A great Japanese castle loomed against the night sky, all sweeping roofs and blackened tiles, ancient and imposing even as chaos crawled across it. Fire had already begun to catch along the upper eaves, painting the high walls in a cruel orange glow. The banners of the Hand flapped in the heat, half-burned and snapping in the wind like warning flags.
The front approach looked like a battlefield.
Only it was not the kind she was used to.
Members of the Hand were everywhere, but not in the ways that made sense. Some had been webbed up and left hanging from the great wooden gate like grotesque decorations, their limbs pinned in useless knots. Others lay face down in the gravel courtyard, cocooned and twitching, unable to move. Two more floated in the koi pond, bound together in white strands, the bright fish darting nervously beneath them.
No blood.
No clean cuts.
No severed limbs.
Just humiliation.
Psylocke shoved the main gate open with both hands, the old wood groaning under the force. The moment she stepped inside, her body tensed. Her hand moved on instinct, fingers curling around the hilt at her hip as she slowly drew her blade. Steel whispered into the night.
She held it low, ready.
Every part of her screamed that something was wrong.
She scanned the courtyard once, twice, then moved.
Fast. Silent. Precise.
Her boots barely touched the stone as she slipped between pillars and shattered lanterns, gliding deeper into the castle grounds. Every corner she turned revealed more of the same. More of her clan taken down. Some unconscious. Some groaning. Some staring at nothing with wide, rattled eyes, too stunned to speak.
No one had fought back.
Or rather, no one had been allowed to.
Psylocke's brow tightened.
Who had done this?
Had the pro heroes finally made their move? Had the authorities found the Hand at last? If so, why now? Why tonight of all nights? Why with such... theatricality?
She ducked through a ruined hall, sliding past a toppled screen door, then vaulted over a collapsed beam. Her pace increased. Her grip tightened around the hilt. The higher she climbed through the castle, the hotter the air became. Smoke rolled down the corridors in slow waves. Flame licked at the timber frames.
Whatever had happened here, it had reached the top.
She hit the grand staircase at a sprint.
Up she went, feet hammering against polished wood blackened by soot. Halfway up, the railing had splintered, so she planted one foot against the wall, sprang to a support pillar, then launched herself again, moving upward in sharp, controlled bursts. One pillar. Then the next. Then the next. A blur in the firelight.
By the time she cleared the final gate, her breathing was steady, but her pulse was not.
The upper platform had become an open wound of smoke and broken stone. Fire crawled through the beams overhead, spitting sparks into the night. Chunks of roof tile littered the floor. The edge of the castle dropped away into a long, sheer cliff, the darkness below swallowing whatever fell into it.
And there, at the centre of it all, she saw her.
Lady Deathstrike.
Defeated.
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