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Chapter 20 – The Sage’s Command
🕑 Added 2025-03-02 09:18:07 +0000 UTCJack sat comfortably on the floor, lazily swirling his tea, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. The tension in the room was thick, but Jack? Unbothered.
He grinned. "It's okay."
Alessa furrowed her brows.
Jack tilted his head, listening to the echoes of battle from his clones. "They're weaklings anyway. My clones can handle them easily."
Alessa's entire body stiffened. "…Clone?" Her thoughts raced. She hadn't seen any clones. How many were there? How strong were they? She stole a glance at Madame Gao, expecting her to show the same surprise. But instead—Madame Gao merely wiped her sweat, nodding slowly. "That is good news."
Jack yawned. "Mhm. Anyway, I need something from you." He set down his tea, his playful tone turning sharper. "Give me a full map of Kingpin's operations. Every commander. Every location. Every detail."
Madame Gao nodded immediately. "Bring me the maps."
Her subordinates rushed to obey, scrambling through files and documents. One quickly unrolled a large map on the table, marking Kingpin's key locations.
But Madame Gao herself took a brush, dipping it in ink, and began marking additional details. She was careful. Precise. Each X and circle she added wasn't just a location—it was a statement of knowledge and power.
Jack leaned forward, studying it. What he saw made him raise a brow. The map was dense with information.
Each of Kingpin's commanders had their own territories, but they weren't just lieutenants. They were fully formed organizations on their own. Some were generational crime families, others were mercenary groups, and a few were former warlords from overseas.
Jack chuckled. "So, Kingpin actually tamed all of them?"
Madame Gao nodded. "Yes. Through power, fear, and control."
Jack grinned. "He must be fun at parties."
Then—his gaze landed on Chinatown. It was marked as her territory.
Jack raised a brow. "This one's yours?"
Madame Gao nodded again.
Jack snorted. "Wow. Kingpin's really stingy, huh?"
Madame Gao said nothing, merely lowering her gaze slightly. Jack leaned back, crossing his arms. Then—he smirked. "Alright. From now on, you work for me."
Madame Gao's lips curled slightly. A smirk. She had always been loyal to herself first. And if aligning with this Sage meant surviving and thriving, then the Hand could burn for all she cared.
Her voice was smooth, careful. "A wise decision, Sage."
Jack grinned. "Of course it is."
Then—his expression darkened slightly. "But before we continue, I need to know two things."
His fingers tapped against the table. "What's your end goal?"
Madame Gao paused.
"Power."
She didn't hesitate.
Jack nodded. "And your business now?"
Madame Gao took a slow breath. She wasn't stupid. She knew Sages had their own principles. But she also knew hiding the truth from him would be suicidal.
So—she spoke plainly. "My faction does everything in New York. The other Hand factions focus internationally."
Jack gestured for her to continue. "We control the supply of weapons, drugs… and human trafficking."
Jack's grin vanished.
The room froze.
Madame Gao continued carefully. "Human traffic is our most lucrative business. If we abandon it, others will take it—either Kingpin or another Hand faction."
Jack's expression didn't change. He simply lifted his tea, took a sip, and exhaled. Then—he spoke. "Keep the guns. Keep the drugs. I don't care."
Madame Gao felt a sliver of relief. But then—his golden eyes locked onto hers.
"But stop the slave trade. Permanently."
Madame Gao felt her breath hitch. "Sage, if we—"
Jack cut her off. "Let them take it."
Madame Gao's lips parted slightly.
Jack's voice was calm—but absolute. "I'm warning you because I like you."
The warriors felt the air shift.
Jack set his cup down gently. "And because I like you, I'll tell you this—" His voice dropped, low and quiet. "Anyone who deals in human traffic will die a horrible death."
The air felt thicker. "A death so excruciating that they will beg for an end."
His gaze sharpened. "I will not tolerate anyone who hinders the freedom of others."
Madame Gao's hand trembled slightly. She had felt power before. She had stood in the presence of warlords, demons, and ancient masters.
But this? This was something else entirely. There was no room for negotiation. No room for deception. The sage wasn't asking. He was declaring.
Madame Gao bowed her head fully. "We will follow your command, Sage." The warriors in the room hesitated. Then—one by one, they followed suit, bowing.
Alessa's hands clenched tightly. She had never seen Madame Gao bow to anyone. And yet—here she was.
Jack leaned back, sighing. "Good." He lifted his tea casually again, taking another sip. Then—he smiled. "Now, let's talk business."
The power balance in New York had shifted.
And Jack was just getting started.
…
The streets were quiet around Fisk Tower.
The usual hustle and bustle of New York was just beginning to pick up as the early afternoon sun shone over the towering skyscraper.
But right in front of Wilson Fisk's headquarters…Something horrific was about to be revealed.
The Jack clones moved quickly. Under the cover of a concealment spell, they dragged the beaten, unconscious, and lifeless bodies of Kingpin's men onto the pavement. Each clone giggled mischievously as they carefully arranged the corpses.
One clone tilted his head. "Nah, nah, move that guy a little to the left—his face needs to be the dot of the exclamation mark."
Another nodded sagely. "True, true. Artistic integrity matters."
A third clone tapped his chin. "Do we add a heart symbol next to it?"
The first clone grinned. "Nah. 'Fuck You!' is already a strong statement. Adding a heart would be overkill."
Satisfied, they stepped back, admiring their work. A perfectly arranged display of dead bodies—spelling out two simple words:
FUCK YOU!
The clones snickered. "Alright, time to bounce." They ran off in different directions, slipping into the alleys and rooftops, staying far enough away before deactivating the invisibility spell.
The moment the spell lifted—Screams.
Pedestrians walking past Fisk Tower froze, eyes widening in horror. Gasps. Gagging. Shrieks.
A woman dropped her coffee. "Oh my god!"
A man covered his child's eyes. "Jesus Christ—don't look!"
Phones were immediately pulled out, snapping pictures, recording videos. The entire front of the Fisk Tower was now a gruesome crime scene.
And on the penthouse floor of the tower… Wilson Fisk stood by the window, his broad shoulders tense. His jaw tightened. His fists clenched.
But the worst reaction came from the woman beside him. Vanessa Marianna. She had just walked in to greet her husband when she glanced out the window—And saw it.
The twisted, bloody arrangement of corpses. The words spelled out in human bodies. She screamed. Loud. Horrified.
Wilson Fisk turned sharply toward her. His face remained calm—but his eyes? Rage. Absolute, seething rage.
Vanessa clutched her mouth, stepping back, her entire body shaking. "Who… who did this?" she whispered.
Fisk turned back to the window, his hands trembling with barely contained fury. His gaze scanned the bodies carefully. Then—he recognized them. His men. The ones he sent to destroy the newly claimed territory in Hell's Kitchen. The ones who were supposed to eliminate that nuisance.
Instead—they were decorating the front of his tower. His breath came out slow, deep.
Then, he muttered. "Gao… you lied to me."
She told him she will handle it. She told him she had eliminated the problem. But not only did she fail… She let this happen. She let that bastard do this.
Fisk's hands clenched so tightly, his knuckles turned white. His empire was being challenged. And Wilson Fisk did not take challenges lightly.
…
Ten minutes passed.
The crime scene had turned into a media circus. News vans arrived in droves, flashing cameras illuminating the gruesome scene outside Fisk Tower.
Crowds gathered, murmuring in shock. And then—the sirens wailed. Multiple NYPD squad cars pulled up, lights flashing, officers stepping out in force. At the front of the response team, a man exited a black unmarked car.
Tall. Lean. Grim-faced. His badge gleamed under the afternoon sun—Captain George Stacy. Newly promoted. And already? His first week was a disaster.
Stacy adjusted his tie, exhaling sharply. "Secure the perimeter," he ordered. "Keep the media back. I don't want them contaminating the crime scene."
His officers moved swiftly, setting up barriers, pushing back reporters. As he surveyed the scene, his gut twisted.
Bodies. So many bodies. Arranged in a way no sane person would ever expect.
Fuck You!
Right in front of Wilson Fisk's empire. George rubbed his temple. "…This is a bad sign." Before Stacy could gather his thoughts, movement caught his eye.
A group of well-dressed men stepped out of Fisk Tower. And at the center of them—Wilson Fisk himself. The massive man moved slowly but purposefully, his presence alone making officers tense. Beside him, his wife, Vanessa Marianna, clung to his arm, her expression pale and shaken.
Stacy straightened his posture.
Fisk walked up to him, offering a practiced, apologetic smile. "Captain Stacy. Congratulations on your promotion." His voice was smooth, deep, calculated. "I'm sorry we have to meet again under such tragic circumstances."
George Stacy forced a polite, professional smile. "Don't worry about it, Mr. Fisk."
They had met before, during fundraisers and charity events. Each time, Fisk played the part of the city's most generous benefactor. Each time, Stacy wanted nothing more than to arrest him.
But this wasn't a battlefield. This was a chessboard. So, Stacy played along. "I hope you'll cooperate with my detectives during the investigation."
Fisk sighed, shaking his head. "Of course, Captain." Then—he exhaled, his expression solemn. "It seems my charity work has ruffled the wrong people."
Ah. There it was. The narrative shift. Fisk lowered his gaze, his voice dripping with manufactured grief. "My wife… she won't be able to sleep for weeks after seeing this."
Vanessa squeezed his arm, a genuine grieving, terrified woman.
George Stacy nodded. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Before he could say more, one of the detectives approached. "Sir, we need to ask Mr. Fisk a few questions."
Fisk offered a sad smile. "Of course, Detective."
He turned back to Stacy, extending a large hand. "Captain. Let's talk soon about how we can make this city safer… together."
George Stacy shook it, keeping his grip firm. "Looking forward to it, Mr. Fisk."
Fisk gave one last mournful glance at the bodies before walking away with the detective. Stacy watched him go. His expression hardened.
George Stacy knew the truth. Wilson Fisk—Kingpin of Crime. He controlled Hell's Kitchen. He ran guns, drugs, extortion, and more.
But in the public eye? He was a charitable businessman. A community leader. And this incident? He would twist it in his favor. Use it to boost his public image. Make himself seem like a victim. And worse? The media would eat it up.
Stacy sighed, already feeling a migraine forming. He needed to find a way to turn this around. To stop Fisk from using this as another stepping stone.
Because if he didn't? This city was going to fall deeper into his hands. And Stacy wasn't sure if he could stop it.
Comments
Duriko Durien
Definitely makes sense that he would care about peoples freedom. Even if he doesn't remember/hasn't experienced being locked inside a mountain, wukongs whole thing is doing what he wants. In the original book he fought like the entire god population to erase his subjects names out of the book of fate and death lol.
