the two days that followed, all the gangs in Hell's Kitchen who refused Solomon's terms were ruthlessly wiped out by the Sisterhood. They moved swiftly, eradicating any criminal faction unwilling to comply with the deal. Solomon needed to ensure every dollar he spent went directly into the hands of residents, not snatched away by loan sharks, gamblers, or extortionists.
Previously, the Sisterhood's cleansing operations in Manhattan had been limited to the wealthy district around the Witch's apartment. They only used grenade rifles and chainsaw swords and avoided drawing too much attention. But Solomon needed the site work started immediately this time. And so, the gangs of Hell's Kitchen experienced what true military-grade firepower was like. The 40mm grenade machine gun alone was a terrifying display those drug and human traffickers had never seen. Even the police waited a full thirty minutes after confirming a ceasefire before nervously radioing the National Guard.
But even the National Guard had no intention of entering the Clinton District. The thunderous roar of artillery from Hell's Kitchen had shaken all of Manhattan. They knew full well their armored vehicles and MRAPs wouldn't solve this problem—and the Air National Guard wasn't ready to deploy yet.
So they called the Avengers.
Tony Stark was the first to arrive on the scene.
This was exactly the kind of situation where powered armor shone brightest, which was why Stark didn't even wait for the Quinjet to take off—he flew straight there. Ever since the Sokovia incident, Stark had been fighting tooth and nail to improve the public perception of the Avengers. He knew public opinion voted with its feet—too many scandals, and Congress would seize the excuse to shut them down. He'd been trying to stop that future from arriving. Though his disagreements with Steve Rogers had grown, on this matter, they shared common ground.
Solomon had greased the palms of state officials and legally delayed the emergency response process. By the time Tony arrived in Hell's Kitchen, the Sisterhood had already evacuated via assault transport. But the blast craters left by grenade rifles were impossible to hide. Stark's database already included grenade rifle ballistics, and the AI FRIDAY marked every impact site, reconstructing a simulation of the attack in detail.
"Five individuals, armed with self-propelled munitions, grenade machine guns, and plasma weapons. Peak heat output reached stellar levels. No one could've survived this. I predict autopsies will point to local gang members as victims. Scanning nearby comms… Victim identities confirmed."
"Tsk." Stark clicked his tongue as he paced among the rubble. He had no idea why Solomon's people were in Hell's Kitchen; this place had nothing to do with magic. He didn't dare take off his helmet, not wanting to breathe in the acrid stench of scorched corpses. The thought alone made him nauseous. "FRIDAY, can you reach our magic boy?"
"I find that very difficult, sir," FRIDAY responded gently. "Solomon Damonet's communications are registered to a London address, but it's a false coordinate. All calls redirect to voicemail and are then picked up by a separate number. I can't track him through his social media either—those accounts have been inactive for years."
"I didn't even follow his Facebook," Stark muttered. "Can you figure out why he's doing this?"
"I'm working on it, sir." FRIDAY wasn't as emotionally expressive as JARVIS, but her information processing was top-tier. Especially after the Ultron incident, Stark had made significant advancements in AI development. "This gang was assisting a real estate company in acquiring an apartment building. But the acquisition recently stalled. Searching now, sir…"
"FRIDAY?"
"Sir, I'm experiencing… inter… interference…" FRIDAY's voice began to cut out, static buzzing in Stark's helmet speakers. Then she vanished entirely, like she'd been swept away in the digital world. The HUD in his helmet flashed wildly. FRIDAY's subroutines had been severed—someone had disrupted the local signal and cut his connection to Stark Industries' network.
Stark was just about to remove his helmet when a synthetic voice replaced FRIDAY.
"You shouldn't be here, Stark."
"Who are you?" Stark's expression turned grim. "What are you trying to do?"
"I am merely an automated response protocol." The voice suddenly seemed flustered, then quickly continued once it revealed its identity. Stark heard it exhale—as if relieved—then resumed, "Doing what I must: keeping supernatural events out of the lives of ordinary people. You should not be interfering in this."
"Solomon? I know it's you. Listen—even if this is a magical incident, you shouldn't be this brutal. This is a city zone—you need to tone it down! Do you want to end up on a wanted list?"
The mechanical reply was harsh.
"Maybe when you started calling yourself a superhero, you should've actually done something heroic. Like taking down some of these criminal gangs. Maybe arresting a few crooked developers. That's your job—not flying around above the city for attention. Do you know how many car crashes your aerial antics cause?"
Stark recognized that tone.
"You are magic boy. No one else loves sarcasm this much," he shouted, trying to stall for time so FRIDAY could reboot and locate the signal's origin. "At least give me something to show the public. Something unrelated to magic. How am I supposed to explain this gang war otherwise?"
"I'm just an auto-reply protocol… ahem, found it. Sending now. You'll be satisfied."
"Using a voice changer doesn't solve the problem."
"I really am just an automated program. I just happen to be smarter than your FRIDAY. What a pretty little thing—those algorithms, that neural net. Can there be a more beautiful girl in the world?"
Stark suddenly considered a very bad possibility—and his head began to throb.
"…Are you Ultron?"
(End of Chapter)
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