"Ignorant scum, your disrespect for God is enough for you to die a thousand times over. But you don't have that many lives to waste. So, I'll be merciful—I'll grant you the most painful death as atonement for your sins."
Gilgamesh stood with his hands in his pockets, cold and arrogant, like a lion surveying prey. He never hesitated to show mercy to those on the brink of death.
Behind him, golden ripples shimmered in the air, forming a magnificent wall of light. From within those ripples emerged countless swords, spears, and halberds. Their blades glinted with killing intent, bathing the entire street in blinding gold.
Seeing this, the Blade Warrior's expression twisted in shock. Moments ago he had assumed this was just some useless civilian protected by government agents—yet it turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. This was bad. Very bad.
"Who… exactly are you?" he demanded, tense and wary.
"My name is Gilgamesh Odinson. When you reach Hell, remember to sing my divine name to the demons."
A heavenly voice resounded like divine proclamation. Then the downpour came—swords and shields shot from the golden ripples like cannon fire.
At the last second, Blade managed to draw a single weapon, slicing apart an incoming golden shield. Using the momentum, he launched himself upward, twisting mid-air with an animal's grace.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh…
Blades grazed his waist, armpits, and thighs, leaving shallow cuts. But his vampire physiology healed the wounds instantly, closing them before he even touched the ground.
Yet how could Gilgamesh's attack end so simply?
The instant Eric landed—before he could even steady himself—a golden chain speared through his shoulder. Three divine javelins followed, pinning him to the pavement like an insect.
Gilgamesh had already predicted the landing point.
"Just this much ability… and you dare challenge the divine?"
He stepped forward, towering over the struggling Blade Warrior, a sneer curling on his lips. Crimson light flickered at his fingertips, condensing into a needle meant to melt its target to dust.
But then—a thunderous gunshot cracked through the air.
In the blink of an eye, Gilgamesh lifted his right hand. A sniper bullet rested harmlessly in his palm.
"An accomplice?"
He glanced toward a distant rooftop. With his superior eyesight, he could clearly see the stunned expression of the shooter.
The next moment, he vanished.
Punisher Frank Castle blinked, stunned. He checked his scope again. The target had been there a heartbeat ago—where did he go? How had he disappeared?
Where is he—
His thoughts never finished.
A split second later, Gilgamesh stood behind him and kicked—Frank's head burst like an overripe watermelon.
Frank died unjustly. After all, he'd spent a long time in Hell's Kitchen and had crossed paths with Blade many times, even watching him hunt vampires. Naturally, he assumed they were on the same side.
Maybe they couldn't fight together, but at least they were allies of justice.
Then came the city's curfew… and Gilgamesh swaggering around with black-suited agents, acting more like mobsters than actual gangsters. And then he even attacked Blade—what else could Frank think except "villain"?
So he fired a single shot, hoping to eliminate a threat.
But he never expected the monster named Gilgamesh—who could catch bullets barehanded and teleport—to kill him instantly.
A thoroughly tragic death.
With the Punisher dealt with, Gilgamesh turned back to Blade and casually flicked a Scarlet Needle toward him, sending him straight to Hell.
Then, after glancing at Maria and the other agents standing far away at the crossroads—too frightened to come any closer—he let out a cold snort and instantly transformed into a streak of golden light, shooting into the sky like a meteor…
Two months later, in a Mexican slum.
"Captain… are we sure we really want to join Hydra?"
In a secluded, dimly lit house, Electro—hidden beneath a thick hooded cloak—revealed a pair of faintly sorrowful eyes beneath his pale blue skin.
"Of course, Max," Steve Rogers replied without a hint of hesitation. "Alexander Pierce promised me twelve nuclear backpack bombs. Each equivalent to a thousand tons of TNT. Who could say no to nuclear firepower?"
"Why do you even need those?" Flint muttered, arms crossed over his old green-and-white striped vest. His face was twisted in confusion.
Yes, S.H.I.E.L.D. had relentlessly hunted them down, forcing them to flee all the way to Mexico. But… nuclear weapons?
They couldn't eat them. They couldn't spend them. They were nothing but walking catastrophes.
Seeing everyone equally baffled, Captain America let out a small laugh and patiently explained, "The only reason the five major powers can maintain peace is because of nuclear deterrence. If we have nukes too, do you really think S.H.I.E.L.D. would still dare chase us?"
"This…"
Everyone exchanged startled glances.
Bullseye scratched his head. "But if we join Hydra, we won't have to worry about being hunted anymore!"
"That's true," Rogers admitted, suppressing the violent hunger twisting beneath his calm expression. "But I'm not the type to let someone slap me in the face and walk away unpunished. Right now, the only person Nick Fury absolutely does not want to provoke… is the prince of Asgard. And conveniently, he's living in the White House."
His voice lowered, dangerous and confident.
"If we kill him, Asgard and Earth will go to war. And in the chaos, Hydra can seize power—just like pulling chestnuts out of the fire."
"But after the war… what's left of Earth?" Doctor Octopus asked, unable to stop himself. "Wouldn't Asgard just take over anyway? How does that benefit us?"
Rogers shook his head. "Thor and I are close. If we help him defeat Gilgamesh, the throne of Asgard will be his. And when he stands at the peak of divine power… how do you think he'll repay the ones who helped him get there?"
The Evil Alliance members nodded slowly. The logic seemed sound—yet something about it felt terribly wrong.
What they didn't know was that Captain America did intend to use the nuclear bombs on Gilgamesh… but mainly to indulge his own growing desire for vengeance and slaughter.
His plan was to plant twelve nuclear backpack bombs throughout New York—only half meant for the God of Light.
Rogers truly believed that even a god couldn't survive six thousand tons of TNT.
As for "helping Thor ascend the throne"? That was merely an excuse. All he really wanted… was war. Chaos. Carnage.
Who cared about ruling Earth?
Who cared about politics or power?
As long as the explosions could satisfy the hollow, endless bloodlust clawing at his heart, Rogers felt he would finally be… complete.
Truly, Gilgamesh's curse had twisted him beyond recognition.
Even if the spell broke the moment a nuclear blast went off, he knew—he would never be able to clear his name again.
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