The warehouse looked abandoned—at least from the outside. Cracked concrete, rusted metal doors, ivy creeping over the outer walls. But the moment Michael landed near the entrance, he frowned.
"This isn't old… it's a façade," he muttered.
He raised a hand, brushing it against the metal surface. It was clean—too clean. No dust. Recently maintained. And faint energy signatures pulsed beneath the outer layer of the building.
He stepped forward.
With a low hum, the massive sliding doors opened on their own. Inside, blinding white lights snapped on in sequence, illuminating a cavernous hall. The entire warehouse had been converted into a fortified arena. The floor was polished and reinforced. Holographic panels blinked on surrounding walls. Advanced tech—StarkTech knockoffs, some likely stolen—ran through the infrastructure like veins.
Dozens of weapon racks lined the walls.
The moment Michael stepped inside, the racks shifted. Like clockwork, mechanical arms moved, and every gun locked onto him with precision—an army of automated death staring him down. Red targeting lasers dotted his chest and limbs.
Then the warehouse lights dimmed, one by one, plunging the vast hall into shadow—until only a single spotlight remained.
At its center stood a man in a pristine white combat suit and skull-like mask.
Taskmaster.
He stood tall, relaxed, as though he'd been expecting Michael for hours.
"Nice welcome," Michael said dryly, silver eyes gleaming as he faced him. "But you don't actually think these toys can even scratch me, do you?"
Taskmaster gave a small nod. "No," he replied, and drew two short swords from his back. As they powered on, their blades shimmered with a blue plasma edge, humming faintly with energy. "But I can."
Michael chuckled. "Finally. I was hoping for a proper sword match. Been a dull day."
He raised his right hand, and with a flick, summoned a long blade—sleek, elegant, and humming with silent power. He slid his coat back, taking a relaxed but ready stance.
"Let's make this interesting," Michael said, a grin tugging at his lips. "After all… I was starting to get bored."
Taskmaster launched forward without a word, blades flashing.
"No more boring days for you," he hissed. "Because this is your last."
And steel clashed in the silence.
Their blades met in a flash of steel and sparks.
Michael moved with the precision of a seasoned warrior, his footwork fluid and silent, his long blade cutting arcs through the air with ghostly grace. Every strike he unleashed was laced with refined Aura—not flashy, but sharp, invisible pressure that made his sword feel heavier, faster, deadlier.
Taskmaster kept up with astonishing ease.
He mirrored Michael's stances almost instantly—footwork, shoulder shifts, wrist turns—each copied motion as if he'd practiced it for years. His twin plasma swords crackled, intercepting blow after blow, inch for inch.
"Tch," Michael clicked his tongue. "You're fast."
"I'm better," Taskmaster replied, ducking and countering with a spin, slashing low.
Michael stepped back—not from fear, but from calculation—and countered with a flick of his blade that sent a thin ripple of Aura along the ground. Taskmaster jumped, just avoiding the arc.
Suddenly—
BZZZZZT—CLICK.
From both sides of the warehouse, automated turrets hidden within the racks activated. A dozen mounted guns swiveled and opened fire—aiming not at random, but directly at Michael's blind spots.
Taskmaster grinned beneath the mask. "You think I came unprepared?"
Bullets ripped through the air like wasps.
Michael didn't flinch. He spun once, and with a sharp exhale, his Aura exploded outward—a barely visible shockwave of controlled force. The bullets slowed just enough for him to weave through them, his blade slicing a few mid-air with perfect timing. The rest were deflected by narrow margins as his movements flowed with preternatural ease.
But Taskmaster was already on him again, blades humming. He struck with Michael's own movements—his counters, his style, even the slight tilt of his left wrist. It was like fighting a distorted mirror.
Michael's eyes narrowed. "You're not better. You're just rehearsing."
He ducked under a high slash, his Aura flaring again as he parried hard, locking their blades.
"And you can't copy what's evolving in real time."
His sword shifted, sliding with an unpredictable twist of his wrist—a move not seen before. It bypassed Taskmaster's lock and slashed across his chest, tearing fabric and leaving a glowing cut.
Taskmaster stumbled back, growling. "What the hell—?"
Michael advanced with terrifying calm. "That's the thing about Aura," he said, stepping over spent bullet casings. "It's not something you replicate. You feel it. You grow it."
Taskmaster rushed in again, but now—he was slower, less sure. Michael's sword danced around him like a phantom, striking not with brute force, but with angles and grace, until finally—
CLANG!
Taskmaster's left sword flew from his hand. Then the right.
Then Michael's blade hovered at his neck.
Breathing heavily, Taskmaster froze.
"Kill me," he hissed. "Go on."
Michael didn't move. His Aura flared slightly, the unseen pressure tightening like a noose.
"No. Not yet," Michael said coldly. "You'll tell me who you're working for."
Taskmaster sneered behind the mask. "And if I don't?"
"Then your death will be full of pain and torture," Michael replied flatly, turning his back as if already done with him.
"Go on," Taskmaster growled. "I've faced worse. Pain won't make me talk. Nothing will."
Michael paused.
A faint smirk tugged at the edge of his lips.
"Oh, you misunderstand," he said, his voice lowering, tinged with cold. He slowly turned, and as he did, his eyes glowed—not silver this time, but deep, violent violet. Shadows coiled around him like silk in the air.
"I wasn't offering you pain," Michael continued, "I was offering mercy."
Taskmaster tensed.
"You see…" Michael stepped forward, his voice becoming heavier, darker, as the temperature dropped around them. "I was once only a necromancer. But after many level ups and many more powers and knowledge integration.....I am something more now."
He raised his hand, and for a moment, the dim lights flickered. From the ground, faint wisps of spectral energy began to coil around Taskmaster's legs—phantom chains, shimmering with cursed runes.
"I am the Lord of Death now. Not metaphorically. Literally."
*******
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