Marvel x Genshin: Mavuika, The Sun Goddess Rules Asgard — Chapter 161

Chapter 161: Black Sky

Kyoto, Japan.

The Hand’s Secret Base.

Murakami sat in the oppressive dimness of the room, his face a mask of shifting shadows. The silence was a weight, heavy and suffocating.

Twelve.

He had dispatched twelve of his finest elites to New York. Twelve shadows trained in a thousand ways to kill, each a master in their own right.

Not a single one had returned. Not a whisper, not a trace.

He remained in the darkness, as still and cold as a stone effigy in a forgotten temple. A long time passed before his eyelids finally lifted, revealing a cold, almost manic light flickering in their depths.

“Twelve,” he muttered, the sound a dry rasp in the quiet room. “The very elite of my Hand… and they couldn’t even force her to lift a finger?”

He rose to his feet, his movements stiff and deliberate. He crossed the tatami mats to the far wall, his gaze falling upon an ancient Ukiyo-e scroll. The faded ink depicted a monstrous creature, a swirling vortex of claws and fangs—the primordial demon worshipped by The Hand, the entity known only as the Beast.

“Perhaps,” he whispered to the painted horror, “it is time to invite it out.”

Murakami retrieved a small, featureless phone and dialed a number from memory. The electronic tone rang three times, each one stretching into an eternity, before the call was answered.

An old woman’s voice, laced with an eerie, unshakeable calm, drifted through the receiver. “Murakami. It has been a long time.”

“Madam Gao,” Murakami said, his voice tight. “I require your assistance.”

The other end of the line fell silent for several seconds, a silence that spoke of centuries of patience. Madam Gao, one of the five revered Fingers of The Hand, was a monster in human skin, an ancient being who had watched empires rise and fall. Like Murakami, she was a devout servant of the Beast.

“I have heard of your… situation,” Madam Gao said at last.

Murakami’s grip on the phone tightened, the plastic creaking under the strain. “Do you know who we are facing?”

A soft, dry chuckle echoed from the phone. “I do not. But I confess, my curiosity is piqued.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “Anyone who can inflict such a loss upon The Hand is certainly worth a personal visit.”

Murakami’s brow furrowed. “You are coming to New York?”

“I am already here,” Madam Gao’s voice replied, now carrying a distinct note of pleasure. “And I have brought an old friend with me.”

Murakami’s eyes widened, a flicker of understanding dawning. “You mean—”

He cut himself off, the implications sinking in. A slow, cruel smile stretched across his lips, devoid of any warmth.

“Good,” he hissed. “Then we shall allow her to witness the true power of The Hand.”

Brooklyn, New York.

Within the cavernous, dust-choked space of an abandoned warehouse, Madam Gao stood cloaked in shadow. She was a diminutive figure, a small old woman in a simple grey robe, her hair the color of ash. Her face, etched with a lifetime of wrinkles, could have been mistaken for kind—an ordinary, elderly Asian woman lost in the city.

But the man kneeling before her knew the truth. He knew she was anything but ordinary.

He was a young man, barely in his early twenties, dressed in stark black. He knelt with his head bowed, utterly motionless. His exposed skin was a canvas of dense, black runes that seemed to writhe in the gloom—the mark of the Beast, a curse and a blessing passed down through a thousand years of The Hand’s bloody history.

He was the Black Sky. The chosen vessel for the Beast in the mortal realm.

Madam Gao looked down at him, her expression one of almost maternal affection. “Child,” she said, her voice soft as silk. “Are you ready?”

The young man lifted his head. His eyes were voids—no sclera, no iris, no pupil. There was only an endless, consuming darkness.

“I am ready,” he replied. His voice was hollow, an echo from a deep and desolate abyss.

Madam Gao nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in her ancient gaze. “Very good. Tonight, we shall pay a visit to our new acquaintances.”

She turned and began to walk toward the warehouse exit, her small steps making no sound on the grimy concrete. The Black Sky rose and followed, a silent, predatory shadow trailing in her wake.

As dusk settled, the twilight over New York bled across the horizon in shades of bruised purple and dark red. At a derelict pier in Brooklyn, Murakami stood beneath the sickly yellow glow of a single functioning lamp. Behind him, fifty ninjas of The Hand stood in perfect formation, a silent army of black-clad death. It was all the strength he could muster on such short notice.

Madam Gao emerged from the encroaching shadows, the Black Sky at her side.

Murakami’s gaze swept past her and landed on the young man, his brow creasing in doubt. “This is the ‘old friend’ you brought?”

Madam Gao simply nodded.

Murakami’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the vessel—the pitch-black eyes, the arcane runes covering his body, the chilling aura of cold that radiated from him like a shroud.

“And he can deal with them?” he pressed.

A faint, knowing smile touched Madam Gao’s lips. “The power of the Beast is not something your ninjas can comprehend, Murakami.”

Murakami was silent for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Fine. Then let them witness the true, terrible might of The Hand.”

Back in Mavuika’s apartment, the three siblings were seated around the dinner table. The meal was a quiet, comfortable affair until Mavuika suddenly set her chopsticks down with a soft click.

The sound, though small, was enough. Thor and Loki both paused mid-bite, their attention snapping to her.

“What is it, sister?” Thor asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

Mavuika didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze was distant, piercing through the window and across the city, focused on the distant borough of Brooklyn.

“Something is coming,” she said, her voice low and steady.

Loki felt it too, a subtle shift in the air that prickled at his senses. His expression grew serious. “A powerful… and intensely cold aura. This is no mortal energy.”

Thor scratched his head, looking between them. “What kind of thing?”

Mavuika rose from her chair and walked to the window, her silhouette framed against the glittering cityscape. She could feel it clearly now—a potent, dark force coalescing somewhere in Brooklyn. It was a power that had no place among humans, a presence that did not belong to this world. It felt ancient, hungry, and utterly malevolent.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Let’s go and see.”

Brooklyn, Abandoned Pier.

Mavuika descended from the heavens, a streak of golden-red fire that carved a dazzling trail through the night sky. Thor and Loki followed close behind. Thor opted for a more direct approach, leaping from a nearby rooftop and landing with a ground-shaking impact that cracked the concrete and sent a plume of dust into the air. Loki, ever the graceful one, simply drifted down like a falling leaf, landing without a sound.

The three of them stood on the pier, a united front against the dark crowd assembled before them. Fifty ninjas, masked and silent, radiated a evident killing intent that hung heavy in the salty air.

Murakami stood at their head, a newly forged katana held loosely in his hand. His expression was glacial, his eyes burning with a thirst for vengeance. Beside him, Madam Gao watched with a strange, placid smile on her kindly face. And behind her, the Black Sky stood as still and silent as a grave marker.

Thor glanced over the assembled ninjas and let out a dismissive scoff. “You again? I thought you would have learned your lesson last time.”

Murakami’s voice was as cold as steel. “Last time was merely a test,” he said, his words sharp and precise. “This time is different.” His burning gaze shifted, locking onto Mavuika. “You are the woman.”

Mavuika met his stare, her expression unreadable.

“Twelve of my finest elites were slaughtered by your hand,” Murakami continued, his voice dripping with venom. “Today, that debt will be settled.”

Mavuika finally spoke, her tone even and calm. “They made the first move.”

Murakami sneered. “And what of it?”

She let out a soft, almost weary sigh. “I had no desire for trouble. But you persist, and now you have even brought…” Her gaze drifted past him, settling on the silent figure of the Black Sky. “…this sort of thing.”

As if summoned by her attention, the Black Sky lifted his head. Those pitch-black, bottomless eyes fixed on Mavuika, hollow and utterly devoid of life.

Madam Gao’s smile widened. “You can feel it, can’t you? Its power is far beyond anything you can imagine.” She turned her head slightly, her gaze falling upon the vessel.

The Black Sky moved.

His speed was astonishing. He didn’t run; he glided, his feet never seeming to touch the ground as he blurred across the distance, a living shadow streaking toward Mavuika.

She simply raised a hand.

A bolt of pure, golden-red fire erupted from her palm, striking the Black Sky square in the chest. His forward momentum paused for a fraction of a second in mid-air—and then he continued, pushing through the flames.

The fire licked across his body, and the black runes etched into his skin began to glow with an unholy light, writhing as if they had a life of their own. His skin cracked and split under the intense heat, but it was not blood that poured from the fissures. It was a thick, black mist.

The mist coiled in the air, condensing into twisted, screaming faces that writhed in silent agony.

Loki’s brow furrowed, his eyes wide with dawning horror and recognition.

“So that’s what it is,” he whispered, his voice tight with grim understanding. “A demon. A true demon.”