Max's journey to eliminate the remaining Fingers of the Hand continued, and this time, his targets were far from New York.
Bakuto had entrenched himself in the slums of South America, recruiting orphans, criminals, and desperate individuals, molding them into assassins and spies for the Hand. Meanwhile, Sowande operated on a much grander scale—handling the Hand's military resources, making deals with warlords, and supplying arms to various factions across Africa.
Neither of them had any idea that death was coming for them.
South America
The sun beat down on the sprawling favela, a labyrinth of narrow alleys, makeshift homes, and scattered watchtowers. Armed men patrolled the rooftops, their keen eyes scanning for intruders. Children trained in knife combat under Bakuto's direct supervision, their once-innocent expressions hardened by years of indoctrination.
But none of it mattered.
Max had arrived.
A single step brought him into the heart of the slums. His presence alone sent a ripple of unease through the air. He walked calmly, hands in his pockets, eyes cold as steel. The moment the first gunman spotted him, a hailstorm of bullets rained down from above.
And yet, Max did not move.
The bullets never reached him.
They stopped in midair, hovering motionless before reversing their trajectory. The gunmen barely had time to react before their own bullets tore through their skulls, painting the rooftops red.
A silence fell over the favela.
Bakuto, watching from his fortress, felt a chill crawl up his spine. He had fought many warriors—enhanced soldiers, martial arts masters, chi manipulators—but this… this was something else.
His radio crackled. "Sir, he's—" static.
"Sir, we need ba—" silence.
One by one, his men disappeared from his radar. No screams, no sounds of struggle—just nothingness.
Bakuto gritted his teeth. "Damn it. Kill him!"
Dozens of assassins, trained in chi-enhanced combat, rushed at Max with inhuman speed. They wielded katanas, throwing knives, and chains infused with dark energy.
Max didn't even blink.
The air around him twisted, and the assassins fell to their knees, clutching their chests as their hearts burst inside their ribcages. Blood leaked from their eyes, their bodies collapsing lifelessly.
Bakuto staggered backward, drawing his sword. He infused it with chi, the blade glowing with a brilliant aura. "You may have power, but you're nothing compared to the Hand's discipline!"
Max tilted his head. "Oh?"
With a flick of his wrist, an invisible force ripped Bakuto's sword from his hands, snapping it in half midair. The next moment, his legs shattered, the bones inside his body crushed from the inside out.
Bakuto let out a strangled scream as he collapsed onto the ground, looking up in horror. Max loomed over him, his shadow swallowing the fallen warrior.
"You trained killers. You turned children into weapons. For what? The illusion of power?" Max whispered, crouching down.
Bakuto's breath was ragged. "The Hand… cannot be stopped… We are… eternal."
Max sighed. "So is your suffering."
He raised a single finger.
Bakuto's entire body imploded—muscles, bones, and organs compressing into a tiny, pulsing sphere before vanishing into nothingness.
With Bakuto gone, the slums fell eerily silent. The remaining recruits—those too young or too weak to fight—watched in awe as Max turned away, his work done.
And then, he was gone.
Africa – The Death of Sowande
Unlike Bakuto, Sowande was no mere assassin trainer. He was the Hand's general—the mastermind behind their military might. His base of operations was a fortified compound in the middle of a war-torn desert, where he made deals with mercenaries, warlords, and corrupt officials.
His men had tanks. They had anti-aircraft weapons. They had supernatural beasts, bio-enhanced soldiers, and mystical artifacts from forgotten civilizations.
And yet, none of it mattered.
Because Max had arrived.
The desert winds howled as he stood at the edge of the compound. Soldiers spotted him immediately, scrambling to their weapons. The roar of machine guns, RPGs, and mounted turrets filled the air.
Max didn't move.
The missiles stopped just meters away from him, freezing midair. The gunfire ceased, every bullet halting in place like an invisible force had pressed pause on reality itself.
Then, everything reversed.
Missiles turned around, slamming back into the turrets that launched them. Soldiers were torn apart by their own gunfire, their screams lost in the inferno.
Panic spread like wildfire.
Inside the main building, Sowande watched from a reinforced bunker, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk. "Deploy everything. I don't care what it takes—kill him!"
But all of this was futile...
Sowande's forces were annihilated before they could even comprehend what was happening.
And then, Max walked into the compound.
Doors unlocked on their own. Security systems crashed. The bunker—designed to withstand nuclear blasts—peeled open like paper.
Sowande, drenched in sweat, fell to his knees as Max entered the room.
"Wh-what are you?" Sowande whispered.
Max stared at him, expression unreadable. "Your executioner."
Sowande's breath hitched. "Please. We—We can make a deal. I have wealth, power, influence. Whatever you want, I can provide it."
Max shook his head. "I don't need anything from you."
A shadow loomed over Sowande. His body suddenly felt light, as if gravity itself had abandoned him. He floated into the air, higher and higher, until the bunker ceiling cracked and the sky swallowed him whole.
And then—
Sowande was gone.
No blood. No body. No trace.
The last remnants of the Hand's military operations vanished with him.
Max exhaled, dusting off his hands. "Two more down. One last guy left"
Max mumbled as he lounged on Sowande's throne, flipping through a chi manipulation book he had taken from the warlord's personal collection. The once-mighty general of the Hand was nothing more than a memory now, his vast network of mercenaries and warlords reduced to ashes.
As Max scanned the text, he muttered to himself, "So, the Hand's chi techniques were based on ancient forbidden arts… Interesting."
But even as he read, his mind drifted elsewhere.
With all five Fingers of the Hand dead, the once-feared organization was now little more than a hollow shell. Their influence, their power, their centuries-old schemes—all undone in mere days.
***
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