The memory card Jue handed to Yi Feng contained four videos—each more explosive than the last.
The first was the deadliest.
The footage opened with Madam Gao, bruised and weakened, being delivered to the residence of Wilson Fisk—known to the public as New York's benevolent philanthropist, but feared in the shadows as Kingpin, the Emperor of the Underworld.
This was the third faction Jue had decided to throw into the storm. By ensuring Madam Gao was "gifted" to Fisk, Jue guaranteed that the Kingpin would be dragged into the struggle for the Dragon Bone.
But Fisk was not an opponent to be taken lightly. His rise from a street thug to the undisputed king of New York's underworld spoke of unmatched cunning and ruthless calculation. He had weathered countless conspiracies; deception would not undo him.
And his body—though massive and outwardly bloated—was nearly pure muscle, a fortress of flesh honed to the edge of human possibility. Few could rival his raw power, and his iron will rendered hypnosis almost laughably useless.
Thus, Jue didn't attempt to fool Fisk directly. Instead, he targeted the man's weaker links. Among Fisk's many lieutenants were a handful of cowardly yet capable individuals—indispensable for their roles, yet soft-willed enough to break under pressure. They were men who feared Fisk more than death itself. To Jue, they were the perfect vessels for a subtle hypnotic push.
When Fisk saw Madam Gao unceremoniously delivered to his front door, his gut tightened. He knew Gao well enough to confirm the woman's identity. More importantly, he instantly recognized the trap: someone was forcing his hand.
Fisk had been monitoring the battle in New York since it began. Now, with Gao lying at his feet, the calculus was clear. Whoever was behind this had already ensured that Gao's presence would be exposed. If he released her, the world would believe he had already taken what he wanted from her. If he killed her, the stain would be permanent.
There was no escaping implication.
Kingpin's expression darkened. He was a man who did not waste words. Since he could not sidestep the game, then he would play it. Gao had information about the Dragon Bone, and he would pry it out of her by force if necessary. With that knowledge, he could gather allies and seize the elixir before anyone else.
For Fisk, this was not just about power—it was about survival. Though his body remained a terrifying weapon, age gnawed at him day by day. His strength, once his guarantee of dominance, had begun to falter. The elixir of immortality, whispered about for years, had always tempted him. Now, with Gao's capture thrust upon him, temptation hardened into resolve.
Without hesitation, he ordered Gao dragged into a secret chamber for interrogation. As for the hypnotized men who delivered her—they were executed immediately. Excuses didn't matter. Since the night he killed his wife with his own hands, compassion had left him. Since the day his son was assassinated, mistakes were unforgivable.
But then Fisk's iron mask cracked.
Because the second video Jue had released was not of Gao being delivered—it was of Fisk himself.
The footage showed him interrogating Gao, his fists slamming into walls, his voice a roar. Cameras hidden impossibly close captured every detail. In the span of minutes, Fisk's carefully cultivated mask of philanthropy was ripped away, revealing the brutal crime lord beneath.
And just as Gao began to break—her lips parting to whisper of the Dragon Bone—the footage cut to black, leaving only implication. She had already spoken, yet the audience learned nothing.
Fisk's breath went cold. Somehow, even inside his most fortified bastion, his enemy had filmed him without notice.
And Jue wasn't finished.
The following three videos detonated like bombs across America.
—An old man, moments from death, rose from his hospital bed after consuming a pinch of strange medicinal powder.
—A terminally ill patient, tubes and machines keeping him alive, recovered within hours of taking the same medicine.
—A child with a congenital disease, once frail and skeletal, laughed as color returned to his face, his body made whole.
Each clip showed medical records, hospital names, and monitoring equipment before and after treatment, ensuring authenticity.
The message was unmistakable: the elixir of immortality was real.
What Jue had shared was only a fragment of what he'd seized from Gao—just enough to demonstrate its miraculous ability to restore life and health. He had no intention of exposing the true supply he had taken from Tubo and the others, not yet. That was his ace to keep hidden.
The fallout was immediate.
For Fisk, it was a revelation wrapped in terror. For the public, it was gasoline poured onto a smoldering fire. The morning's violence had already rattled New Yorkers; now, faced with undeniable proof of eternal life, outrage boiled over into obsession.
The city didn't yet grasp that a "super-bomb" had been placed beneath their feet, one that would unravel their future. For now, the thought was simple, primal, inescapable:
There is an elixir of immortality. And someone is already using it.
The Wall Street elites—men and women who once prided