Ron left home at 6:15.
His suit was perfectly pressed, his gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and his leather shoes tapped rhythmically on the hallway tiles.
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, a Starbucks Americano in his right.
At the end of the corridor, Harold Mickson approached.
The fifty-six-year-old judge wore a new tie today, the Windsor knot perfectly tied, but his left hand kept fiddling with his cuff—a nervous gesture.
"Ron, good morning." Mickson stopped him, lowering his voice.
"Have you heard? Something happened at the 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.
His Observation Haki didn't need to be deliberately activated—at this distance, Ron could clearly sense Mickson's heart rate jump from 72 beats per minute to 91.
He was afraid.
Not afraid of a gas leak.
It was that Lester Miller had disappeared. 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 pulled all the way down, and the door was locked.
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 Dock District—Drug Processing Plant. Daily production of methamphetamine + fentanyl, estimated at $2 million/day.] [Target Two: Abandoned Bronx subway station – arms depot. Sufficient stock to equip an infantry battalion.]
[Target Three: Fifth Avenue "Moonlight Foundation" – money laundering front office. 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 is in the dock area, with two residential buildings within 300 meters. The basement stores large quantities of chemical raw materials – ether, hydrochloric acid, acetone.
Lava cannot be used.
One wrong move, and half the street will 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 of the line.
"What do you need me to bring?"
"A sniper rifle, a 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 on the second-floor platform. There's a chemical storage area in the basement."
Frank didn't ask how he knew. Last night in the armory, he'd watched Ron mark nineteen outposts on a map with his eyes closed, each one accurate 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, sunlight streaming in and falling 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 37 was a two-story steel-framed building, its exterior painted with the words "Atlantic Seafood Cold Chain." The roller shutters were tightly shut, and two black SUVs were parked outside.
Frank lay prone on top of a container ship 300 meters away, the butt of his M82A1 rifle pressed against his shoulder.
Through his scope, he saw a sentry at the eastern corner of the warehouse. A black jacket, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his right hand in his pocket—his gun.
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 this feeling yet.
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 of 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 in the wall.
The sentry didn't even have time to scream before the impact sent him slamming backward against the wall and sliding to 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 took off 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 against the roller shutter door.
The steel plate dented in the middle, rivets flew off, and the entire roller shutter door was propelled inward by the fist, smashing over two iron tables and five chairs behind it.
Three gang members playing cards at the tables were thrown to the ground by the iron tables, while another was pinned to the ground by the roller shutter door, the sound of breaking ribs mingling with the noise of warping metal.
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 unleashed a hail of bullets at the doorway.
Ron walked forward.
Bullets struck him, penetrated his clothes, and bounced off his armor-hardened skin.
Copper-cased bullets bounced and clattered across the floor.
He didn't use his elemental powers. He didn't need to.
Twenty paces.
He reached the nearest shooter and elbowed him in the right wrist holding the gun.
Wrist shattered, gun slipped from hand.
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, eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.
Three seconds. Three.
Based on the Six Styles of the Navy.
The Akainu template synchronization rate was only 20%, but the accompanying hand-to-hand combat skills were enough to overwhelm 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 collapsing sternum traveled up his knee, sending the man flying, knocking over his three companions behind him.
On the second-floor platform, heavy machine guns opened fire.
Two M60s were mounted behind iron railings, muzzle flashes, 7.62mm bullets raining down at a rate of 500 rounds per minute.
The hail of bullets covered the area where Ron was.
Ron stopped.
"Iron Body." His muscles tensed abruptly, hardened by Armament Haki.
Bullets struck his torso, arms, and thighs, sending sparks flying before ricocheting off.
He stood motionless in the hail of bullets.
The two heavy machine guns fired for a full four seconds.
Scrap shells littered the ground.
Ron's suit was ripped apart, tattered strips 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 the two heavy machine guns and their tripods in two.
Ammunition boxes exploded, scattering metal fragments everywhere.
The four machine gunners on the second floor were thrown over by the blast wave. Two of them fell directly off the edge of the platform, while the remaining two scrambled to their feet and ran towards the windows.
They climbed out the windows 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 first floor clearing was complete.
Ron stepped over the spent shell casings and broken glass, walking to the iron door at the back of the warehouse.
Behind the door was a staircase leading to the basement.
He pushed the door open.
The pungent smell of chemicals hit him—ether, acetone, hydrochloric acid, mixed together, at a concentration high enough to make him dizzy.
Ron held his breath and went down the stairs.
The basement was larger than the upstairs, with fluorescent tubes hanging on the concrete walls, casting a dim white light.
Twelve long tables were arranged in two rows.
Behind each table sat a person.
No, not sitting—they were locked up.
Chains were fastened to their ankles, the other end welded to a 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 exposed muscle tissue.
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 gathering between his thumb and forefinger, precisely melting the clasp.
The chain fell, making a dull thud on the ground.
The girl stared at her free ankle, motionless.
Ron stood up, melting 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—deformed, melted, and collapsed under the erosion of the magma.
Bulging white smoke.
A system notification popped up.
[Destroyed the drug processing plant. Justice points +500.]
[Detectable detainable target: "Snake Eyes" Johnson. Wanted criminal. Crime points 1200. Current location: Exit B of the basement secret passage.] Ron turned his head.
There was a crack in the westernmost wall of the basement, behind which was a secret passage less than a meter wide.
Someone was running.
The footsteps were rapid and heavy. A large man.
Ron pressed the encrypted channel.
"Frank, west side of the warehouse, underground secret passage exit."
"Roger." Forty seconds later.
The secret passage exit was under a drain cover outside the west wall of the warehouse. The cover was pushed open from the inside, and a bald man crawled out.
Two meters tall, 120 kilograms, a vertical scar above his left eye, stretching from his brow bone to his cheekbone.
"Snake Eyes" Johnson. The direct manager of Kingpin's drug network.
He had just crawled out of a drain, 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 hesitated for a second.
"Fuck you—" Frank pulled the trigger.
Three bursts, all hitting Johnson's right knee.
Johnson's knees buckled, but he didn't fall.
He pulled a syringe from his inner 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 riddled with 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 his hardened black fist, Frank's fist sinking into Johnson's abdominal muscles.
But Johnson didn't fall.
The serum-enhanced muscle density far exceeded that of a normal 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.
A slap landed on his left shoulder, sending Frank flying through a brick wall and crashing into a pile of debris behind it.
The left shoulder strap of his bulletproof vest snapped, and the ceramic insert shattered into three pieces.
Johnson turned and ran.
He hadn't gone two steps.
A cloud of dark red lava shot out from the direction of the warehouse and landed on the ground.
The lava didn't splash.
It reformed, bulged, and took shape on the ground.
Four legs. One head. A huge mouth.
A lava hound.
"A hound of the underworld." Ron's voice came from inside the warehouse.
The lava 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 beastly howl, desperately shaking his body to try and break free.
But the lava hound's heat was accelerating the metabolism of the serum within him.
The high temperature catalyzed the decomposition of the degraded serum. Johnson's swollen muscles began to shrink, and the sound of bones dislocating 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 emerged from the warehouse and stood before Johnson.
[Is it appropriate to imprison "Snake Eyes" Johnson in Level 1 of Impel Down?] Imprison him.
The ground beneath Johnson cracked open, and a dark red vortex engulfed him.
[Imprisonment successful. Sin value +1200. Number of prisoners in Level 1 of Impel Down: 2/100.]
[Residual of degraded Super Soldier Serum detected 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.
Motion came from behind the brick wall.
Frank crawled out of the pile of rubble, half of his left shoulder bulletproof vest torn, his collarbone bruised and battered.
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 picked up a signal.
Three blocks away. On the edge of a building's roof.
A person.
A steady heartbeat, shallow breathing. No metallic feedback of any weapon being carried.
But this person's perception was wrong.
He wasn't "seeing"—he was "hearing."
An extremely precise sonic scan was covering a radius of hundreds of meters, receiving and processing the echoes of every wall, every corner, every drop of water.
Ron resumed his normal pace and continued walking.
Frank didn't notice anything amiss.
Ron remained silent.
But his Observation Haki continued to track the signal—the person on the roof was moving.
Following their route, three blocks away, building after building silently followed.