'The wind whispered through the bamboo forest, a mournful sigh that echoed the secrets buried deep within the earth. It was here, in the shadowed valleys of feudal Japan, that the Hand began, not as a force of darkness, but as a desperate cry for sovereignty. A band of samurai, their swords gleaming with righteous fury, sought to reclaim their land, their honor, their very souls. They called themselves the Hand, a symbol of unity, of strength, of unwavering resolve.
But the shadows are long, and the path to power is often paved with corruption. A whisper slithered through the ranks, a serpent of temptation, promising strength beyond mortal ken. It was the Snakeroot, a clan as old as the mountains themselves, their eyes gleaming with the infernal light of "The Beast." This entity, a primordial hunger, a gaping maw in the fabric of reality, saw in the Hand a vessel, a tool.
The Beast's influence, like a creeping poison, seeped into the very heart of the Hand. The righteous fire that had once burned bright was extinguished, replaced by a cold, unholy flame. The swords that had once defended the innocent now dripped with the blood of the sacrificed. The Hand, once a symbol of hope, became a harbinger of dread.
Their purpose twisted, their souls enslaved, they became the instruments of the Beast's will. Their missions were no longer acts of defiance, but rituals of dark devotion. They sought not to liberate, but to dominate, to consume. They became masters of the shadows, their movements as silent as death, their strikes as swift as vengeance.
The art of resurrection, once a sacred rite, became a tool of terror, a way to defy the natural order, to mock the very concept of mortality. They wove dark spells, their voices chanting in forgotten tongues, their hands manipulating the very life force of the fallen, raising them as soulless puppets.
They spread like a plague, their influence reaching into the darkest corners of the world, their tendrils of power grasping for control. They became the architects of chaos, the puppeteers of fate, their actions veiled in secrecy, their motives shrouded in shadow. They sought power, not for the sake of their people, but for the glory of their demonic master.
And so, the Hand, born of noble intentions, descended into darkness, becoming a legend whispered in fear, a name that chilled the blood. They became a testament to the corrupting influence of power, a reminder that even the purest of hearts can be consumed by the shadows that lurk within. They wait, ever patient, their dark rituals echoing through the ages, their hands reaching out, grasping for the world, seeking to bring about the reign of the Beast.
***
"What the heck is this supposed to be?" Max asked, staring at the document in confusion before turning to Vale.
"You needed information on The Hand, so I gave you what you asked for. What else do you want?" Vale shrugged.
After killing Gao, Max had asked Vale to gather intel on The Hand—but this was what he came up with?
"Are you writing a poetry novel or something?" Max scoffed, raising an eyebrow.
Vale rolled his eyes. "Here, take this," he said, tossing another file onto the table.
This time, the document was in normal English.
"Maybe now your puny brain can understand it," Vale added with a smirk.
Max rolled his eyes as he looked at it.
' The Hand is an ancient and secretive order of ninja assassins, deeply rooted in mysticism and darkness. They are not just a simple criminal organization—they are a cult, devoted to a sinister cause that goes beyond wealth or power.
Their ultimate goal? Immortality and absolute control.
The Hand believes in the resurrection of the dead through dark magic, allowing their most loyal warriors to serve even beyond death. They do not fear mortality because, to them, death is just another step toward eternal servitude. Unlike other criminal factions, they do not seek mere influence—they aim to shape the world in their own twisted vision, bending it to the will of their mysterious masters.
They operate in the shadows, striking with precision and vanishing without a trace. Their agents are highly trained killers, capable of taking down even the most formidable foes. They infiltrate governments, corporations, and even superhero circles, always working toward their grand design.
At their core, The Hand serves The Beast, a demonic entity that grants them dark power in exchange for absolute loyalty. Those who defy them? They either fall... or rise again, twisted into something far worse than death. '
"Hmm, this is good now, but you're missing some important information," Max said, flipping through the file. "The Hand has leaders called the Fingers. I've already killed one—Gao. I need the locations of the other Fingers."
Vale crossed his arms. "That's all the info that's available on the net and the dark web. I don't think we can get anything more from the internet right now."
Max nodded, processing the situation.
"What about you? What did you find?" Max asked Maxwell, the best hitman in New York. At first, Max had planned to kill him, but now he worked under him.
"The information is the same as Vale's," Maxwell said with a shrug.
Vale smirked. "Told you, we can't find any more leads—"
"But," Maxwell interrupted with a grin, "I also have a lead on one of the Fingers."
Vale's smirk instantly vanished.
"Stop lying. You definitely can't find that on the net," Vale scoffed.
"When did I say I found it on the net? We hitmen have our own methods," Maxwell replied in a calm voice, though both Vale and Max sensed the smugness hidden beneath his words.
Max didn't feel anything but Vale got irritated as he gritted his teeth. "Okay, I'm going to become a hitman now too," he muttered.
He said, walking away while Max rubbed his temples, wondering how his circle of allies ended up like this.
***
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