"Oh God! I seriously don't understand why you insist on being a knight of divine retribution. Why not open a restaurant instead? You'd capture half of New York's dining scene overnight!"
David exclaimed this while enthusiastically shoving another massive piece of braised pork into his mouth, completely unconcerned about the rich sauce dripping into his beard.
He had officially relocated to the guest bedroom on the church's second floor, converting it into an impromptu surveillance center.
"Hmph," Jason replied with unmistakable pride. "I learned this recipe from a chef at a hotel that was on the verge of bankruptcy. This is authentic culinary skill!"
"If his cooking was this good, how could the place possibly go bankrupt?" David questioned between bites. "Is the restaurant business that cutthroat where you come from?"
Jason sighed dramatically. "It wasn't his cooking skills that were lacking—it was his tendency to cut corners with questionable ingredients."
"Wait, what?" David froze mid-chew, suddenly alarmed.
"Among these dishes—" Jason began ominously.
"Are you saying—"
Jason rolled his eyes. "Why would I cut on my own food? The chef I mentioned added suspicious substances to reduce costs. Unfortunately for him, his customers discovered his deception, and the business collapsed within days."
"Thank God for that," David exhaled with visible relief. "Anyway, about those two corrupt cops you mentioned— Jenkins and Isaac?"
David resumed eating while delivering his report. "I infiltrated the NYPD's secure database. The officers you identified are indeed on the take, with evidence suggesting they're backed by a powerful backer."
He paused to swallow. "I haven't yet identified their employer, but I've established a potential connection to a company..."
"Which company?" Jason pressed, suddenly alert.
"Something called... Union Allied Construction, I believe that's the name."
Jason felt a jolt of recognition. The name was immediately familiar—it was a front company for New York's undisputed crime lord: Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin.
What a fascinating coincidence.
"David, I'm giving you a new name to prioritize: Wilson Fisk. Make him your top investigative focus. Report anything—absolutely anything—you find directly to me."
David frowned thoughtfully. "Wil...son? Who exactly is this person?"
"Didn't you want to expose whoever's behind those corrupt officers? Work backward from Wilson Fisk. See where it leads."
David paused, studying Jason with newfound scrutiny. "Did your... divine guidance provide this information?"
Jason's expression hardened. "Stop asking about my relationship with higher powers!"
To enhance Jason's operational capabilities, David deployed his exceptional hacking skills to compromise numerous surveillance cameras throughout the district.
He also penetrated the police department's communications network, giving them real-time access to law enforcement activities.
Still unsatisfied with their surveillance coverage, Jason spent several nights strategically installing additional sensors and hidden cameras throughout Hell's Kitchen.
His goal was ambitious: a comprehensive early-warning system covering the entire neighborhood.
Though the equipment cost tens of thousands of dollars, for someone with David's financial hacking abilities, this represented a negligible expense.
With these preparations complete, Jason was ready to launch his campaign.
On what seemed like an ordinary night in Hell's Kitchen, a figure dressed in black and wearing a devil mask officially emerged into public awareness.
...
At the waterfront docks, longshoremen unloaded a nondescript shipping container from a recently arrived freighter. Several masked men in tactical gear approached and unlocked the heavy doors, revealing a horrifying cargo—a dozen disheveled women huddled inside.
Their faces reflected diverse origins: Eastern European, African, Asian.
One of the masked men raised his weapon menacingly. "Everyone out! Anyone who screams gets a bullet!"
Behind them, a shadow materialized from the darkness.
"BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!"
Gunfire erupted. Shell casings clattered against concrete. Blood sprayed in crimson arcs.
The terrified women's screams pierced the night air. When their panic finally subsided, the armed traffickers lay motionless on the ground.
...
In the back kitchen of a seedy bar, several thugs argued over a drug shipment.
They scrambled aggressively for larger portions, eventually drawing weapons on each other.
"I want two kilos!" one demanded.
"You got that kind of cash?" another challenged skeptically.
"You disrespecting the 16th Street Bloods?" the first man growled, raising his firearm.
Suddenly, a dark silhouette flashed past the window.
"Who's there?" They rushed outside, only to discover all external lighting had mysteriously failed.
In the consuming darkness, they could perceive nothing.
Without warning, a muzzle flash illuminated the night—a submachine gun unleashing its payload in a concentrated burst.
After a single magazine emptied, the formerly aggressive drug dealers lay sprawled in expanding pools of blood.
...
In an isolated warehouse, two criminal factions conducted an arms transaction.
"A pleasure doing business," the seller remarked casually. "Come to me for your next procurement—I'll extend a ten percent discount."
"Appreciate that," the buyer nodded.
"That's quite an arsenal you're acquiring. Mind if I ask what you're planning? Perhaps I could offer additional... services?"
"You ask too many questions," came the curt reply.
"Fair enough," the seller laughed. "Money changes hands, merchandise delivered, no further inquiry—"
CLICK!
Without warning, every light in the warehouse simultaneously extinguished.
"You backstabbing bastards!" the seller shouted into the darkness. "Trying to rob your own supplier?"
"Kill them all!" someone commanded.
Gunfire erupted chaotically as both sides assumed betrayal.
None noticed the shadow moving through the darkness—an apex predator methodically harvesting each life with clinical precision.
...
Within just seventy-two hours, Hell's Kitchen descended into unprecedented panic.
Historically, law-abiding citizens avoided these streets after nightfall.
Now, criminals themselves feared venturing out during darkness.
At NYPD headquarters, newly promoted Police Commissioner George Stacy furiously berated his officers.
"How is it possible you've found NOTHING?" he thundered. "It's been THREE ENTIRE DAYS! Do you comprehend the body count this masked psychopath has accumulated? FIFTY-SEVEN!"
His face reddened dangerously. "Fifty-seven people in three days! We don't lose that many American soldiers in Afghanistan in three days! This is a direct challenge to the NYPD's authority!"
From the back of the room, someone muttered, "But the victims were all criminals and gang members..."
"WHO SAID THAT?" Stacy's eyes flashed with barely contained rage. "I don't give a damn whether the deceased 'deserved' their fate—they should be judged by our legal system, not by some vigilante executioner!"
He slammed his fist on the podium. "We tolerated the guy in the red suit because he apprehended criminals without killing them. But this—this is direct contempt for police authority, for governmental institutions, for our entire legal framework!"
His voice lowered to a dangerous intensity. "I don't care what methods you employ. Find this devil-masked killer and bring him in!"
"Yes, sir!" the assembled officers responded in unison.
The entire New York Police Department mobilized with unprecedented urgency.
...
The NYPD wasn't alone in hunting Jason. The criminal organizations throughout Hell's Kitchen temporarily suspended their territorial disputes to convene an emergency underground summit.
"If this 'Hell's Butcher' continues unchecked, our operations become untenable," one cartel leader declared.
"Effective immediately, we're issuing an underworld bounty," announced a high-ranking gang leader. "One hundred thousand dollars for credible information leading to his identification. Five million for his confirmed death."
A Mafia capo nodded. "Additionally, everyone should activate their law enforcement and political assets. We need coordinated pressure from both legitimate and shadow approach."
Someone chuckled darkly. "Perhaps we should include Daredevil in our hit list—eliminate both vigilantes simultaneously."
"Brilliant suggestion."
"Make it happen."
...
Back at Hopewell Sanctuary, Jason had temporarily suspended his hunting activities. In the brief but productive campaign, he'd accumulated several system reward packages, significantly enhancing his capabilities.
He accessed his system panel:
[Name: Jason
Age: 22 years old
Bloodline: Human
Status: Normal
Strength: 10
Speed: 13
Defense: 7
Constitution: 7
Will: 15
Skills: Combat Master, Pistol Proficiency, Trap Proficiency, Swimming Proficiency, Sniper Proficiency
Abilities: Night Vision, Compound Eyes
Items: None
Instance: Locked
Alternate Universe: Locked
Main task: Those who are guilty must be punished
Iron-tier target: 4/17
Newest quest:
Bronze-tier target: 0/1
Creed: Kill to gain redemption.]
Beyond the thirteen additional attribute points, he'd acquired two new skills: Swimming Proficiency and Sniper Proficiency.
He now felt increasingly certain that skills were categorized hierarchically. His current hypothesis suggested a progression of Skilled, Proficient, and Master levels...
Higher tiers likely existed, though they remained unknown at present.
As the required number of Iron-tier Target continued to increase, the marginal benefit of hunting minor criminals diminished progressively.
His next strategic focus needed to shift toward Bronze-tier target!
A prime target had already been identified: Senior Homeland Security Agent Carson Wolf—the corrupt government official who participated in the CIA's drug trafficking operation and personally shot David off that fateful bridge.