Marvel's Hogwarts Professor

New York, Hell's Kitchen — Late Night

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

A light rain had been falling throughout the night, its gentle patter against the pavement creating a constant backdrop of sound that seemed to measure the passing minutes with liquid precision.

In most parts of New York—the city that famously never sleeps—bright lights would still be piercing the darkness at this hour, shops would remain open, and streets would bustle with activity despite the rain and late hour. But Hell's Kitchen was different. Here, night itself was synonymous with danger, particularly a dark, rainy night such as this. Such conditions were perfect for violence—heavy rain washed away blood and evidence with equal efficiency.

Except for a few bars whose neon signs cast sickly halos through the mist, darkness reigned supreme throughout the district.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Somewhere along a remote street, footsteps sounded with metronomic regularity. The cadence was unhurried yet purposeful, revealing a calm determination. The figures moved forward in perfect silence, making no conversation. Apart from the sound of their soles against the wet ground, they moved like ghosts through the night.

Most peculiar was their appearance. Despite the rain, they carried no umbrellas. Droplets fell from the sky and struck their black robes, yet instead of soaking into the fabric, the water seemed to encounter an invisible barrier before sliding harmlessly to the ground. The entire procession remained perfectly dry despite the downpour.

Each figure wore a black wizard's robe with a deep hood that obscured their features entirely. They were the embodiment of mystery—ordinary citizens would have fled at the mere sight of them.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The black-robed figures continued their relentless advance, led by one who occasionally paused, as if sensing something beyond normal perception. After each pause, they would adjust their direction slightly before moving forward again with renewed purpose.

They traversed lonely streets and narrow alleyways before finally approaching what appeared to be an abandoned factory. The dilapidated exterior suggested years of neglect, but this was merely a carefully maintained façade. Few knew of the activity that thrived within its walls.

The seemingly derelict building served as a residence for Wilson Fisk's enforcers—the Kingpin of New York's criminal underworld. More importantly, it housed one of his weapons caches. After all, violence was the fundamental currency that maintained his empire.

Inside, under harsh fluorescent lights, a group of muscular men engaged in fierce combat. Most wore simple black training attire. Some wielded batons, others gripped submachine guns, and a few brandished gleaming blades. What they shared in common was their intensity—sweat-drenched bodies, solemn expressions, and many bearing prominent scars from previous encounters.

"The title of Bloody Hand will be mine this time!" shouted a powerfully built Black man, his voice cutting through the sounds of combat.

Other fighters responded with their own claims to the coveted title. This was more than mere training—it was an internal competition with high stakes. The winner would serve as the Kingpin's "Bloody Hand," his primary enforcer for the coming year. The position brought not only the responsibility of eliminating Fisk's enemies but also substantial wealth and considerable authority.

This was the prize that drove these men to fight with such fervor. Even a single year as the Bloody Hand was enough to secure a management position afterward, assuming one survived the term. It meant becoming one of Fisk's confidants, stepping into the realm of senior leadership. Few could resist such temptation.

Thud! Crack! Clang!

The sounds of combat—fist against flesh, muscle straining against muscle, weapon clashing against weapon—created a violent symphony that echoed throughout the cavernous space.

Standing on a raised platform overlooking the competition, John—the current Bloody Hand whose term was ending—watched with interest. His lips curled into a smile as he observed the brutal display below. Let them fight, he thought. The more intense, the better.

The path to becoming the Bloody Hand and securing a position in upper management was never simple. John understood this better than most.

Suddenly, his expression changed. Something felt wrong. Protocol dictated hourly reports from the security teams.

"Report current status," John ordered, tapping the earpiece he wore.

Silence. No response came through the communication device.

"Check what's happening," he commanded a subordinate standing nearby.

Almost unconsciously, his left hand drifted to his waist, fingers brushing against the reassuring coldness of his concealed weapon. The familiar sensation provided some comfort, but concern lingered.

Ignoring the ongoing competition below, John issued several quick orders to his men. Then, accompanied by a few trusted lieutenants, he made his way toward the factory's interior sections. This particular location boasted some of the strongest security measures among all of Fisk's holdings—not surprising, given its function as an arsenal.

Meanwhile, in the chaos of the competition, no one seemed to notice that several fighters who had been eliminated were mysteriously absent.

"Report current status," John repeated into his earpiece as he strode toward the main security checkpoint.

After a brief pause, a voice responded through the device. "Boss, nothing unusual to report."

The voice was familiar—one of his men—yet John's expression darkened immediately. He pulled out his phone, pressed several buttons in rapid succession, and a red alert page appeared on the screen. Without hesitation, he activated it.

Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

"Level One alert! Level One alert!"

"All personnel to combat stations! All personnel to combat stations!"

A piercing alarm blared throughout the facility. The fighters stopped mid-combat, momentarily confused before training took over. Those who reacted quickly abandoned the competition floor, donning their regular attire and retrieving weapons with practiced efficiency.

The scene transformed from one of controlled violence to organized defense. Dozens of armed men took up tactical positions throughout the factory, their faces set with grim determination. These weren't ordinary criminals—they were disciplined, experienced combatants with muscles hardened from years of training and faces that had seen real conflict.

Yet as minutes passed and they stood ready, no enemy appeared. Confusion began to spread. Conventional wisdom dictated that attacks should come during moments of disarray, yet now they were fully prepared, and still no threat materialized.

Was this some sort of joke? If the enemy was so unprofessional, why had the highest alert level been triggered?

In the central control room, John stared at the bank of monitors before him, most of which had gone dark. His expression was grim as he held the facility-wide communication device.

"We have a security breach," he announced. "Enemy numbers unknown. Weapons unknown. Tactics unknown. Maintain full alert status."

After a brief pause, he added, "The selection of the new Bloody Hand will be determined by contributions to this engagement."

The announcement sent a wave of renewed energy through the fighters. Those who had been defeated in the competition now saw a second chance at glory. This enemy, whoever they were, had arrived at a most opportune moment.

Without waiting for further instructions, the mixed group of boxers, ex-military, and gang members dispersed throughout the facility. They sought their unknown adversaries with enthusiasm born of ambition, each hoping to prove their worth through violence.

Soon, the entire abandoned factory buzzed with activity. Yet despite their thorough search, no intruders were discovered.

Standing in the central control room, John couldn't hide his growing frustration. Most of the security cameras had been disabled, leaving him with limited visual coverage. The reports coming in from his teams yielded nothing.

Could it be Daredevil? John wondered. An ordinary gang incursion would be difficult to conceal for this long. Only those damned vigilantes—Daredevil and his Defenders—could potentially infiltrate without detection.

But something else troubled him. The response he'd received earlier from his man had been wrong. The voice was familiar, but the content was off. If one of his actual men had reported "nothing unusual" without checking, John would have had him severely punished. This suggested either someone had prepared a voice imitation in advance, or his men had been compromised somehow.

Either way, whoever had infiltrated the facility was clearly more sophisticated than the usual threats they faced. John mentally upgraded his assessment of the danger.

Unbeknownst to him, a black-robed sorcerer was observing him at that very moment—not from within the room, but from within the Mirror Dimension, a parallel space invisible to normal perception.

"David, the god-enlightening ceremony has been prepared," one of the sorcerers whispered excitedly. "The sacrifices before us are sufficient—more than sufficient."

The fallen sorcerers had seized the power of the Twilight God and betrayed Kamar Taj, beginning preparations for their ascension to become dimensional gods. They were once elite mages of Kamar Taj, discovered in various fields across the world. What united them now was their shared ambition.

They possessed formidable magical abilities, yet even with such power, they remained mortal. Most would not live beyond a century, many dying far sooner in magical conflicts. This limitation had become intolerable to them.

Throughout Kamar Taj, only the Supreme Sorcerer had stepped into the realm of dimensional godhood, powerful enough to battle multiple gods simultaneously. Logically, they reasoned, the protection of the world would be better served by cultivating more beings capable of fighting evil gods.

Yet within Kamar Taj, information about becoming dimensional gods was severely restricted—only fragments in ancient texts mentioned the possibility. It seemed to them that the entire organization, or perhaps the Supreme Sorcerer specifically, was deliberately preventing others from achieving godhood.

This realization had planted seeds of resentment that grew into outright hatred. The Supreme Sorcerer could enjoy near-immortality and incredible power, yet denied the same to others? They believed they should be allowed to become eternal entities like Agamotto or Dormammu, controlling their own dimensional realms. Anyone preventing this was an enemy to be eliminated.

Under David's leadership, they had acquired extensive knowledge about dimensional gods and had even managed to steal the primordial power of the Twilight God. In their minds, ascension was within reach. The current ceremony represented the first step—the enlightenment ritual that would begin the sublimation of their souls.

"Now that we have sufficient sacrifices, let us begin," David stated calmly. "We cannot afford to wait for the Enforcement Sorcerers to catch up to us."

His tone wavered slightly when mentioning the Enforcement Sorcerers. His nemesis, Lockhart, now held that position—and after the evil god's invasion, had been promoted to a senior role among them. Seeing one's enemy rise in status while being relegated to a fugitive's existence was difficult to accept.

Nevertheless, David quickly composed himself. The god-enlightenment ceremony required absolute focus and emotional control. Calmness was essential for maximizing the conversion of energy.

Throughout the abandoned factory, a reddish mist began to seep into every space. The vapor had no distinct odor, appearing almost incorporeal. Yet when it made contact with Fisk's enforcers, they began to experience heightened irritability. Gradually, their eyes took on a faint crimson glow.

Then chaos erupted.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Slash!

Gunshots rang out alongside the distinctive sound of blades cutting through cloth and flesh. Roars of rage filled the air as the once-disciplined fighters turned their weapons and fists against one another without provocation. The training that had made them effective enforcers now made them lethal aggressors, attacking anything that moved.

Combat! Violence! These became the only imperatives recognized by minds clouded by mystical influence.

John witnessed the unfolding madness through the few remaining operational monitors, his expression morphing from concern to horror. He pulled out his mobile phone, desperately attempting to call for external assistance.

After several futile attempts, he hurled the device to the floor in frustration. All contact with the outside world had been severed. They were completely isolated.

This was not the method of street vigilantes. As he watched the reddish mist swirl throughout the factory, John felt something unfamiliar rising within him—not just anger, but genuine fear.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

BOOM!

After a series of gunshots, a much louder explosion rocked the building. John felt momentarily dizzy from the concussive force.

It's over, he thought. The arsenal must have been breached.

Yet strangely, he heard no secondary explosions. Logic dictated that if one explosive had detonated within the arsenal, the chain reaction would have been catastrophic. The entire factory—and possibly several surrounding blocks—would have been obliterated.

But there had been only a single explosion, with no follow-up. This could mean only one thing: someone was there, preventing the chain reaction. Someone with extraordinary abilities.

"We're going to the arsenal," John declared, his voice remarkably steady despite the circumstances. Without waiting for his men's response, he opened the door and moved toward the weapons cache with determined strides.

Whoever was responsible for this incursion was likely there. And John intended to confront them, even if it meant his end.

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