Ron left at 6:15.
His suit was perfectly pressed, his gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and his leather shoes tapped rhythmically on the corridor floor.
The security guard at the courthouse security checkpoint nodded to him.
"Good morning, Judge Stern."
"Good morning."
He walked down the courtroom corridor, a case file tucked under his left hand and a Starbucks Americano in his right.
At the end of the corridor, Harold Mickson approached him.
The fifty-six-year-old judge was wearing a new tie today, a Windsor knot. He was meticulous in his work, but his left hand kept fidgeting with his sleeve—a nervous habit.
"Ron, good morning."
Mickson stopped him, lowering his voice.
"Have you heard? Something happened at that nightclub on 42nd Street last night."
"Oh?"
"A gas leak. The whole first floor burned down."
Mickson stared at Ron's face, trying to catch any unusual reaction.
Ron took a sip of his coffee.
"The gas company should be held accountable."
Mickson chuckled dryly. Ron didn't need to consciously activate his Observation Haki—at this distance, he could clearly sense Mickson's heartbeat jump from 72 beats per minute to 91.
He was afraid.
Not of a gas leak.
It was of Lester Miller's disappearance. Kingpin's men couldn't contact Miller, and Mickson was the judge who released Miller; he was afraid of being implicated.
Ron smiled politely at Mickson, turned, and went into his office, closing the door.
The smile vanished.
Lunch break.
The office blinds were drawn all the way down, and the door was locked from the inside.
Ron leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and brought up the system interface.
[Mission: Clean up the Hell's Kitchen Dark Web (72 hours)]
[Remaining Time: 61 hours 14 minutes]
[Target 1: Warehouse 37 in the Docklands – Drug processing plant. Daily production of methamphetamine and fentanyl, estimated at $2 million/day.]
[Target 2: Abandoned Bronx subway station – Armory. Sufficient stock to equip an infantry battalion.]
[Target 3] [Fifth Avenue "Moonlight Foundation" - Money Laundering Front Desk. Monthly turnover of 50 million.]
Ron opened his eyes, pulled a piece of white paper from the drawer, and drew three circles with a pen.
The drug factory was in the dock area, with two residential buildings within 300 meters. The basement stored large quantities of chemical raw materials—ether, hydrochloric acid, acetone.
Lava couldn't be used.
One wrong move, and half the street would explode.
He picked up the encrypted phone on the table and dialed Frank's number.
It rang once and was answered.
"Warehouse 37, Dock Area, 11 PM tonight."
There was a two-second silence on the other end.
"What do you need me to bring?"
"Sniper rifle, silencer. You're in charge of the perimeter, take out the sentries, and block all escape routes. I'll handle the warehouse."
"What's in the warehouse?"
"Thirty-five armed men, two heavy machine guns mounted on the second-floor platform. There's a chemical storage area in the basement."
Frank didn't ask how he knew. He'd seen it with his own eyes in the armory last night. Watching Ron mark nineteen outposts on the map with his eyes closed, each one precise down to the house number.
"One more thing," Ron added, "The basement is next to a residential area. Don't blow it up."
"Understood."
He hung up.
Ron folded the white paper and stuffed it into his suit pocket.
He reopened the blinds, letting sunlight stream in and fall on the case files on the table.
An ordinary magistrate was handling a property dispute.
No one would suspect anything.
10:45 PM.
The wind from the dock area, carrying the smell of diesel and salty fish, blew in from the river.
Warehouse No. 37 was a two-story steel structure building, its exterior painted with the words "Atlantic Seafood Cold Chain." The roller shutter door was tightly closed, and two black SUVs were parked in front.
Frank lay prone on top of a container three hundred meters away, the butt of his M82A1 rifle against his shoulder.
Through his scope, there was a sentry at the east corner of the warehouse. Black jacket, cigarette dangling from his mouth, right hand in his pocket— A gun was in his pocket.
Frank's index finger rested on the trigger.
Armament Haki spread from his fingertip to his entire right arm, a thin layer of black sheen flowing across his skin.
He wasn't quite used to the feeling.
But the sensation of bending an I-beam with his fist last night still lingered in his bones.
He pulled the trigger.
The gun fired. The silencer reduced the sound to a dull thud, blending into the wind whistling through the dock area.
The bullet struck the sentry's left shoulder, piercing the Kevlar layer of his body armor, exiting through his back, and embedding itself... Inside the wall.
The sentry didn't even have time to scream; the impact sent him slamming backward against the wall, landing on the ground.
Frank looked at the bullet hole in his scope.
It penetrated.
An M82A1 armor-piercing round could indeed penetrate body armor, but it wouldn't create such a clean penetration.
It was that black substance.
"This stuff...it's real."
He lowered his gun, locking onto the second sentry.
The second shot rang out less than four seconds after the first.
Frank's message came through the encrypted channel: "Outer perimeter cleared. Two."
Ron stood twenty meters in front of the warehouse's main entrance.
He removed his gold-rimmed glasses, folded them, and put them in his breast pocket.
He raised his right fist.
Armament Haki covered his entire fist, a black hardened layer spreading from his fingertips to his wrist.
No lava.
Tonight, with his fists.
He slammed his fist into the roller shutter door.
The steel plate dented in the middle, rivets flew off, and the entire roller shutter door flew inward, smashing over the door behind it. Two iron tables and five chairs.
Three gang members playing cards at the tables were thrown to the ground by the iron tables; one was pinned to the ground by the lower half of a roller shutter door, the sound of breaking ribs mingling with the noise of metal creaking.
The warehouse's first floor was brightly lit.
More than thirty gang members turned their heads simultaneously.
They froze for half a second.
"Damn! Someone broke in!"
Gunfire erupted.
A dozen pistols and submachine guns simultaneously rained bullets down on the doorway.
Ron walked forward.
Bullets struck him, penetrating his body... Clothes, upon contact with Armament Haki-hardened skin—bounced off.
The copper-cased bullets bounced and clattered across the floor.
He wasn't elementalizing. He didn't need to.
Twenty paces.
He reached the nearest shooter and slammed an elbow into the man's right wrist, the one holding the gun.
The wrist bone shattered, the gun slipped from his grasp.
Ron swept his left leg across, breaking the second man's knee. His right fist struck the third man's temple; the man's head snapped to the side, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed stiffly.
Three Three seconds.
Based on the Six Styles of the Navy.
Akainu's template synchronization rate is only 20%, but the accompanying combat skills are enough to crush these street thugs.
"Shave."
Ron's figure vanished from his spot.
The next moment he reappeared five meters away, his right knee slamming into the chest of a gang member who was changing a magazine. The sensation of the sternum collapsing traveled up his knee, sending the man flying, knocking over three of his companions behind him.
On the second-floor platform, the heavy machine gun opened fire.
Two M60 rifles were mounted behind iron railings, muzzle flashes of fire, 7.62mm bullets raining down at a rate of 500 rounds per minute.
The hail of bullets covered the area where Ron stood.
Ron stopped.
"Iron Body."
His muscles tensed abruptly under the influence of Armament Haki, his hardness surging.
Bullets struck his torso, arms, and thighs, sending sparks flying as they ricocheted off.
He stood motionless in the hail of bullets.
The two heavy machine guns fired their full... Exactly four seconds.
Scrap shells littered the ground.
Ron's suit was ripped to shreds, tattered fabric hanging from his body, revealing undamaged skin beneath.
He raised his right leg.
"Storm Kick."
His leg muscles exploded, unleashing a powerful kick.
Air was compressed and torn apart in front of his foot, a crescent-shaped blade of air shooting from his toe, faster than a bullet.
The blade sliced through the iron railing of the second-floor platform, cleaving two heavy machine guns and their tripods in two.
Ammunition boxes exploded, metal fragments flying everywhere. Splattered everywhere.
The four machine gunners on the second floor were thrown overboard by the blast wave. Two of them tumbled off the edge of the platform, while the remaining two scrambled to their feet and ran towards the windows.
They climbed out the window and jumped.
Three hundred meters away, Frank fired twice.
The two men landed on the concrete outside the warehouse, each hit in the left knee.
Frank's voice came through the encrypted channel: "Why are you running?"
The clearing of the first floor was complete.
Ron stepped over the spent shell casings and shards of glass and walked to the iron gate at the back of the warehouse.
Behind the door was a staircase leading to the basement.
He pushed the door open.
A pungent chemical odor assaulted his nostrils—ether, acetone, hydrochloric acid, all mixed together, at a concentration high enough to make him dizzy.
Ron held his breath and descended the stairs.
The basement was larger than the upstairs, with fluorescent light tubes hanging from the concrete walls, casting a dim, white glow.
Twelve long tables were arranged in two rows.
Behind each table sat a person.
No, not sitting—they were chained.
Chains were fastened around their ankles. The other end of the chain was welded to the table leg.
Twelve people. Men and women alike. Skin and bones, cheekbones protruding, fingers ulcerated from prolonged exposure to chemicals, nails falling off to reveal blackened nail beds.
They wore identical grey smocks and had no shoes.
The closest was a young girl, early twenties, with dark brown skin.
The left side of her face was severely ulcerated. Her skin was covered in blisters and scabs; the flesh around her nose and mouth had been corroded by chemicals to the muscle tissue beneath.
She looked up at Ron, her eyes empty.
Not fear, not hope.
Empty.
Ron's right hand clenched. Lava seeped from between his fingers, dripping onto the concrete floor, burning five black spots.
He crouched down, one hand gripping the chain on the girl's ankle, lava concentrated between his thumb and forefinger, precisely melting the clasp.
The chain fell, making a dull thud on the ground.
The girl stared at her empty ankle, without… There was movement.
Ron stood up and melted the remaining chains one by one.
Twelve people.
Not one of them stood up.
They had been locked up here for too long, so long that they had forgotten they could stand.
Ron turned and walked towards the processing area at the deepest part of the basement.
Three rows of shelves were piled high with finished and semi-finished products. Crystalline methamphetamine refracted a cold white light under the fluorescent lights, and fentanyl powder was neatly stacked in sealed bags.
Ron raised his right hand, fingers spread.
Lava seeped from the tips of his five fingers simultaneously, forming ten thin lines that pierced ten different shelves.
Precise temperature control.
The 1000-degree lava only burned organic matter and plastic packaging; upon encountering the metal shelves, the temperature plummeted to 300 degrees—enough to burn the drugs, but not enough to ignite the remaining chemical vapors in the basement.
The drugs on the shelves turned to ashes within five seconds.
The processing equipment—mixers, tablet presses, drying ovens—were eroded by the lava. Deformation, melting, collapse.
Bulging white smoke.
A system notification pops up.
[Destroyed the drug processing plant. Justice value +500.]
[Detectable target for detention: "Snake Eyes" Johnson. Wanted criminal. Crime value 1200. Current location: Basement secret passage B exit.]
Ron turns his head.
There's a crack in the westernmost wall of the basement, behind which is a secret passage less than a meter wide.
Someone is running.
The footsteps are rapid and heavy. A large man.
Ron presses the encrypted channel.
"Frank, west side of the warehouse, underground secret passage exit."
"Roger."
Forty seconds later.
The secret passage exit is under a drain cover outside the west wall of the warehouse. The cover is pushed open from the inside, and a bald man crawls out.
Two meters tall, 120 kilograms, with a vertical scar above his left eye, extending from his brow bone to his cheekbone.
"Snake Eyes" Johnson. The direct manager of Kingpin's drug network.
He just crawled out of the drain... He emerged, covered in filth, clutching a Glock pistol.
Frank stood fifteen meters away. The muzzle of his M16A4 was aimed at Johnson's knee.
"Get down."
Johnson looked up, saw Frank, then at the white cape on his shoulder, and froze for a second.
"Fuck you—"
Frank pulled the trigger.
Three bursts, all hitting Johnson's right knee.
Johnson's leg buckled, but he didn't fall.
He pulled a syringe from his jacket pocket.
The syringe contained a pale blue liquid.
Frank raised the muzzle two inches, aiming at Johnson's hand.
Too late.
Johnson plunged the syringe into his neck and pressed the lever.
The pale blue liquid flowed into his carotid artery.
Johnson's body began to swell.
Muscles grew wildly beneath his skin, bones cracked and splintered, his clothes ripped, revealing a deformed body covered in bulging veins.
In two seconds, he transformed from a 120-kilogram strongman into... A monster nearly 2.5 meters tall and weighing over 300 kilograms.
Degraded Super Soldier Serum.
Johnson roared, his right fist slamming towards Frank.
Frank dodged to the side, simultaneously retracting his right fist, his fist coated with Armament Haki—
The fist slammed into Johnson's abdomen.
The Kevlar layer of his bulletproof vest shattered against the blackened fist, Frank's fist sinking into Johnson's abdominal muscles.
But Johnson didn't fall.
His serum-enhanced muscle density far exceeded that of an ordinary person; Frank's punch only created a shallow dent.
Johnson looked down at the fist embedded in his stomach, grinning.
A slap came down.
Frank's Armament Haki was concentrated on his right fist, unable to spread throughout his body for defense.
The slap landed on his left shoulder, sending Frank flying, crashing through a brick wall and landing in a pile of debris behind it.
The left shoulder strap of his bulletproof vest snapped, the ceramic plate shattering into three pieces.
Johnson turned and ran.
He hadn't gone two steps. A cloud of dark red magma shot out from the direction of the warehouse and landed on the ground.
The magma didn't splash.
It reformed on the ground, rising and taking shape.
Four legs. One head. A huge mouth.
Magma Hound.
"Morphin."
Ron's voice came from inside the warehouse.
The Magma Hound opened its mouth and lunged at Johnson's back.
Its 1200-degree canine teeth bit into Johnson's shoulder, burning through skin and muscle.
Johnson let out a beast-like howl, desperately shaking his body to try and break free.
But the Magma Hound's heat was accelerating the metabolism of the serum within him.
The high temperature catalyzed the decomposition reaction of the corrupted serum. Johnson's swollen muscles began to atrophy, and the sound of bones shifting rang out again—this time, it was the sound of them retracting.
Ten seconds later, Johnson returned to his original size.
He collapsed to the ground, his body emitting white smoke.
Ron walked out of the warehouse and stood before Johnson.
[Detain "Snake-Eyes" Johnson to Impel Down?] [Level 1?]
Imprisonment.
The ground beneath Johnson cracked open, and a dark red vortex swallowed him.
[Imprisonment successful. Sin value +1200. Number of prisoners in Level 1 of Impel Down: 2/100.]
[Detected residual degraded Super Soldier Serum in "Snake Eyes" Johnson's body—can be used as material for the Devil Fruit furnace.]
Ron stared at the last line of the notification for three seconds.
A noise came from behind the brick wall.
Frank crawled out of the pile of rubble, half of his bulletproof vest on his left shoulder torn, his collarbone bruised and purple.
He looked down at his disheveled state and remained silent for a long time.
"I need more power."
Ron glanced at him.
"Wait two more days."
The two retreated along the dark alleys of the dock area.
After walking four hundred meters, Ron paused.
His Observation Haki detected a signal.
Three blocks away. On the edge of the roof of a building.
A person.
Heartbeat steady, breathing very shallow.
罗恩六点十五分出门.
西装熨得没有一道褶皱,金丝眼镜架在鼻梁上,皮鞋在走廊地砖上敲出规律的节拍.
法院安检口的保安冲他点头.
"早,斯特恩法官."
"早."
他穿过法庭走廊,左手夹着一份案卷,右手端着星巴克的美式咖啡.
走廊尽头,哈罗德·密克森迎面走过来.
五十六岁的老法官今天换了条新领带,温莎结打得一丝不苟,但左手一直在摸袖口——那是紧张时的小动作.
"罗恩,早."
密克森拦住他,压低了嗓门.
"听说了吗?昨晚42街那家夜总会出事了."
"哦?"
"煤气泄漏.整个一楼都烧了."
密克森盯着罗恩的脸,试图捕捉任何异常反应.
罗恩喝了一口咖啡.
"煤气公司应该被追责."
密克森干笑两声.
见闻色不需要刻意展开——这个距离,罗恩能清晰地感知到密克森的心跳从每分钟七十二次飙到了九十一次.
他在怕.
怕的不是煤气泄漏.
是莱斯特·米勒失踪了.金并的人联系不上米勒,而密克森是放走米勒的法官,他怕自己被牵连.
罗恩冲密克森礼貌地笑了笑,转身走进自己的办公室,关上门.
笑容收掉.
午休.
办公室的百叶窗拉到底,门反锁.
罗恩靠在椅背上,闭眼调出系统界面.
[任务:清剿地狱厨房暗网（72小时）]
[剩余时间:61小时14分]
[目标一:码头区37号仓库——毒品加工厂.日产冰毒+芬太尼,估值200万美元/日.]
[目标二:布朗克斯废弃地铁站——军火仓库.储量足够装备一个步兵营.]
[目标三:第五大道"月光基金会"——洗钱前台.月流转资金5000万.]
罗恩睁开眼,从抽屉里抽出一张白纸,用钢笔画了三个圈.
毒品厂在码头区,周边三百米内有两栋居民楼.地下室存放大量化学原料——乙醚,盐酸,丙酮.
不能用岩浆.
一个操作不当,半条街跟着炸.
他拿起桌上的加密手机,拨了弗兰克的号.
响了一声就接了.
"码头区37号仓库,今晚十一点."
电话那头沉默了两秒.
"需要我带什么?"
"狙击枪,消音器.你负责外围,干掉暗哨,封死所有逃跑路线.仓库里面我来."
"仓库里有什么?"
"三十五个武装人员,两挺重机枪架在二楼平台.地下室有化学品储存区."
弗兰克没问他怎么知道的.昨晚在武器库里,他亲眼看着罗恩闭着眼在地图上标出十九个据点,每一个都精确到门牌号.
"还有一件事."罗恩补了一句,"地下室旁边就是居民区.不能炸."
"明白."
挂断.
罗恩把白纸折好,塞进西装内袋.
他重新打开百叶窗,阳光照进来,落在桌面的案卷上.
一个普通的地方法官,正在处理一桩房产纠纷.
没人会怀疑什么.
夜里十点四十五分.
码头区的风裹着柴油味和咸腥味,从河面上刮过来.
37号仓库是一栋两层的钢结构建筑,外墙刷着"大西洋水产冷链"的字样,卷帘门紧闭,门口停了两辆黑色SUV.
弗兰克趴在三百米外的集装箱顶部,M82A1的枪托抵在肩窝里.
瞄准镜里,仓库东侧拐角有一个暗哨.黑色夹克,嘴里叼着烟,右手插在口袋里——口袋里是枪.
弗兰克的食指搭上扳机.
武装色从指尖蔓延到整条右臂,一层极薄的黑色光泽贴着皮肤流转.
他还不太习惯这种感觉.
但昨晚他一拳砸弯工字钢的触感还留在骨头里.
扣下扳机.
枪响.消音器把声音压到了钝响的程度,混进码头区的风声里.
子弹击中暗哨的左肩,贯穿了防弹衣的凯夫拉层,从后背飞出,嵌进墙壁里.
暗哨连叫都没叫出来,整个人被冲击力带着向后撞上墙壁,滑坐在地.
弗兰克看着瞄准镜里的弹孔.
穿了.
M82A1的穿甲弹确实能打穿防弹衣,但不会打出这么干净的贯穿创口.
是那层黑色的东西加持的.
"这东西...是真的."
他压低枪口,锁定第二个暗哨.
第二声枪响和第一声间隔不到四秒.
加密频道传来弗兰克的消息:"外围清了.两个."
罗恩站在仓库正门前方二十米处.
他摘下金丝眼镜,折好,放进胸口口袋.
右拳抬起.
武装色覆盖整个拳面,黑色硬化层从指根蔓延到手腕.
没有岩浆.
今晚用拳头.
一拳砸在卷帘门上.
钢板从中间凹进去,铆钉崩飞,整扇卷帘门被拳头带着向内飞出,砸翻了门后的两张铁桌和五把椅子.
三个坐在桌边打牌的黑帮成员被铁桌掀翻在地,一个被卷帘门压住下半身,肋骨断裂的声响混在金属变形的噪音里.
仓库一楼灯火通明.
三十多个黑帮成员同时转头.
愣了半秒.
"操!有人闯进来了!"
枪声炸开.
十几支手枪,冲锋枪同时朝门口倾泻弹雨.
罗恩往前走.
子弹打在他身上,穿进衣服,碰到武装色硬化的皮肤——弹开.
铜壳弹头在地板上弹跳,叮叮当当滚了一地.
他没有元素化.不需要.
二十步.
走到最近的射手面前,一肘砸在对方持枪的右手腕上.
腕骨碎裂,枪脱手.
罗恩左脚横扫,踢断第二个人的膝盖.右拳直击第三个人的太阳穴,那人的脑袋猛地偏了九十度,白眼一翻,直挺挺倒下去.
三秒.三个.
海军六式的底子.
赤犬模板同步率只有百分之二十,但附带的格斗技术已经足够碾压这些街头混混.
"剃."
罗恩的身影消失在原地.
下一刻他出现在五米外,右膝撞进一个正在换弹匣的黑帮成员的胸口.胸骨塌陷的触感顺着膝盖传上来,那人直接飞出去,撞翻了身后的三个同伴.
二楼平台上,重机枪开火了.
两挺M60架在铁栏杆后面,枪口喷着火舌,7.62毫米口径的弹头以每分钟五百发的速度倾泻而下.
弹雨覆盖了罗恩所在的区域.
罗恩停下脚步.
"铁块."
全身肌肉在武装色的加持下骤然收紧,硬度飙升.
弹头打在他的躯干,手臂,大腿上,溅起一串串火花,全部弹飞.
他站在弹雨里,一动不动.
两挺重机枪打了整整四秒.
弹壳堆了一地.
罗恩的西装被打烂了,碎布条挂在身上,露出下面完好无损的皮肤.
他抬起右腿.
"岚脚."
腿部肌肉爆发,一脚踢出.
空气在脚背前方被压缩,撕裂,一道半月形的气刃从脚尖射出,速度快过子弹.
气刃切过二楼平台的铁栏杆,将两挺重机枪连同三脚架从中间劈成两半.
弹药箱殉爆,金属碎片四溅.
二楼的四个机枪手被气浪掀翻,其中两个直接从平台边缘摔下来,剩下两个爬起来就往窗户方向跑.
翻窗,跳楼.
三百米外,弗兰克的枪响了两次.
两个人摔在仓库外的水泥地上,左膝各中了一发.
加密频道里传来弗兰克的声音:"跑什么."
一楼清场结束.
罗恩踩过一地弹壳和碎玻璃,走到仓库后方的铁门前.
门后是通往地下室的楼梯.
他推开门.
化学品的刺鼻气味扑面而来——乙醚,丙酮,盐酸,混在一起,浓度高到让人头晕.
罗恩屏住呼吸,沿楼梯往下走.
地下室面积比楼上更大,水泥墙壁上挂着日光灯管,白光惨淡.
十二张长桌排成两排.
每张桌子后面坐着一个人.
不,不是坐着——是被锁着.
脚踝上拴着铁链,铁链的另一端焊死在桌腿上.
十二个人.男女都有.瘦得皮包骨头,颧骨凸出,手指因为长期接触化学品而溃烂,指甲脱落,露出下面发黑的甲床.
他们穿着同样的灰色罩衫,没有鞋.
最近的一个是个年轻女孩,二十岁出头,深棕色皮肤.
她的左半边脸严重溃烂.皮肤表面布满水疱和结痂,鼻翼和嘴角的皮肉已经被化学品腐蚀到露出下面的肌肉组织.
她抬头看罗恩,两只眼睛里什么都没有.
不是恐惧,不是希望.
是空的.
罗恩的右手五指收拢.岩浆从指缝间渗出来,滴在水泥地上,烧出五个黑点.
他蹲下来,一只手捏住女孩脚踝上的铁链,岩浆集中在拇指和食指之间,精确地熔断锁扣.
铁链脱落,在地上发出沉闷的响声.
女孩盯着自己空出来的脚踝,没有动.
罗恩站起来,一个一个熔断剩下的锁链.
十二个人.
没有一个人站起来.
他们已经被关在这里太久了,久到忘了可以站起来.
罗恩转过身,走向地下室最深处的加工区.
三排货架上堆满了成品和半成品.冰毒的结晶体在日光灯下折射出冷白色的光芒,芬太尼的粉末装在密封袋里,一袋一袋码得整整齐齐.
罗恩右手抬起,五指张开.
岩浆从五根手指的指尖同时渗出,化作十条细线,分别刺入十个不同的货架.
精准控温.
一千度的岩浆只烧有机物和塑料包装,遇到金属货架时温度骤降到三百度——足以烧毁毒品,不足以引燃地下室里残存的化学品蒸气.
货架上的毒品在五秒内化为灰烬.
加工设备——搅拌机,压片机,干燥箱——在岩浆的侵蚀下变形,熔化,坍塌.
白烟滚滚.
系统提示弹出.
[摧毁毒品加工厂.正义值+500.]
[检测到可收押目标:"蛇眼"约翰逊.通缉犯.罪恶值1200.当前位置:地下室密道B出口.]
罗恩侧过头.
地下室最西边的墙壁上有一道裂缝,裂缝后面是一条不到一米宽的密道.
有人在跑.
脚步声急促,沉重.一个大块头.
罗恩按下加密频道.
"弗兰克,仓库西侧,地下密道出口."
"收到."
四十秒后.
密道出口在仓库西墙外的排水沟盖板下面.盖板被从里面顶开,一个光头男人钻出来.
两米高,一百二十公斤,左眼上有一道竖着的刀疤,从眉骨一直延伸到颧骨.
"蛇眼"约翰逊.金并手下毒品线的直接管理者.
他刚从排水沟里爬出来,满身污水,手里攥着一把格洛克.
弗兰克站在十五米外.M16A4的枪口对准约翰逊的膝盖.
"趴下."
约翰逊抬头看见弗兰克,又看见他肩上那件白色的披风,愣了一秒.
"操你——"
弗兰克扣下扳机.
三发点射,全部命中约翰逊的右膝.
约翰逊一条腿跪了下去,但没倒.
他从夹克内袋里掏出一支注射器.
针管里是淡蓝色的液体.
弗兰克的枪口向上抬了两寸,瞄准约翰逊的手.
晚了.
约翰逊把针管扎进自己的脖子,按下推杆.
淡蓝色的液体注入颈动脉.
约翰逊的身体开始膨胀.
肌肉在皮肤下疯狂生长,骨骼发出咔咔的错位声,衣服被撑裂,露出下面布满青筋的变形躯体.
两秒内,他从一个一百二十公斤的壮汉变成了一个接近两米五,体重超过三百公斤的怪物.
劣化版超级士兵血清.
约翰逊咆哮了一声,右拳砸向弗兰克.
弗兰克侧身闪避,同时收回右拳,武装色覆盖拳面——
一拳砸在约翰逊的腹部.
防弹背心的凯夫拉层在黑色硬化的拳面前碎裂,弗兰克的拳头陷进了约翰逊的腹肌里.
但约翰逊没倒.
血清强化后的肌肉密度远超常人,弗兰克的这一拳只打出了一个浅凹.
约翰逊低头看着嵌在自己肚子上的拳头,咧开嘴.
一巴掌拍下来.
弗兰克的武装色集中在右拳上,来不及分散到全身防御.
巴掌拍在他的左肩,弗兰克整个人被拍飞出去,撞穿了一面砖墙,栽进墙后面的杂物堆里.
防弹衣的左肩带断裂,陶瓷插板碎成三块.
约翰逊转身就跑.
他没跑出两步.
一团暗红色的岩浆从仓库方向飞出来,落在地面上.
岩浆没有溅开.
它在地上重新凝聚,隆起,成形.
四条腿.一个头.一张大嘴.
岩浆犬.
"冥狗."
罗恩的声音从仓库里传出来.
岩浆犬张开嘴,扑向约翰逊的后背.
一千二百度的犬牙咬住约翰逊的肩膀,烧穿皮肤和肌肉.
约翰逊发出野兽一样的嚎叫,拼命甩动身体试图挣脱.
但岩浆犬的温度正在加速他体内血清的代谢.
高温催化了劣化血清的分解反应.约翰逊膨胀的肌肉开始萎缩,骨骼的错位声再次响起——这次是缩回去的声音.
十秒后,约翰逊恢复了原来的体型.
他瘫倒在地,浑身冒着白烟.
罗恩从仓库里走出来,站在约翰逊面前.
[是否收押"蛇眼"约翰逊至维度推进城第一层?]
收押.
约翰逊身下的地面裂开,暗红色的漩涡吞没了他.
[收押成功.罪恶值+1200.推进城第一层关押人数:2/100.]
[检测到"蛇眼"约翰逊体内含有劣化版超级士兵血清残留——可作为恶魔果实熔炉素材.]
罗恩盯着最后一行提示看了三秒.
砖墙后面传来动静.
弗兰克从碎砖堆里爬出来,左肩的防弹衣碎了半边,锁骨位置青紫一片.
他低头看着自己身上的狼狈样,沉默了很久.
"我需要更强的力量."
罗恩看了他一眼.
"再等两天."
两人沿码头区的暗巷撤离.
走出四百米的时候,罗恩的脚步顿了一下.
见闻色捕捉到了一个信号.
三个街区外.某栋建筑的屋顶边缘.
一个人.
心跳平稳,呼吸极浅.没有携带任何武器的金属反馈.
但这个人的感知方式不对.
他没有在"看"——他在"听".
一种极其精密的声波扫描正在覆盖周围数百米的范围,每一面墙壁,每一个拐角,每一滴水珠的回弹都被那个人接收并处理.
罗恩的脚步恢复正常,继续往前走.
弗兰克没察觉到异常.
罗恩没出声.
但他的见闻色在持续追踪那个信号——屋顶上的人也在动.
跟着他们的路线,在三个街区外,一栋楼接一栋楼地无声跟随.