Marvel: I am the bastard son of stark (Remade)

The Hand Clan base was unusually quiet that morning. A tension hung in the air, thick and suffocating, as if the entire world was holding its breath. Tomura and the others were gathered in the main hall, standing in their groups, their faces a mix of confusion and unease. The Head Ninja stood before them, his presence commanding, and behind him, a large map of an unfamiliar forest was displayed.

"This is the Death Forest," the Head Ninja's voice rang out. "It is a place where only the strong survive. The Hand Clan has always believed that in order to grow, you must first face the harshest of trials. Today, you will enter this forest, and you will fight. The only rule is that you fight to the death. You must kill everyone you encounter."

The words echoed in Tomura's mind. Kill everyone you encounter.

The group exchanged nervous glances, but none of them spoke. What could they say? They had no choice. They had been trained for this. They had been prepared to kill—but to kill in a forest, a place where survival wasn't just about strength, but cunning, and adaptability. It was a trial unlike any they had faced before.

Tomura felt his heart thudding in his chest. He thought of the life he had left behind—the life where he was just a boy, not yet tainted by bloodshed. But the Hand had made him into something else. The boy he was had died long ago, and in his place stood someone who knew only violence, only survival.

His mind wandered back to the previous missions, to the assassinations and the quiet deaths he had caused. It had never been personal then. But here, in the Death Forest, it would be different. Here, he would face something far darker than he had ever known. He wasn't sure if he was ready for this.

"We will be monitoring your progress from here," the Head Ninja continued. "You will have three days to complete the trial. If you fail, if you hesitate, if you show weakness—you will die. If you succeed, you will have proven yourself worthy of the Hand Clan."

The words struck deep, chilling him to the core. The others were silent too, processing the weight of the challenge that lay before them. There was no room for doubt, no place for second thoughts. They would kill, or they would die.

Tomura turned to Kurogiri, who stood beside him, his face grim but determined. The bond they shared, forged through countless hours of training and bloodshed, was all they had now.

"Stay close," Tomura whispered to Kurogiri, his voice low. "We make it through this together."

Kurogiri nodded, his expression unreadable. "Together," he said.

Without another word, they were ushered to the transport vehicle, and the journey began. The others were in their groups, some chatting nervously, others silent, their faces a mask of calm that hid the turmoil within. The forest loomed ahead, dark and foreboding, its trees stretching high into the sky, blocking out the sun.

When they arrived, the Hand's operatives led them to the forest's edge and gave them their final instructions. The groups would be dispersed throughout the forest. There would be no backup. They were on their own.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the trees seemed to close in on them as they entered. Tomura took a deep breath, steadying himself. This was it—the trial that would determine if they were truly worthy of the Hand Clan.

The silence of the forest was unsettling. It felt like the very air was alive with the tension of what was to come. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig beneath their feet made Tomura's heart race faster. He could hear the sound of his own breath, shallow and quick. His instincts told him to remain alert, but there was a creeping feeling that something was wrong. Something was watching them.

As they ventured deeper into the forest, the silence was broken by the first scream.

It was a child's scream.

A group of assassins had been sent ahead, and one of them had encountered a trap. Tomura's stomach twisted. He hadn't known the others well, but he could still feel the weight of the life lost. The Hand had never been kind, but this was the first time it truly felt real—the first time Tomura felt the sting of death so closely.

"We need to keep moving," Kurogiri urged quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. "We'll be next if we don't."

Tomura nodded. He couldn't afford to hesitate. They couldn't afford to mourn. Not now. Not here.

The group pressed forward, their senses on high alert. They came across their first enemy a few minutes later—two older teens who had been placed in the forest as part of their own trial. Their eyes locked onto Tomura's group, and before a word could be exchanged, both sides were moving.

Tatsuya created two duplicates of himself, sending them to flank the enemies. Hitomi raised her hand, and the air shifted with a burst of cold wind that forced one of the attackers back. Tomura moved without hesitation, his gloved hand outstretched, ready to end the fight with a touch.

He struck with precision, his fingers grazing the shoulder of one of the attackers. The effect was immediate—the man's arm began to crumble into dust, and he screamed in agony as he fell to the ground, his body disintegrating. Tomura didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

He watched as the second attacker tried to escape, but Toshiro's powers held him in place, his mind bending to the will of Toshiro's gaze. The man collapsed to the ground, his will broken.

"Is it over?" Hitomi asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Tomura stood still, his heart racing. "For them. But we need to keep moving," he said, his voice cold, distant. He had to remain focused. There was no room for hesitation.

They moved on, deeper into the forest. The air grew thicker, the shadows darker, as if the very forest itself was alive, closing in on them.

And then, in the distance, they saw it—a figure moving through the trees, seemingly as much a part of the forest as the wind itself.

A shadow. A hunter.

"Stay alert," Kurogiri murmured.

They readied themselves, but the figure did not approach. Instead, it vanished into the trees, its movements so fluid, so unnatural that it sent a chill down Tomura's spine.

The day stretched on, each moment more tense than the last. They encountered more enemies, each fight more brutal than the last. The forest was alive with death, the screams of those who had been sent into the trial before them echoing through the trees.

Tomura felt the weight of each death. Not just of the others, but of his own innocence, slipping away with every kill.

The group pressed on, but the shadows of the Death Forest seemed to grow longer. The tension was unbearable, and with each passing hour, Tomura could feel himself becoming something darker, something colder.

By the time night fell, they had lost several members—either to traps, or to the unforgiving nature of the forest itself. The air was thick with the scent of blood and death. Tomura felt a pang in his chest—a dull, painful reminder of the life he had lost. His humanity was slipping away, piece by piece.

He had never truly understood what the Hand wanted from them, what they were being trained for. But now, as he looked around at the faces of the children he had fought beside, all he could feel was a cold emptiness.

The death of his innocence had begun in earnest.

As the group huddled together in a small clearing, exhausted and bloodied, they realised just how far they had come from the children they once were.

This was not just a test. It was the crucible of their souls.

And none of them knew if they would make it out alive.