"This is Hell's Kitchen?"
The moment Gilgamesh set foot in the neighborhood, he froze. The streets were spotless, the alleys tidy, and the atmosphere so peaceful it could've been a brochure for an ideal community.
The chaotic, lawless, crime-ridden slum he had imagined had seemingly transformed overnight. Everyone he passed wore bright smiles, greeting strangers with cheerful waves.
Gilgamesh was utterly lost.
Where was the cradle of evil supposed to be?
Where was the "free America" with daily gunfights he'd heard so much about?
Dressed in a pristine white suit, hands casually tucked in his pockets, he strolled along with a massive entourage of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.
It looked like he was hunting gangsters—but with such a formation, his group looked more like the gangsters instead. Gilgamesh, of course, was blissfully unaware.
After all, he was an important man making an appearance. Having a lot of subordinates was only natural.
Besides, S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't pay him a salary. If they were freebies, why not use them?
Yet as he wandered around, he found neither gunfights nor the occasional street robbery. The security was absurdly good—suspiciously good.
Gilgamesh grew uneasy.
Logically, this place should be teeming with people—Hell's Kitchen was famous for being a slum. Even in a developed country, there shouldn't be a shortage of poor folks.
But he didn't see a single homeless person.
Someone was clearly trying to fool him.
"Is this really Hell's Kitchen?"
He shot a cold glance at Maria Hill, prepared to scold her the moment she slipped up.
Hill's heart almost jumped out of her chest. She silently cursed Nick Fury's cunning. Everyone knew Hell's Kitchen was a warzone.
If this was the place the higher-ups wanted to show Gilgamesh… then clearly someone was trying to bury her.
Despite mentally roasting "Eggman" Fury, Hill kept her expression steady.
"Sir, this is indeed Hell's Kitchen. Thanks to years of government efforts, the security situation has greatly improved. It's far from the terrifying rumors."
"If that's the case, then there's nothing to see."
Gilgamesh sighed in disappointment and turned to leave with his men.
But at that moment—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunshots suddenly erupted from a distant alley, sharp and rapid like exploding firecrackers.
In the command vehicle, Fury's face darkened instantly.
They had issued warnings to every faction—someone was deliberately stirring up trouble.
Hearing the gunshots, Gilgamesh's eyes lit up.
That's more like it!
Visiting Hell's Kitchen without seeing any "special performances" would be a wasted trip.
He immediately led the agents toward the alley.
When they were about twenty or thirty meters away, a figure burst out of the alley—completely engulfed in flames and screaming in agony. Fire poured from its eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, and even its skin glowed red-hot.
It staggered forward as if fleeing some unseen predator, constantly glancing back in terror.
But it didn't get far. A single gunshot rang out from behind, and the flaming body collapsed—turning to ashes on the pavement.
Only then did they see the shooter clearly:
A tall, imposing Black man in a black trench coat and sunglasses, carrying two blades. His presence was cold, predatory—like a seasoned hunter.
The agents instantly raised their weapons and surrounded him.
"Drop your weapons! Now!" they shouted, guns trained on the man. But he didn't move.
Instead, his gaze locked onto Gilgamesh.
"So you're the big shot visiting Hell's Kitchen." A faint smirk curled on his lips. "Because of you, this filthy, chaotic place cleaned itself up in record time. I wonder…"
His eyes narrowed behind the sunglasses.
"…what it'll look like the moment you leave?"
Judging from the man's tone, he seemed to mistake Gilgamesh for an American official, which made Gilgamesh laugh.
"Do you think the gods care about the lives of worms?"
"Your heartbeat is extremely slow—like those cave-dwelling bats. But why aren't you afraid of sunlight?" Gilgamesh continued, his expression lighting up as though he'd discovered an amusing toy. "As far as I remember, you cave creatures fear the sun the most. Have you managed to overcome your instincts?"
The burly black man fell silent. He hadn't expected to encounter someone like this during a routine hunt. For someone to determine his race simply by listening to his heartbeat—absurd.
That burly man was Eric Brooks—a half-vampire.
His mother, Miriam, had been bitten by the vampire Deacon Frost right before giving birth to him and died shortly afterward. Because of that, Eric carried half-human, half-vampire blood, inheriting their strengths while shedding their common weaknesses—like fear of sunlight.
Over the years, he had traveled the world slaying vampires, earning many titles: "The Daywalker," "The Vampire Hunter."
But Eric preferred to call himself one thing—
"Blade."
"My name is Blade. I hunt vampires," he said flatly, his face unreadable.
"So it's you," Gilgamesh muttered, suddenly losing interest. "I recall a vampire named Dracula—made quite the name for himself during the Black Death, with his dark magic and pestilence. Are you his descendant?"
"Dracula?" At that name, Blade's stoic expression finally shifted into something serious. Who was this man? Even among vampires, Dracula was a legendary figure, yet this stranger spoke of him as if speaking about an inferior.
"What's your relationship with Dracula? Are you a vampire too?" Blade pressed, irritation bubbling. Gilgamesh's expression instantly darkened.
"You dare compare me to that kind of filth?"
Blade arched an eyebrow and glanced at the black-clad agents surrounding them, disdain flickering in his eyes.
"Whether you suck blood or suck the sweat off the people—sounds like vampirism to me. You think you're more noble?"
"Quite the opposite," Blade said coldly. "Officials like you, who drain people dry while pretending to be righteous, disgust me more than vampires."
"Disgusting? You've got some nerve."
Gilgamesh's sharp, eagle-like eyes locked onto him, fury boiling within. He had just come out to watch the commotion, yet somehow he had become the center of it. And worse—he'd been mistaken for some American bureaucrat. Truly intolerable.
"Sir, please don't be angry…"
Maria Hill, who had seen the entire exchange, rushed forward to intervene. But the moment she met Gilgamesh's icy gaze, a chill crawled up her spine. She immediately fell silent, bowed slightly, and stepped back, signaling the surrounding agents to clear the area for the two men.
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