THE IRON FIST 👊
Chapter Six: The Old Man's Prophecy
Silva woke in his room, unsure how he got there. His bandaged side throbbed with pain. The sheets beneath him were stained with dried blood.
For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. But the silence in the house was too sharp, too heavy. His parents were gone — at work, perhaps — leaving him alone with the ache in his ribs and the weight of what had happened.
The Hand.
The glowing eyes.
The blade slicing into his flesh.
He pressed a trembling hand to his wound. His other hand — the one that burned with yellow fire — twitched with restless energy. The memory of killing one of them made him sick. He hadn't meant to. It just happened.
He wasn't sure if he was a hero… or a monster.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You survived."
Silva turned sharply.
The old man was sitting in the corner of his room, cloaked in tattered robes that smelled of rain and dust. His eyes burned with an unnatural light, ancient and merciless.
Silva's heart lurched. "You again… How did you get in here?"
The man ignored the question. He leaned forward, his voice low, gravel dragging through each word.
"The Hand has marked you. They will not stop until your body is cold. Do you understand, boy?"
Silva's jaw tightened. "Why me? Why are they after me?"
"Because," the old man said, "you are not just Silva. You are the Iron Fist."
The words hung in the air, suffocating.
Silva shook his head. "I don't even know what that means."
The old man's gaze hardened. "It means you are heir to a flame older than kingdoms. Your fist is not a gift. It is a weapon. A promise. Passed through centuries to those strong enough to bear it."
Silva's stomach knotted. "Then take it back. I don't want it."
The old man rose, towering over him. His shadow swallowed the room.
"You don't choose the fist," he growled. "The fist chooses you. And it has chosen."
Silva's pulse quickened. "And The Hand? Who are they?"
"They are what comes with power," the old man replied. "An ancient order. They feed on blood and silence. For generations, they have hunted the bearers of the fist. They believe if they extinguish the flame, the world will belong to them."
Silva's voice cracked. "So I'm just a target? My life is already over?"
The old man's face softened, but only slightly. "No. You are more than prey. You are the one weapon the world still fears. But only if you master it. Fail, and not only will you die… but everything you love will burn with you."
The words stung deeper than his wounds. Images of his mother's bookshop burning, his father bleeding in the streets, flashed in Silva's mind. His hands trembled.
He didn't want this. But he couldn't walk away.
"What do I do?" Silva whispered.
The old man's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You practice. You bleed. And you learn to kill before you are killed. The Hand will come again. Stronger. They will test you. Break you. But if you live… you will rise."
The fire in Silva's fist ignited again, glowing through his skin. The old man's eyes reflected the light, as though he had seen it a thousand times before.
"Remember this, Silva," he said softly, "the fist is not only your strength. It is your curse. It will protect you, but it will also destroy those who stand too close."
Silva swallowed hard. "Even my family?"
The old man did not answer. He only turned toward the window, his form already fading into shadow.
Before vanishing, he spoke one final sentence.
"When the fist burns brightest, blood will cover the earth."
Silva sat frozen long after the man disappeared. His body trembled, his wound searing with pain, but his mind screamed louder.
He looked at his glowing hand, feeling its heat crawl up his arm.
Destiny. Curse. Weapon. Savior.
He didn't know which one he was.
But one truth lingered, sharp as a blade at his throat.
The Hand would come again. And next time, they wouldn't vanish into shadows.
They would finish what they started.
And if he wasn't ready… they would finish him.