Chapter 403: The Continental Hotel Removed from the Map
The Continental Hotel.
A neutral zone under the High Table.
No member of the High Table is allowed to kill within the hotel. Anyone who violates this rule will be relentlessly hunted down.
Beep—boop, beep—boop, beep—boop...
Following the directions, Allen finally found the right spot. Carrying John on his back, he barged into the hotel.
"Sorry, sir. Foreign guests are not accepted at this hotel."
At the entrance, a Black attendant raised a hand to stop him. Even upon seeing the severely wounded John, he showed no sign of relenting.
Allen casually pulled a gold coin from his pocket.
The next moment, the attendant silently and respectfully made a welcoming gesture.
"Vain bastard," Allen smirked and strutted into the hotel, placing the unconscious John onto a sofa.
At that very moment, every staff member inside wore a grave expression.
The High Table had issued a bounty, placing John at the very top of their kill list—with a staggering reward of over ten million.
Truth be told, the staff were tempted.
Pull off this one hit, and they could retire for life.
"Get a doctor," someone ordered.
It was Winston, the hotel's top manager, stepping in to suppress the stirrings of greed among his subordinates.
He had known John for a long time, watching him grow step by step into a top-tier assassin.
But fate had other plans.
After the death of his wife, John chose to retire at the height of his career.
He didn't enjoy peace for long. His beloved classic car was stolen by a gang, and the dog he adopted to soothe his grief was killed right before his eyes.
With no other choice, he returned to the path of vengeance.
Winston chose to help—for old times' sake, and also to uphold the rules of the Continental Hotel.
Attendants carried John off for medical treatment.
The High Table was globally confident in its medical capabilities—thanks to its control over bio-tech companies that conducted real human experiments to gather data.
"May I ask who you are, sir?" Winston asked calmly.
Judging from Allen's eccentric attire, it was likely he was a killer with a strong personal flair.
"I'm Allen. I never leave my name when I do good deeds."
"..."
Alright then.
You're Allen. Got it.
Winston kindly warned, "This isn't something you can meddle in. It's dangerous."
"You mean the High Table?"
Allen scoffed, "I'm the protagonist. Bullets don't kill people like me."
"..."
No wonder he's wearing a psych ward uniform—he's nuts.
Realizing this, Winston stopped wasting his breath.
If a lunatic with no grasp of reality wanted to throw his life away, Winston wasn't going to stop him.
After all, High Table members were anything but benevolent.
As John was taken for treatment, more people began arriving at the Continental Hotel.
It was clear—these were assassins drawn by the bounty.
Ten million dollars for one hit was equal to a hundred typical missions.
Assassins led dangerous lives. Targets often had bodyguards. Missions spanned the entire country and could take a month to complete.
One mission per month was already the mark of a dedicated professional.
Still, with Winston in charge, no assassin dared to break the rules outright.
The Continental Hotel's authority to enforce neutrality was backed by real power.
These assassins came from all sorts of factions.
The High Table was composed of crime families and mafia syndicates, each with their own trained killers—natural competitors.
Dun-dun… dun-dun-dun… dun-dun-dun…
A cheerful tune echoed through the hall, drawing everyone's eyes.
Allen walked in wearing a black trench coat and fedora taken from the coat rack, channeling the aura of a mafia don, a toothpick between his lips as he hummed his own entrance theme.
"Nobody move."
Suddenly, Allen flicked both hands outward, pretending his fingers were pistols and pointing them at the surrounding assassins.
Everyone was speechless.
If you want to scare people, at least use a real gun.
Even the attendants looked ready to draw their weapons.
"I hereby declare—John is under the protection of the Visetti family!"
The trench coat and hat were just Allen indulging in a gangster fantasy.
"You represent the Visetti family?" one assassin with facial tattoos asked coldly.
Although the Visetti family wasn't under the High Table, their mafia empire wasn't to be taken lightly.
Their sugar business alone made over a billion dollars annually. Their approach was simple: money clears the way, and all is well.
"Of course… not."
Allen raised a brow and admitted cheerfully, "I don't know any Sicilian mafias, but I've seen Malèna. You have no idea how stunning Monica was. The film is 108 minutes long, and I was rock hard for all 108 minutes."
"That hot, huh?"
The tattooed assassin's eyes sparkled, his slightly upturned lips revealing a fellow enthusiast.
"More than hot. It even had scenes of the little horse pulling the big cart." Allen said lewdly.
"Oof…"
Cough cough…
The assassin was about to respond when his partner coughed loudly, reminding him to focus.
Realizing they'd gone off-topic, the tattooed killer changed his tone and asked, "You're another assassin competing for the target?"
"Nope."
Allen said seriously, "I'm just here for the fun."
"..."
Here for fun. And so damn talkative.
Talking to this guy was pointless.
The assassins quietly took up positions, waiting for John to leave the hotel.
The moment he stepped out of the neutral zone, they would strike.
Hesitate for even a second, and someone else would steal the kill.
"This hotel is now closed. Anyone wishing to stay must pay one gold coin."
This was clearly Winston's way of helping John escape.
With so many assassins waiting, there was no way he could walk out alive.
Furthermore, most High Table killers didn't have extra coins on hand. Only a few top-tier assassins had fees high enough to afford the coin-based services of the organization.
Clang!
A window shattered. The very Winston who just gave the ultimatum now had a bullet hole in his forehead.
"Sniper!"
At once, the assassins scattered, diving for cover.
As Winston crumpled to the ground, the attendants panicked and began retrieving weapons stashed throughout the hotel.
"Where's the sniper?"
Allen scanned the night beyond the window, trying to locate the shooter.
Pfft!
A bullet whooshed past, blowing a hole through Allen's fedora.
Inside the hotel, chaos broke loose.
With the hotel manager dead, the Continental's neutrality was now null and void.
"Who the hell is this lunatic?"
"No idea, but it's not my family."
"Doesn't matter—what matters is getting out alive."
"..."
The Continental had stayed quiet for so long because it was full of monsters.
Don't be fooled by the polite demeanor of the attendants and managers—they were once elite assassins themselves.
Those who had either made mistakes or grown tired of killing found refuge here, vowing never to set foot outside again.
But now that Winston was dead, the staff would no doubt retaliate with blood.
Even if the sniper wasn't from their faction, they were now all painted with the same brush.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Sure enough, the hotel lobby erupted in gunfire.
The assassins and hotel staff were shooting at each other with no intention of holding back.
The hotel staff, loyal to Winston, were ready to die avenging him.
After all, their past lives had long taught them to treat death lightly.
Allen leaned against the wall, watching the carnage unfold.
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