Diego spent the next week rebuilding himself through brutal training regimens he hadn't touched in five years. Four hours of physical conditioning that left him gasping and drenched in sweat. Three hours of technique refinement, practicing strikes and movements until muscle memory returned. Two hours of chi cultivation, channeling internal energy through pathways that had grown sluggish from disuse.His broken arm healed faster than it should have—ancient techniques accelerating bone fusion and tissue repair. The arterial wound in his thigh closed cleanly, leaving only a pale scar.But more than physical healing, Diego was rebuilding the mental edge he'd lost. The killer instinct. The cold calculation that made the Ghost legendary.By the end of the week, he felt different. Sharper. More dangerous.It was time to return to the underground.The dealer went by the name Konstantin—a Russian expatriate with a reputation for acquiring artifacts no one else could find. He was also notorious

Diego refused to let failure crush him. The Hands of a Saint hadn't worked—fine. That meant he needed more information, needed to understand the Devil's Hand better before attempting another cure.He returned to his network of underworld contacts, this time asking different questions. Not "How do I cure it?" but "Has anyone ever survived it?"Most responses were the same: no survivors, no cures, only death.But on the fourth day of desperate searching, a contact in Eastern Europe—a broker of occult information named Katya—sent an encrypted message:Heard rumor years ago. Remote tribe, somewhere in the Amazon basin. Claimed their healer cured a Devil's Hand victim. No verification, just stories. Might be legend. Might be real.Diego seized on the lead like a drowning man grabbing rope."Where?" he demanded over a secure call. "Which tribe? Where exactly?""Don't know specifics. But I know someone who trades with indigenous groups in that region. I'll reach out, see what I can find."Tw

Diego stared at the encrypted message on his phone—Vasquez's meeting request for midnight at Pier 23. Fifty million euros for a single contract. Under normal circumstances, this would be an invaluable opportunity.As the Ghost, he could get close to Vasquez. Learn what the crime lord was planning. Diego had heard whispers through his underworld contacts that Vasquez was preparing something massive—something that would send the city into chaos.But these weren't normal circumstances.Esperanza was dying. Every hour he delayed the transference ritual was another hour the Devil's Hand spread deeper into her system. He couldn't afford to waste time on meetings, even strategically important ones.Diego deleted the message without responding.Vasquez would have to find another assassin.He had more important things to do than take contracts.He had a wife to save.Ricardo found Diego in Esperanza's medical suite, preparing the room for what was about to happen. Medical equipment had been mo

Diego knelt on the floor of the quarantine chamber, staring at the dust that had once been the Hand of a Saint. His plan—his carefully calculated plan—had just disintegrated along with the artifact.But he wasn't ready to give up.The Hand of a Saint possessed divine energy designed to combat cursed maladies. Even destroyed, some of that energy had to remain in the chamber, in the air, in the residual particles floating around him.If he could harness it, absorb it, use it to reinforce his own defenses, maybe—just maybe—he could contain the Devil's Hand long enough to find another solution.Diego placed his blackened hands on the pile of dust, channeling his chi to draw out any remaining divine power.He felt it immediately—a warmth, faint but present, traces of the Saint's energy still clinging to existence."Come on," Diego muttered. "Just a little more. Give me enough to hold this thing back."He pulled, drawing the divine energy toward himself, feeling it flow through his corrupte

Inside the quarantine chamber, Diego's body had become a battlefield.The divine energy from the destroyed Hand of a Saint—absorbed accidentally into his core—hadn't disappeared. It remained within him, fighting against the Devil's Hand for dominance. Holy light versus cursed darkness, both forces struggling to claim complete control of Diego's system.The result was catastrophic.His temperature spiked to dangerous levels—fever so intense that sweat poured from his body in rivers, soaking his clothes and pooling on the floor. The red streaks that marked the Devil's Hand's presence glowed across every inch of his skin, pulsing in rhythm with his racing heartbeat.But underneath those red streaks, faint golden traces occasionally flickered—the divine energy fighting back, healing damage as fast as the curse inflicted it.Diego was being simultaneously destroyed and rebuilt, torn apart and reassembled, dying and refusing to die.His screams echoed through the sealed chamber, sounds of a