Hearing John's words, the Elder frowned in curiosity.
"Dragon?"
John Wick nodded.
"That's right. According to what I've learned, it's a dragon."
The Elder narrowed his eyes.
"And what does this dragon do? What's its purpose?"
John hesitated for a beat before answering slowly,
"It grants the summoner one wish."
The Elder froze, stunned by the answer. He asked again, unsure he'd heard correctly:
"You're saying… it grants wishes?"
"Like Aladdin's lamp?"
John gave a small nod.
"Yes."
At that moment, the Elder's excitement spiked. He immediately recalled that John already possessed two Dragon Balls and was about to question him further—
But before the words left his lips—
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Bullets tore through the air, piercing the skulls of nearby guards.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
One after another, the guards crumpled to the ground, dead before they could even draw their weapons.
John let out a quiet sigh of relief. He quickly drew his weapon and pressed it against the Elder's head, taking him hostage.
Gunfire erupted throughout the camp. Guards poured out from the surrounding tents, armed and confused—but they were instantly met with a barrage of pinpoint gunfire.
Smith Doyle and the Assassin's League had arrived.
Each member was a crack shot, masters of precision. Among them, Wesley and Fox stood out as elite marksmen. Anyone who dared step outside a tent was taken down instantly, never even seeing where the shot came from.
The ambush was overwhelming.
Smith leapt off his camel, sprinting across the sand toward the central pavilion where the Elder was. His speed was incredible—within seconds, he'd pulled far ahead of the rest of his team.
The Elder stared at the scene in disbelief.
"John Wick… do you have any idea what you're doing?"
John pressed the muzzle against the Elder's temple.
"I told you. I came here to find you."
The Elder paused, seeming to finally understand—and said no more.
Just then, Smith Doyle arrived, having just eliminated a gunman who tried to flank John. He scanned the area—nearly all the Elder's men were Middle Eastern fighters, many poorly equipped, without even basic body armor.
Years of peace had made the Elder careless. His men had grown complacent—and now they were being slaughtered.
With the Assassin's League's superior firepower, the battle never even reached close quarters. The enemies were wiped out from a distance.
Even when the Elder's guards managed to get a few shots off, they caused almost no damage—most rounds bounced harmlessly off body armor. A few camels were hit and killed, but the League's fighters remained untouched.
Wesley even activated his "bullet time," weaving between shots and ensuring not a single ally went down. His twin pistols fired rounds that curved through the air, effortlessly picking off targets.
The Elder's forces were utterly decimated.
Smith Doyle glanced at John, who still had his gun pressed to the Elder's head, and smiled.
"See, John? All you had to do was lead us here. We were always going to back you up."
John, slightly tense, replied,
"I stalled for time with the Dragon Ball info. A little longer, and I'm sure the Elder would've kept listening."
But inwardly, John was nervous. Would this chaos affect how the League judged him? Would it count against him?
Smith, meanwhile, wasn't bothered that the Elder now knew about the Dragon Balls. After all, this man was about to die.
He stepped up to the Elder and said calmly,
"So this is one of the Twelve Seats of the High Table, huh?"
Outside, the gunfire dwindled—just a few scattered shots, then only the cries of the dying. Finally, silence.
The Elder didn't flinch. Even as he looked over the bodies of his fallen guards, he showed no fear. Instead, he stared directly at Smith and spoke coolly:
"So the Assassin's League is ready to break its truce with the High Table?"
Smith gave a soft chuckle.
"A truce?"
"You must've forgotten what the League stands for. What we were created to do."
The Elder didn't respond. He simply fell silent.
Wesley and Fox approached with the rest of the League's assassins. Smith glanced around the camp, unimpressed.
"This can't be your main base," he said to the Elder. "A few tents and a pavilion in the open desert? This is just a meeting point."
The Elder nodded faintly, understanding their intent.
He knew he had to get word out: the League was officially at war with the High Table. If he died here, nothing would be passed on—but if he could stall, if he could get them to his actual base, there might still be a chance to fight back… or escape.
"Very well," the Elder said. "If you're so eager to see my headquarters… I'll take you there."
Smith raised a brow, surprised at how easily the Elder agreed—but he wasn't worried.
"Then we appreciate your cooperation."
The Elder stepped outside the pavilion. As he surveyed the corpses of his fallen men, his mind was already counting—Smith had brought 34 assassins. That was a manageable number. If his base was ready, they could still fight back.
As for the Dragon Balls? He still thought it was all a story—some fabrication by John and the League to buy time.
"It's a long journey," he said, mounting his camel. "Follow me."
John picked up the Three-Star Ball from the ground, tucked it into his pocket, and followed without a word.
The Elder led the way. The survivors—including Fox and Smith—mounted what camels they had left, a few having been killed during the battle.
Fox leaned closer to Smith and whispered,
"When do we let the other two teams know?"
Smith checked his combat scanner. No new energy signatures—still a ways to go from the main base.
"When we reach the real HQ," he whispered back. "Then call them with the sat-phone."
All three assault teams were coordinated to strike at once—no time for the enemy to prepare or call reinforcements.
Let the High Table feel the full force of the Assassin's League.
—End of chicken—
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