Russian Mob Headquarters - Ground Floor
Smith looked at John Wick standing there in full tactical loadout—body armor, multiple pistols, shotgun, enough ammunition to fight a small war. The legendary assassin had come prepared for a siege.
"You're late," Smith said simply, gesturing at Viggo's corpse.
John's eyes remained wide with shock as he surveyed the carnage around him. He'd walked through the entire building on his way down from the roof—seen the bodies on every floor. The guards on the first and second floors had been killed with bullets, efficient headshots. But the rest? Cold weapons. Fists and kicks. Broken necks and caved-in skulls.
The sheer power required to do that was staggering.
And those split bullets scattered throughout the corridors—cut cleanly in half by a blade moving faster than the eye could follow. John had seen a lot in his years as an assassin, but nothing like this.
This was the kind of strength that could protect something as valuable as a Dragon Ball. John was more certain than ever that his blood oath to Smith Doyle was the smartest decision he could have made.
"What do you need me to do?" John asked.
Smith considered for a moment. "Continue with whatever unfinished business you have. I'll contact you in two days when I need you."
He walked past John toward the exit, Puar floating along beside him.
John watched him go, then remembered—his car. The 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 that had started this entire bloody mess. Iosef had stolen it and stashed it somewhere. John still needed to track it down.
Marcus had been avenged. Viggo was dead. The Russian mob was destroyed.
But John's personal business wasn't quite finished yet.
He turned and headed for his own car, already mentally cataloging where the Russians might have taken his Mustang.
Behind them both, the sound of approaching vehicles signaled the arrival of the Assassin's League's cleaning crews. Within twenty minutes, there would be no evidence that over a hundred people had died here tonight. The building would be stripped of valuables, the bodies would disappear, and the property would be quietly transferred to new owners.
The Fraternity was nothing if not thorough.
Assassin's League Headquarters - Conference Room
Smith pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the room where he'd trained, planned, and grown for eighteen years. The conference table was the same. The high-backed chairs were the same. Even the smell—gun oil, old wood, and the faint metallic tang of weapons—was familiar.
But everything was different now.
Cross stood and crossed the room immediately, pulling Smith into a firm embrace. "GOD, you gave us quite the surprise. We knew you were capable, but three hours? That's impressive even by your standards."
Smith returned the hug, feeling the genuine pride and relief in the older man's grip. Cross had been his primary trainer, his mentor, the closest thing to a father figure he'd had in this life.
"I did what needed to be done," Smith said simply.
Cross led him to the head of the table—the seat that had remained empty for eighteen years, since Sloan's death. The position of supreme leadership, vacant for so long that some had wondered if the Fraternity would ever fill it again.
"This is yours now," Cross said, gesturing to the chair. "You've more than earned it."
Smith didn't hesitate or offer false modesty. He sat down, settling into the high-backed chair that represented absolute authority over one of the world's oldest and most deadly organizations.
Cross returned to his own seat, and the other senior members—Mr. X, the Gunsmith, the Butcher, Repairman, and several others—all straightened in their chairs.
Mr. X, the Fraternity's intelligence chief, stood and spread his hands. "After eighteen years, the Assassin's League once again has a leader. Smith Doyle, we welcome you."
He began to clap, and the others immediately joined in. The sound echoed through the conference room—genuine, heartfelt applause from people who'd dedicated their lives to this organization.
Smith raised his hands, and the applause gradually died down.
"Thank you," he said, his voice carrying easily through the room. "Thank you for your trust. For preparing me for this role. For keeping this position open for eighteen years."
He looked around the table, meeting each person's eyes in turn.
Smith understood, intellectually, why they'd chosen him. He'd lived in the Fraternity since he was born—or rather, since his transmigration into this world. They'd trained him from childhood, taught him everything they knew. His growth over the years had exceeded all expectations.
But there was more to it than just his abilities.
Sloan's death and the destruction of the Sacred Loom had created a crisis of purpose for the Fraternity. For generations, they'd followed the Loom's guidance—killing targets designated by fate itself. When that was taken away, they'd needed a new direction. A new vision.
They'd chosen to place their faith in Smith Doyle. To make him their spiritual center, their guiding light for the future.
He wouldn't let them down.
"I will keep the Assassin's League's mission in my heart," Smith said, his voice firm with conviction. "We exist to eliminate the cancers of this world—the corrupt, the tyrannical, the predators who prey on the innocent. That mission continues under my leadership."
He leaned forward, hands flat on the table.
"Our next objectives are clear. First, we continue systematic intelligence gathering on individuals who pose significant threats to society. But our primary focus—our main target—will be the High Table and its Continental Hotel network."
A murmur of approval ran through the room.
The Gunsmith nodded enthusiastically. "We've wanted to tear down that corrupt system for years. They turned assassination into a business, made killing into franchised commerce."
"What's the plan, GOD?" the Butcher asked, his massive frame leaning forward with interest.
Smith's expression hardened. "We investigate the High Table's headquarters first. I want to know the location of every Elder, what territories they control, what resources they command. Map their entire power structure from top to bottom."
He gestured to Mr. X. "Then we dismantle them. Systematically. Starting with the leadership and working our way down through their regional managers, their Continental Hotels, their entire network. When we're finished, the High Table won't exist anymore."
Mr. X was already making notes. "A complete decapitation strategy. Remove the Elders first, then the infrastructure collapses naturally."
"Exactly," Smith confirmed. "The Continental Hotels function as the operational backbone—they provide services, enforce rules, maintain the coin economy. Without the High Table's authority backing them up, the entire system falls apart."
Cross smiled grimly. "We'll need significant resources for this. The High Table has existed for over a century. They're entrenched in criminal organizations worldwide."
"Then we start gathering those resources now," Smith said. "The Russian mob's assets are already being seized—their cash reserves, properties, blackmail material that left behind, everything. That's just the beginning. Each organization we take down funds the next operation."
He stood, and everyone else immediately rose as well.
"This won't be quick or easy. But the High Table's time is ending. We'll make sure of it."
As the meeting concluded, word spread through the Assassin's League like wildfire. Eighteen years of waiting were over. The position of leader had a new occupant. GOD had arrived.
Throughout the textile factory headquarters, assassins who'd trained Smith, who'd watched him grow from a child into the most dangerous operative the Fraternity had ever produced, felt a mixture of pride and anticipation.
The elder council system had kept the organization running during the leadership vacuum, but everyone knew it was temporary. The Fraternity needed direction. Purpose. A singular vision to follow.
Now they had it.
In the intelligence department, Mr. X's team immediately began compiling data on the High Table. Satellite imagery of suspected headquarters locations. Financial records of shell companies. Background checks on known Elders. Communications intercepts. The Fraternity's information network, dormant for years, came roaring to life with new purpose.
The war with the High Table was beginning.
SHIELD Headquarters - The Triskelion
Agent Phil Coulson walked through the gleaming corridors of SHIELD's primary facility carrying a classified folder. His expression was professionally neutral, but internally, he was intrigued by the intelligence he was about to deliver.
He reached Director Nick Fury's office and knocked twice.
"Come in."
Coulson entered to find Fury standing by the window, his back to the door, looking out over the Potomac River. The director didn't turn around.
"Sir, we've received priority intelligence from our asset inside the Assassin's League. There's been a significant organizational change. I thought you should see this immediately."
That got Fury's attention. He turned from the window, his one good eye sharp and assessing. "Let me see it."
Coulson handed over the folder. Fury opened it and began reading, his expression unchanging as he processed the information.
"Eighteen years," Fury said after a moment. "They finally elected a new leader."
"Yes, sir. After Sloan's death, we thought they'd permanently switched to the council system. This is... unexpected."
Fury continued reading, his eye narrowing slightly. "And they're targeting the High Table. Interesting timing."
He closed the folder and looked at Coulson. "Your assessment?"
Coulson had clearly been waiting for this question. "I think it's a positive development, sir. The High Table has grown significantly in power and reach over the past decade. They need someone to cut them down to size."
He clasped his hands behind his back, falling into briefing mode.
"The High Table isn't a direct threat to SHIELD operations, but they do represent a destabilizing influence. If they continue expanding unchecked, they'll start interfering with national security interests. Better to let the Assassin's League handle the problem now than have to dedicate our own resources later."
"What about infiltration?" Fury asked. "Can we get people into High Table leadership positions?"
Coulson shook his head. "Negative. The Elder seats are inherited bloodlines. Our undercover operatives can work their way into middle management, but they'll never reach the decision-making level. That's always been the limitation with the High Table—you can't infiltrate what you can't be born into."
Fury nodded slowly, his mind clearly working through implications and possibilities. "And if the Assassin's League takes them down?"
"Then we have two possible outcomes, both favorable." Coulson ticked them off on his fingers. "One: the Fraternity wins decisively. The High Table's criminal network collapses, reducing organized crime worldwide. Two: both organizations damage each other significantly. Either way, we benefit from the chaos without expending resources."
"The Assassin's League's methods are clean and professional," Coulson continued. "They don't leave messes for us to clean up. No civilian casualties, no property damage that attracts media attention. From our perspective, they're ideal for handling this problem."
Fury walked back to his desk and sat down, steepling his fingers. "What do we know about the new leader? Will he be a problem?"
This was the critical question. SHIELD had been monitoring the Assassin's League for decades, ever since discovering their existence through various international incidents.
They've been interested in the Fraternity's resource for years
The wax bath formula that enhances healing. Their curved bullet technique. Cross's bullet-time perception ability. They even classified the Fraternity Sacred Loom as an 084 before it was destroyed.
The wax bath was particularly interesting. But their early agents couldn't reach high enough ranks to obtain the formula, and the samples they extracted were inconclusive. Chemical analysis showed nothing obviously unusual.
But now SHIELD developed superior medical technology, the wax bath isn't as relevant to current operations.