800 meters.
Ron's Observation Haki locked onto the life form.
The heartbeat was extremely low, 48 beats per minute. Breathing was even, and the finger rested steadily on the outside of the trigger guard.
A person trained in top-level sniping.
Intense killing intent, yet without a trace of panic.
Ron withdrew his senses, ignoring it.
He had more important things to do.
The water on the edge of the rooftop evaporated from the heat beneath his feet, leaving a ring of white salt. Ron gripped the railing; the metal softened under the intense heat, and five finger marks sank deep into it.
The red dot on the system interface was flashing.
Hell's Kitchen, 42nd Street, "Eden" nightclub.
1200 meters away.
Ron released the railing and leaped off the seven-story-high apartment rooftop.
The moment he landed, the concrete floor cracked in a spiderweb pattern, but... A sound. Armament Haki enveloped his legs, dissipating all the impact.
He crossed three streets; the rain was still falling.
The neon sign of the "Eden" nightclub glowed a blinding pink in the rain. Two security guards in black suits stood at the main entrance, a Glock pistol bulging at their waistbands.
Ron didn't go through the back door.
He walked straight to the main entrance.
Observation Haki activated to its fullest extent.
Information flooded his brain like a tidal wave.
Within a 120-meter radius, forty-seven life forms.
Twelve armed bodyguards, distributed in the lobby, at the stairwell, and in the VIP lounge corridor on the second floor.
Eight gang members, concentrated at the bar area, three of them carrying submachine guns.
Nineteen civilians: waitresses, bartenders, and young girls forced to sit in booths serving drinks. Their heartbeats were all... It was fast; two people were trembling.
Lester Miller was in the innermost box on the second floor, his heartbeat steady, smiling.
And, sixty meters above, on the roof, was the man with a Barrett rifle.
Frank Cassel.
He was also waiting for Lester.
"Let's get in line," Ron said softly.
The security guard at the main entrance spotted him.
The one on his left reached out and grabbed Ron's chest.
"Private party, idlers—"
Ron raised his left fist.
A layer of black sheen flowed across his fist; Armament Haki coated his bones and muscles, turning his fist into an iron hammer.
One punch.
The security guard's body and the bulletproof glass door behind him exploded simultaneously.
The entire tempered glass shattered into dust; the security guard flew fifteen meters, crashing into three sofas in the lobby, smashing into the wall, and embedding himself there. That's it.
Before the other security guard could even draw his gun, Ron had already leaped over the doorframe.
He kicked him in the knee, the sound of bone shattering half-masted by the music.
The guard screamed and fell to the ground. Ron bent down, pulled out his Glock pistol from his waist, crushed it, and tossed it into the trash can.
The music in the lobby continued.
The DJ booth lights swirled, their multicolored beams shining on Ron's face.
The three gangsters at the bar were the first to react.
"Damn! Someone's breaking in—"
The first man raised his MAC-10 submachine gun.
Ron's right arm began to liquefy from the elbow down.
His skin cracked, dark red magma gushing from the muscle fibers, the temperature soaring to 1200 degrees Celsius in 0.3 seconds.
A wave of heat washed over him, and the bottles on the bar shattered one after another.
The three submachine guns fired simultaneously. The bullet pierced Ron's torso, penetrated the lava, and melted into molten iron within less than a tenth of a second, dripping onto the floor and burning through the tiles.
Ron walked forward through the hail of bullets.
With each step, a charred footprint appeared on the floor beneath his feet. The tiles cracked, white smoke rising from the gaps.
The three gangsters emptied their magazines.
Ron raised his hand, unleashing a lava whip that struck the barrels of their guns with pinpoint accuracy.
The metal softened and bent instantly, rendering the weapons unusable.
The tip of the lava whip grazed just beneath the bar.
The waitress crouching under the bar had her eyes closed, awaiting the searing pain.
No.
She opened her eyes.
The gangsters three meters away lay on the ground, smoke still rising from the edges of their clothes and skin. The air in front of her was even cool—the heat radiation of the lava. The projectiles were precisely blocked by some force, stopping them a foot away from her body.
Observation Haki locked onto the location of every civilian.
Armament Haki controlled the flow and temperature radiation range of the magma.
Not a single innocent person was harmed.
All the bodyguards in the lobby rushed over, twelve pistols simultaneously pointed at Ron.
The leader was a bald, burly man with a scorpion tattooed on his neck, and a loud voice.
"Who the hell are you? Do you know whose territory this is?"
Ron didn't stop.
"I know. Wilson Fisk's."
He raised his right hand, fingers spread.
A fist-sized ball of magma condensed in his palm, its temperature far exceeding the surrounding elementalized energy—it was Akainu's technique, a miniature version.
"Inu-chan Crimson Lotus."
The magma ball flew out of his hand.
Not towards the bodyguards.
It pierced through the ceiling, He pierced through the second-floor floor, through the partition wall of the VIP area corridor, and precisely struck the load-bearing beam of the VIP area's back entrance.
Explosion.
The entire corridor ceiling collapsed, and shards of reinforced concrete blocked the only escape route.
Screams and the sound of overturned tables and chairs echoed from the second floor.
The bodyguards froze for a second.
Just that one second.
Ron's body transformed into magma, passing through the twelve men.
He didn't even throw a punch.
In the path of the magma, all the bodyguards' guns, magazines, and the metal fasteners of their bulletproof vests melted. The molten metal splashed onto their skin, and the bodyguards screamed as they dropped their weapons.
Ron reformed into human form, standing at the top of the stairs leading to the second floor.
The twelve bodyguards behind him were all incapacitated, not a single one dead.
He went upstairs.
VIP area The compartment door was made of thick walnut wood.
Ron kicked it open.
The door flew through the air, smashing over the champagne tower on the coffee table. Golden liquor spilled everywhere, mixed with shards of glass.
Lester Miller huddled in the corner of the sofa, two bodyguards blocking his way.
The bodyguards drew their guns.
Ron's magma fist was already at the ready.
His left fist slammed into the first bodyguard's bulletproof vest at the chest. The Kevlar fibers instantly carbonized under the intense heat, sending the bodyguard flying, clothes and all, crashing through the French windows and falling from the second floor into a garbage dump in the back alley.
The second bodyguard turned and ran.
Ron didn't chase.
His attention was on Lester.
Lester Miller huddled in the corner between the sofa and the wall, his legs trembling, a dark stain appearing on his crotch.
The same middle finger he'd given him through the car window in court five hours earlier. His index finger, now curled in his fist, knuckles trembling.
Ron crouched down.
The distance between them was less than half a meter.
"Mr. Miller."
Lester's teeth were chattering.
Ron's right hand was still in a molten state, the heat evaporating the sweat from Lester's face.
"This morning, the court acquitted you."
"I...I have a lawyer! I have human rights!" Lester's voice trembled. "You can't do this! It's illegal—"
"Seven lives."
Ron interrupted him.
"One of the girls, named Emily White, was nineteen. Her mother's hair was half white, her fingernails were digging into the wood of a picture frame, and her dress was soaked in blood."
Lester shrank back desperately, his back pressed against the wall.
"And another one was named Lisa Chan, fourteen. The medical examiner's report said..." "Look—you stabbed her twenty-three times, each stab three seconds apart."
Ron extended his right hand, and lava enveloped Lester's left ankle.
Lester let out a pig-like scream.
"Your human rights—"
The lava moved up his calf, burning through his trouser leg.
"I revoked it when you killed the first girl."
The system popped up the trial interface.
[Is Lester Miller to be imprisoned?]
[Option 1: Imprison him in the first level of Impel Down (permanent imprisonment, continuous deduction of sin points)]
[Option 2: Execute him on the spot (immediately obtain all 500 sin points)]
Ron chose imprisonment.
A crack appeared in the floor beneath Lester. Dark red light shone through the crack, swirling, expanding, forming a vortex one meter in diameter.
Lester T's body began to sink.
"No—no—help! Help!"
His fingers gripped the edge of the sofa, his nails digging into the leather.
It was no use.
The vortex swallowed him whole.
Silence returned to the compartment. Only a ring of charred marks remained on the floor.
[Ding. Sin Value +500, Justice Value +200. Number of prisoners in Impel Down Level 1: 1/100.]
[Initial mission 'Punishing Sin' Completion: 1/2. Remaining objective: Umbrella Network.]
Ron stood up.
A noise came from behind.
A hole exploded in the ceiling, rubble and dust raining down.
A black figure jumped down from the hole, kneeling to cushion the fall, an M16A4 assault rifle held in his right hand, the muzzle pointed directly at the back of Ron's head.
Ron didn't turn around.
See The sight told him everything—the man's heartbeat, his position, the grip on his gun, the distance between his index finger and the trigger.
"Who are you?"
The voice was hoarse and rough, carrying the texture of years of smoking and swallowing gunpowder.
Ron slowly turned around.
Frank Cassel.
A black trench coat, with a white skull and crossbones painted on the chest. Three old scars on his face, stretching from his left cheekbone to his chin.
His gun was impeccably steady. Not even a fraction of a millimeter of deviation.
"I watched the whole thing through the scope." Frank's left eye narrowed slightly. "Lava. Immune to bullets. Precise strike through three walls. You're not a mutant."
"I'm not."
"Then what are you?"
"A judge."
Frank's gun paused.
Only for 0.3 seconds, then it stabilized again. "Judges don't spew lava."
"This judge does."
Ron stood ramrod straight, hands behind his back, facing the gun. He sized up Frank, not with his eyes—his Observation Haki was scanning Frank's physical condition.
Two old fractures in his right ribs hadn't fully healed. There was scar tissue from a penetrating wound in his left shoulder. Shrapnel remained deep in his right quadriceps muscle.
This man, covered in wounds, carrying a gun, had killed in Hell's Kitchen for three years.
Ron spoke.
"Frank Cassel. Former Lieutenant Colonel, 3rd Marine Battalion, Charlie Company. Forty-seven targeted elimination missions in Kandahar Province, zero failures."
Frank's right index finger moved from the outside of the trigger guard to the trigger.
"Retired and settled in New York. Wife: Maria, daughter: Lisa, son: Frank Jr. Three years ago in Central Park..." "Three gangs clashed. Your family was hit by stray bullets and died instantly."
Frank's breathing rate changed.
From twelve beats per minute to eighteen.
"You investigated me?"
"No need," Ron said. "The entire Hell's Kitchen knows the story of the Punisher."
Silence.
The sound of rain outside filled the entire booth.
Frank didn't lower his gun.
Ron took a step forward. The muzzle was almost against his sternum.
"You've been killing for three years. Have the gangs in Hell's Kitchen decreased?"
Frank didn't speak.
"You kill one boss, and three more pop up the next day. You take down one stronghold, and two new ones open on the same street the following month."
Frank's Adam's apple bobbed.
"What you lack isn't firepower, Cassel," Ron said, "what you lack is..." "A system. A place where evil enters and never leaves."
"You have one?"
"I just sent Lester Miller in there. You saw it with your own eyes."
Frank was silent for five seconds.
The muzzle slowly shifted two centimeters, no longer aimed at Ron's heart.
"You want to recruit me?"
"I'm not offering you recruitment," Ron said, "something greater than revenge."
"What?"
"Order."
Ron extended his right hand.
Frank stared at the hand. Three seconds ago it could spew magma capable of destroying everything, now it hung silently in mid-air, waiting for his response.
A system notification popped up on the left side of Ron's vision.
[Target detected: Frank Cassel. Willpower assessment: S-rank. Combat experience assessment: A+-rank. Suitable rank: Commodore.] [Granted?]
Frank hadn't gripped it yet.
But he lowered the gun.
That was enough.
Three blocks away.
Atop the church bell tower in the rain, a man in a crimson bodysuit knelt beside a statue.
He had no eyes.
But his hearing covered a radius of over four blocks.
Explosions. Shattering glass. The faint hiss of melting metal. The sudden silence after twelve guns fired simultaneously. A man's scream before being consumed by some force.
And the conversation between two men.
Matthew Murdoch's jaw tightened when the word "order" reached his ears.
He stood up, rain dripping from the edge of his mask.
Hell's Kitchen was his territory.
Tonight, someone had carried out a trial on his turf, in a way he couldn't understand.
八百米.
罗恩的见闻色霸气锁住了那个生命体.
心跳频率极低,每分钟四十八次.呼吸均匀,手指稳定地搭在扳机护圈外侧.
受过顶级狙击训练的人.
杀意浓烈,却没有一丝慌乱.
罗恩收回感知,没有理会.
他有更重要的事.
天台边缘的积水被他脚下的温度蒸干,留下一圈白色的盐渍.罗恩攥住栏杆,金属在高温下软化,五个指印深深陷进去.
系统界面上的红点在闪烁.
地狱厨房42街,"伊甸园"夜总会.
距离他一千二百米.
罗恩松开栏杆,纵身跃下七层楼高的公寓天台.
落地的瞬间,水泥地面被砸出蛛网状的裂纹,但没有声响.武装色包裹双腿,卸掉了全部冲击力.
他穿过三条街巷,雨还在下.
"伊甸园"夜总会的霓虹招牌在雨里发出刺眼的粉红色光,两个穿黑色西装的保安站在正门,腰间鼓起一块——别在皮带上的格洛克手枪.
罗恩没有绕后门.
他径直朝正门走去.
见闻色全面展开.
信息潮水一样涌进大脑.
一百二十米半径内,四十七个生命体.
十二个持枪保镖,分布在一楼大厅,楼梯口和二楼VIP包厢走廊.
八个黑帮成员,集中在吧台区域,其中三人携带冲锋枪.
十九个平民.服务员,调酒师,被迫坐在卡座里陪酒的年轻女孩.她们的心跳普遍偏快,有两个在发抖.
莱斯特·米勒在二楼最里面的包厢,心跳平稳,正在笑.
以及,头顶六十米,屋顶上那个架着巴雷特的男人.
弗兰克·卡索.
他也在等莱斯特.
"排队吧."罗恩低声说了一句.
正门保安发现了他.
左边那个伸手拦住罗恩的胸口.
"私人派对,闲人——"
罗恩抬起左拳.
拳面上流转过一层黑色的光泽,武装色霸气附着在骨骼和肌肉表面,将拳头变成了一柄铁锤.
一拳.
保安的身体和身后的防弹玻璃门同时炸开.
整块钢化玻璃碎成齑粉,保安飞出十五米,撞翻大厅里三张沙发,砸进墙壁,嵌在里面不动了.
另一个保安还没来得及拔枪,罗恩已经跨过门框.
一脚踹在他的膝盖上,骨头碎裂的声响被音乐盖住了一半.
保安惨叫着倒地,罗恩弯腰拔掉他腰间的格洛克,随手捏扁,扔进垃圾桶.
大厅里的音乐还在响.
DJ台上的灯光旋转,五颜六色打在罗恩的脸上.
吧台区的三个黑帮最先反应过来.
"操!有人闯——"
第一个人举起MAC-10冲锋枪.
罗恩右臂自肘部以下开始液态化.
皮肤裂开,暗红色的岩浆从肌肉纹理中涌出,温度在零点三秒内飙升到一千二百度.
热浪扑面而来,吧台上的酒瓶依次炸裂.
三把冲锋枪同时开火.
子弹射入罗恩的躯干,穿过岩浆,在体内停留不到零点一秒就熔化成铁水,顺着岩浆滴落在地板上,烧穿瓷砖.
罗恩在弹雨中往前走.
每一步落地,脚下的地板都被烧出一个焦黑的脚印.瓷砖龟裂,缝隙里冒出白烟.
三个黑帮打空了弹匣.
罗恩抬手,一道岩浆鞭甩出去,精准抽在三人的枪管上.
金属瞬间软化弯曲,枪支报废.
岩浆鞭的尾端贴着吧台下方掠过.
蹲在吧台下面的女服务生闭着眼,等待灼烧的痛感.
没有.
她睁开眼.
三米外的黑帮成员倒在地上,衣服和皮肤的边缘还在冒烟.而她面前的空气甚至带着凉意——岩浆的热辐射被某种力量精确地隔绝在她身体周围一尺之外.
见闻色锁定每一个平民的位置.
武装色控制岩浆的流向和温度辐射范围.
不伤一个无辜.
一楼大厅的保镖全部涌过来,十二支手枪同时指向罗恩.
领头的是一个光头壮汉,脖子上纹着蝎子,嗓门很大.
"你他妈是谁?知不知道这是谁的场子?"
罗恩没停步.
"知道.威尔逊·菲斯克的."
他抬起右手,五指张开.
掌中凝聚出一团拳头大小的岩浆球,温度远超周围的元素化——那是赤犬的招式,缩小版.
"犬噛红莲."
岩浆球脱手飞出.
不是朝保镖去的.
它穿过天花板,穿过二楼地板,穿过包厢走廊的隔墙,精准命中VIP区后门通道的承重梁.
爆炸.
整条走廊的天花板塌下来,钢筋混凝土碎块堵死了唯一的逃跑通道.
二楼传来惨叫和桌椅翻倒的动静.
保镖们愣了一秒.
就这一秒.
罗恩的身体整个化为岩浆态,从十二人中间穿过.
他甚至没有出手.
岩浆流体经过的路径上,所有保镖的枪支,弹夹,防弹背心的金属扣件全部熔化.滚烫的铁水溅到皮肤上,保镖们尖叫着扔掉武器.
罗恩重新凝为人形,站在通往二楼的楼梯口.
身后十二个保镖全部失去战斗力,没有一个死亡.
他上楼了.
VIP包厢的门是胡桃木的,很厚.
罗恩一脚踹开.
门板飞进去,砸翻了茶几上的香槟塔.金色的酒液泼了一地,混着碎玻璃.
莱斯特·米勒缩在沙发角落里,两个保镖挡在他面前.
保镖拔枪.
罗恩的岩浆拳头已经递到了.
左拳砸在第一个保镖的胸口防弹衣上,凯夫拉纤维在高温下瞬间碳化,保镖连人带衣飞出去,撞碎落地窗,从二楼掉进后巷的垃圾堆里.
第二个保镖转身就跑.
罗恩没追.
他的注意力在莱斯特身上.
莱斯特·米勒缩在沙发和墙壁形成的夹角里,双腿发抖,裤裆洇出一片深色水渍.
五个小时前他在法庭上隔着车窗竖中指的那根食指,现在蜷缩在拳头里,指节发软.
罗恩蹲下来.
两人之间的距离不到半米.
"米勒先生."
莱斯特的牙齿在打架.
罗恩的右手还在岩浆态,热量烤得莱斯特脸上的汗水直接蒸发.
"今天上午,法庭宣判你无罪."
"我...我有律师!我有人权!"莱斯特的声线变了调,"你不能这样!这违法——"
"七条人命."
罗恩打断他.
"其中一个女孩,叫艾米莉·怀特,十九岁.她母亲头发白了一半,指甲抠进相框的木头里,流了一裙子的血."
莱斯特拼命往后缩,脊背抵住墙壁.
"还有一个叫丽莎·陈,十四岁.法医报告上写着——你在她身上刺了二十三刀,每刀间隔三秒."
罗恩伸出右手,岩浆包裹住莱斯特的左脚踝.
莱斯特发出杀猪一样的嚎叫.
"你的人权——"
岩浆沿小腿上移,烧穿裤管.
"在你杀死第一个女孩的时候,就被我撤销了."
系统弹出审判界面.
[是否对莱斯特·米勒执行收押?]
[选项一:收押至维度推进城第一层（永久关押,持续抽取罪恶值）]
[选项二:当场处决（一次性获取全部罪恶值500点）]
罗恩选了收押.
莱斯特身下的地板裂开一道缝.暗红色的光从缝隙中透出,旋转,扩大,形成一个直径一米的漩涡.
莱斯特的身体开始下沉.
"不——不要——救命!救命啊!"
他的手指抓住沙发边缘,指甲嵌进皮革里.
没有用.
漩涡把他整个吞了进去.
包厢里恢复安静.只剩下地板上一圈烧焦的痕迹.
[叮.罪恶值+500,正义值+200.推进城第一层收押人数:1/100.]
[初始任务'惩罚罪恶'完成度:1/2.剩余目标:保护伞网络.]
罗恩站起来.
身后传来动静.
天花板炸开一个洞,碎石和灰尘簌簌往下掉.
一个黑色身影从洞口跳下,单膝跪地缓冲,右手端着M16A4突击步枪,枪口直指罗恩的后脑.
罗恩没转身.
见闻色告诉他一切——来人的心跳,站位,握枪的力度,食指离扳机的距离.
"你是谁?"
嗓音沙哑,粗粝,带着常年吸烟和吞咽硝烟的质感.
罗恩慢慢转过身.
弗兰克·卡索.
黑色风衣,胸前喷涂着一个白色的骷髅头标记.脸上有三道旧伤疤,横跨左颧骨到下巴.
他的枪口稳得不像话.零点几毫米的偏移都没有.
"我在狙击镜里看了全程."弗兰克的左眼微微眯起,"岩浆.免疫子弹.隔着三面墙精确打击.你不是变种人."
"我不是."
"那你是什么?"
"一个法官."
弗兰克的枪口顿了一下.
只顿了零点三秒,又稳住了.
"法官不会喷岩浆."
"这个法官会."
罗恩背着手,面对枪口站得笔直.他打量弗兰克,用的不是眼睛——见闻色在扫描弗兰克的身体状态.
右肋两根旧伤骨折未完全愈合.左肩有贯穿伤的瘢痕组织.弹片残留在右大腿股四头肌深层.
这人带着一身伤,扛着一把枪,在地狱厨房杀了三年.
罗恩开口了.
"弗兰克·卡索.前海军陆战队第三营查理连,中校军衔.在坎大哈省执行过四十七次定点清除任务,零失误."
弗兰克的右手食指从扳机护圈外侧移到了扳机上.
"退役后定居纽约.妻子玛丽亚,女儿丽莎,儿子小弗兰克.三年前中央公园,三方黑帮交火.你的家人被流弹击中,全部当场死亡."
弗兰克的呼吸频率变了.
从每分钟十二次骤升到十八次.
"你调查我?"
"不用调查."罗恩说,"整个地狱厨房都知道惩罚者的故事."
沉默.
外面的雨声填满了整个包厢.
弗兰克没有放下枪.
罗恩往前走了一步.枪口几乎顶在他的胸骨上.
"你杀了三年,地狱厨房的黑帮少了吗?"
弗兰克没说话.
"你砍掉一个头目,第二天冒出来三个.你端掉一个据点,下个月同一条街开出两家新的."
弗兰克的喉结滚动了一下.
"你缺的不是火力,卡索."罗恩说,"你缺一个系统.一个让罪恶进去就再也出不来的地方."
"你有?"
"我刚才把莱斯特·米勒送进去了.你亲眼看到的."
弗兰克沉默了五秒.
枪口缓缓偏移了两厘米,不再对准罗恩的心脏.
"你想招揽我?"
"我给你的不是招募."罗恩说,"是一个比复仇更大的东西."
"什么?"
"秩序."
罗恩伸出右手.
弗兰克盯着那只手.三秒前它还能喷出毁灭一切的岩浆,现在安静地悬在半空,等他回应.
系统在罗恩的视野左侧弹出提示.
[检测到目标弗兰克·卡索.意志强度评估:S级.战斗经验评估:A+级.适配军衔:海军准将.是否授予?]
弗兰克还没握上来.
但他把枪放下了.
这就够了.
三个街区外.
雨中的教堂钟楼顶端,一个穿深红色紧身衣的男人正单膝蹲在石像旁.
他没有眼睛能用.
但他的听觉覆盖半径超过四个街区.
爆炸声.玻璃碎裂.金属熔化时发出的细微嘶鸣.十二把枪同时击发后的骤然寂静.一个男人被某种力量吞噬前的惨叫.
以及两个男人的对话.
"秩序"那个词传进他的耳朵时,马修·默多克的下颌收紧了.
他站起来,雨水顺着面罩的边缘滴下来.
地狱厨房是他的地盘.
今晚有人在他的地盘上,用他听不懂的方式执行了审判.