Got you, brother ⚡ — this one's going to hit hard.
Chapter 13 will pick up right after the rooftop battle. Silva's wounded, hunted, and beginning to realize that the truth about his father — and
THE IRON FIST 👊
Chapter Thirteen – The Shadows Beneath
The night bled into silence. The storm had passed, but its ghost lingered — puddles glimmering under broken neon lights, smoke curling from shattered signs.
Silva walked alone through the ruins of the rooftop battle, his coat torn, his breath shallow. His ribs ached where Jared's strike had landed. Every step sent a pulse of pain through his side, but he didn't stop. The Iron Fist was still faintly glowing beneath his skin, a quiet reminder of the power that had almost consumed him.
He hadn't killed Jared. That was both mercy — and mistake.
The Hand would come now. Jared wouldn't be the only one.
He reached the street, slipping through an alley thick with fog. The city below was restless — sirens in the distance, whispers in the dark. Somewhere, beneath all of that, he could feel them watching. The Hand didn't just hunt. They surrounded.
Silva stopped beside a flickering streetlamp and looked at his reflection in a shattered window. His eyes were rimmed with gold, veins faintly glowing under his skin. It scared him — not the power, but how much he'd enjoyed using it.
A voice came from the shadows behind him.
"You're bleeding."
He spun, fists glowing.
The old man — Master Chen — stepped from the darkness, his robe soaked from the rain. His expression was calm, but his eyes carried the weight of someone who had seen too much.
"You shouldn't have come here," Silva said.
"I told you once," Chen replied quietly, "the fire does not ask for permission. It calls. You follow."
Silva lowered his fists, breathing hard. "You knew he'd come for me."
"I knew someone would. The Hand does not forget what it lost."
"They wanted me?"
"No," Chen said softly. "They wanted your father."
Silva froze. "My father?"
Chen nodded slowly. "Before you were born, your father bore the mark of the Iron Fist — the same as you. But he… changed. The power consumed his spirit. He left the order and joined the Hand, believing he could control their darkness."
Silva shook his head. "That's not possible. My father died in the mountain fire."
Chen's voice was barely a whisper. "The fire was no accident."
The world seemed to tilt. Silva took a step back, rainwater rippling under his boots. "You're saying… he's alive?"
"I do not know if what remains of him is still the man you remember."
The words felt like shards in his chest.
Before Silva could reply, a faint hiss broke the silence. Then another.
Chen's gaze hardened. "They've found us."
Figures began to appear in the mist — silhouettes moving with unnatural grace, faces hidden by black masks.
The Hand.
Silva's fists blazed gold. "Then we end this."
Chen placed a hand on his shoulder. "No. You are weak. You must leave."
"I'm not running again."
"You misunderstand." Chen's tone darkened. "The Iron Fist protects life — but if you stay, the fire inside you will unleash it."
He stepped forward, his own palms glowing faint blue. "Go."
Silva hesitated — then nodded once. He leapt onto the wall and climbed, vanishing into the fog above as the first of the assassins attacked.
He didn't look back, but the sound of battle followed — a clash of steel and light echoing through the rain.
By the time he reached the next street, his breath was ragged. He dropped into an alley and pressed his back against the wall, listening.
Silence. Then — a scream.
He wanted to turn back. But something deeper pulled him forward.
The Hand hadn't just come for him. They were cleansing the trail. If Chen fell, there'd be no one left who knew the truth.
He pushed on, heading toward the old temple on the city's edge — the one Chen had always forbidden him to enter.
The gates were carved with dragon symbols, cracked and overgrown with vines. Inside, the air smelled of dust and rain. Statues of monks lined the walls, their faces half-erased by time.
He moved cautiously, light flickering from his fists to guide the way.
At the center stood a single brazier still burning — faint blue fire that never seemed to die.
And above it, etched into the stone floor, was a sigil identical to the mark on his hand.
He knelt, tracing it. "Father…"
A voice echoed through the chamber — deep, weary, and familiar.
"You shouldn't have come here, son."
Silva froze. The air grew colder.
A figure stepped from behind the pillars. The hood fell back, revealing a face scarred but unmistakable — the same eyes, the same jawline, aged and hollowed by time.
"Father?" Silva whispered.
"I was hoping you'd never find this place," the man said, his voice a blend of sorrow and pride. "The Hand made sure of that."
"You… you're alive."
"Alive?" His father's smile was bitter. "I'm a shadow wearing a name. The man I was died long ago."
Silva's heart pounded. "Master Chen said you joined the Hand."
"I joined them to destroy them," his father said. "But their darkness doesn't break — it seeps into you. I thought I could control it. I was wrong."
He turned toward the brazier. "Now the same curse burns in you."
Silva took a step forward. "Then help me stop it."
"I can't." His father's voice trembled. "The moment you used that power against Jared, the Hand marked you. You're part of their prophecy now — the golden weapon that will open the Gate of the Void."
Silva frowned. "Gate of the what?"
"The place where this power was born," his father said. "A realm of pure energy — and pure madness. The Hand seeks to open it and merge our world with it."
"Then we stop them."
His father turned, eyes glowing faint red. "You don't understand. To close that gate, the Iron Fist must burn itself out. Entirely."
Silva stared at him. "You mean… I'd have to die."
"Not just die," his father said softly. "Cease. The fire cannot leave a vessel alive."
Lightning flickered through the temple's broken ceiling, casting monstrous shadows.
Silva shook his head. "No. There has to be another way."
His father sighed. "I searched for years. There isn't."
Suddenly the brazier's flame shifted — from blue to crimson.
His father looked up sharply. "They've found us."
The doors burst open. The Hand flooded in — a dozen masked assassins, blades whispering through the air.
Silva and his father stood side by side, fists igniting — gold and red flaring together.
"Whatever happens," his father said, "don't let them take your heart."
Then the battle erupted.
Energy burned through the temple, flames licking the stone as Silva struck and parried, each hit lighting the walls with molten glow. His father fought like a phantom, his movements cruelly precise.
But the Hand were endless.
A blade sliced across Silva's arm; he retaliated with a surge of golden force that hurled three assassins into the wall. His father was surrounded, crimson light flaring wildly.
Then Silva saw it — one of the Hand raising a shard of obsidian etched with strange runes. The Gate Seal.
"Father!"
His father turned too late. The assassin drove the shard into the ground, and the entire temple began to shake.
A rift of darkness split open beneath the brazier — swirling, endless.
His father shoved Silva back, shouting, "Go! Now!"
"I'm not leaving you again!"
His father smiled — the same gentle smile Silva remembered from childhood. "You already have. You became more than me."
Then the floor collapsed.
Silva fell backward through the smoke and fire, landing hard outside as the temple imploded in a flash of red and gold.
When he opened his eyes, the building was gone — only a smoking crater and falling ash remained.
He whispered, "Father…"
The only answer was the sound of rain returning, soft and cold.
Somewhere deep below, the rift still glowed faintly — a wound in the world.
And in that moment, Silva knew: this wasn't the end. It was the beginning of the war the Hand had been waiting centuries to start.