[The Great Tomb of Nazarick - The Throne Hall]
"Thank you for summoning me, Lord Ainz."
Wilson Fisk bowed, but his eyes remained sharp, calculating. He was a desperate man, yes, but he was not a fool. He needed proof. Words were wind; the Kingpin dealt in tangibles.
On the obsidian throne, Ainz Ooal Gown sensed the lingering doubt in the human's heart.
"You require a demonstration," Ainz stated, his voice echoing with regal indifference. "Very well."
Ainz extended a skeletal hand into the air. Space distorted, ripping open a small, dark void—his Inventory.
He reached in and pulled out a live, snarling grey wolf.
With a casual toss, Ainz threw the beast to the foot of the throne, right in front of Fisk.
"Kill it."
Fisk blinked, surprised by the mundane nature of the request. But he didn't hesitate.
He reached down, his massive hand engulfing the wolf's neck. The beast snapped and thrashed, but against the Kingpin's grip, it might as well have been a stuffed toy.
CRACK.
Fisk squeezed. The spine shattered instantly. The wolf went limp, its tongue lolling out, eyes glazing over in death.
Fisk dropped the carcass and looked up at the throne, waiting.
The three monsters in the room—the Overlord, the Demon, and the Kingpin—looked at the dead animal with zero empathy. To them, death was a transaction.
"Watch closely," Ainz commanded.
A card materialized between his skeletal fingers. It glowed with a faint, golden light.
[Cash Shop Item: Spell Card - Premature Burial]
"Activate."
The card dissolved into particles of light, showering down upon the broken body of the wolf.
Fisk watched, his breath hitching in his throat.
The light seeped into the fur. The twisted angle of the neck snapped back into place with a sickening pop. The clouded eyes cleared, regaining their amber hue.
Thump-thump.
The chest rose.
The wolf gasped, scrambling to its feet in terror, completely unharmed.
It was a miracle.
It was the impossible made real.
Fisk fell to his knees, his eyes wide, staring at the wolf as if it were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. If a wolf could return... Vanessa could return.
"Respected Supreme Being," Fisk whispered, his voice trembling with genuine reverence. "Lord Ainz Ooal Gown."
"Whatever you need... I will give everything to accomplish it. My empire is yours."
This time, there was no coercion. No magic compulsion. The Kingpin bowed because he had found a new god.
[Internal Monologue - Ainz Ooal Gown]
'Phew...'
Inside his ribcage, Satoru Suzuki let out a phantom sigh of relief.
'Thank god for the System Shop.'
It had cost him 10,000 Emotion Points, but securing a pawn like the Kingpin was worth the investment.
As an Undead, Ainz couldn't naturally cast Resurrection magic. It was antithetical to his existence. Even his Guardians lacked the ability.
But the System didn't care about class restrictions. It only cared about points.
'Premature Burial is cheap because it only works on the recently deceased,' Ainz mused, looking at the bowing human. 'If he wants his wife back—someone who has been dead for years—I'll need the high-tier item: Monster Reborn.'
'Price: 500,000 Emotion Points.'
Ainz's red eye sockets flared.
'Work hard for me, Kingpin. Your wife is expensive.'
[Harlem, New York - Pop's Barbershop]
The atmosphere shifted from the cold marble of a tomb to the warm, scent-filled air of a barbershop. The smell of talcum powder and aftershave hung in the air.
Outside, a flashy sports car—far too expensive for this neighborhood—idled at the curb.
Inside the car sat a man with messy blonde curls and a beard that made him look like a homeless surfer. He stared at the barbershop through the window, phone pressed to his ear.
"Luke," Danny Rand said urgency in his voice. "I know you're in there. I need your help."
Click.
The line went dead.
Inside the shop, Luke Cage sighed, shoving his flip phone back into his pocket. He picked up a broom and started sweeping hair from the checkered floor, his movements slow and deliberate.
He glanced at the older man sitting in the barber chair, reading a newspaper.
Pop (Henry Hunter). The heart of the neighborhood.
"Luke," Pop said without looking up from the sports section. "Don't bring trouble to my door."
Luke paused, looking through the window at Danny Rand in the car.
"I know, Pop," Luke rumbled, his voice deep and weary. "I just want to earn a living. Keep my head down. Live a quiet life."
Pop lowered the paper, peering over his reading glasses. He looked at the massive man sweeping his floor—a man who could bend steel bars if he wanted to.
"You want a quiet life," Pop corrected gently. "But trouble has a way of finding you, son. Always does."
He nodded toward the window.
"Your rich friend out there isn't going to leave. And if you don't deal with it, he's going to bring his mess inside."
Luke gripped the broom handle. He didn't want to be a hero. He didn't want to be an Avenger. He just wanted to be left alone.
But Pop was right.
"Your own trouble, you solve it yourself," Pop said, returning to his paper. "Forward, always."
Luke sighed again, heavier this time. He leaned the broom against the wall.
"Forward, always," Luke muttered.
He walked to the door, the bell jingling as he stepped out to face the Iron Fist.
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