On the other side of New York, the legend known as John Wick was violently pulled from his peaceful retirement. He awoke from a deep sleep not to the gentle hand of his late wife, but to the blinding terror of a home invasion. Several masked assailants, fueled by reckless arrogance, had dragged him from his bed and beaten him severely with baseball bats.
The retired legendary killer, who once commanded fear with the title of "Baba Yaga," the Night Demon, was left stunned, his reflexes dulled by years of inactivity and grief. Then came the unbearable final act: they brutally killed Lucy, the beagle who was the last, sacred gift from his wife, Helen, in front of his eyes. They then stole his prized 1969 Ford Mustang.
After the perpetrators fled, leaving silence and destruction in their wake, John methodically buried his beloved dog in the garden. Each shovelful of earth was a cold pact with the past. Thinking back on the vibrant life he had shared with Helen and the profound finality of her gift, his inner Night Demon—the wellspring of his violence—finally roared back to life. He resolved, with chilling clarity, to fight violence with overwhelming, catastrophic violence.
Having quickly identified the identity of the thieves through his underworld contacts, John Wick returned to his residence. His first, most crucial step was to retrieve the weapons cache and the precious Continental Hotel gold coins hidden beneath his basement floor.
"Bang, bang, bang!"
John Wick swung the sledgehammer, each strike a guttural grunt of pain and mounting rage, against the cold concrete floor. Every deafening blow reminded him of the horrific violation of his peace, and each blow landed heavier than the last, until the concrete gave way.
Soon, the ground was broken, revealing the specially reinforced steel box hidden underground.
John threw the hammer aside and knelt, meticulously sweeping away the surrounding rubble.
When the heavy lid of the box was finally opened, the contents were revealed to be chillingly organized. The interior was divided into two essential halves:
Left Side (Weapons),"Four pistols (two with suppressors), four magazines, two fragmentation grenades, and two smoke bombs."
Right Side (Currency & Artifact),"A substantial box of Continental Hotel gold coins, stacked neatly."
In the middle of the gold coins, resting like a forgotten jewel, was a crystalline sphere: a Dragon Ball with one star.
Looking at the amber crystal ball, John Wick's brow furrowed slightly. He distinctly remembered placing a very round, unassuming stone here when he retired—a smooth stone his wife had picked up on the beach and given to him as a silly keepsake.
"Could it be that Helen secretly put this in here?" he muttered to himself.
But that didn't feel right. Overwhelmed by confusion, doubt, and grief, John Wick reached out and grasped the glowing crystal ball.
At that precise moment, inside the Assassin's League Headquarters, Smith Doyle was attending a tense strategy meeting. Suddenly, a clear, intrusive message flashed across his mind, a product of his newfound connection to the cosmic forces he now controlled.
Someone has accessed Dragon Ball already. Let me see which lucky person found one of my planets.
Because Smith was the accidental creator of the seven Earth Dragon Balls, he could instantly locate each one. More than that, he could psychically see the scene through the perspective of the Dragon Ball itself the moment someone came into direct contact with it.
Immediately, Smith saw the cramped confines of a dimly lit basement and the powerful figure of John Wick holding the star-filled sphere.
Smith looked at the familiar, granite-like face in his mind's eye and suppressed a surge of excitement. "It's him: John Wick, the Night Demon of the Continental Hotel. It seems the Russian mafia in New York is about to be absolutely destroyed."
"What an unlucky guy to be pulled back into that life. In that case, let's give him a glimpse of hope—a new objective."
The very next moment, John Wick saw the sphere in his hand flash with a brief, brilliant light. At the same time, an undeniable influx of information poured into his mind, bypassing his logic and striking directly at his despair.
"Dragon Ball?" he whispered, the name foreign yet instantly vital.
"Gather all seven Dragon Balls and you can summon a Dragon to grant your deepest wish."
Looking intently at the single star inside the amber crystal, John Wick's heart hammered a rhythm he hadn't felt since Helen's death—a desperate, terrifying hope. "Is this… a way back?"
The thought, immense and impossible, took root. "If all this is true, Helen, can I resurrect you?"
Then, with meticulous care, John Wick slipped the Dragon Ball into his inner jacket pocket, the hard sphere a constant, unbelievable comfort. Before he could devote his life to searching the globe for the other six, however, he had a score to settle—a bloody promise to keep.
Even as he prepared, a deep skepticism remained. He hadn't heard a single legend or rumor about wish-granting Dragon Balls in all his years in the deepest shadows of the criminal world.
Across town, the high council meeting resumed.
Cross spoke first, a look of focused intensity replacing his usual smirk. "GOD, we are ready to select a mission for you. This will be your debut battle, your public transition into the new leadership of the Assassin's League."
Mr. X continued, laying out the scale of the challenge. "Of course, this isn't a simple one-person hit. The goal is to decisively destroy an entire evil organization."
The Gunsmith, ever the pragmatist, interjected with caution: "Guys, isn't that a bit much? Taking on a whole organization at once?"
The Butcher also tried to temper the ambition: "How about we focus on the organization's leader for Smith, and hand the other senior executives over to the rest of the League's active members?"
Smith, who had just returned from his mental excursion, listened to their conversation. "There's no problem on my end. The target should be an organization that has committed heinous crimes—one that truly deserves our judgment." He leaned forward, an eager light in his eyes. "Speaking of this evil target, have you uncles chosen one yet?"
Mr. X, pleased by Smith's confidence, explained the final steps. "We are in the process of gathering comprehensive intelligence from our network during this period. You will be able to choose your opponent from a shortlist of the most culpable organizations after a few more days."
Smith realized he had a choice ahead of him. He simply shrugged, stood up, and wrapped up his participation. "OK. I have a few other things to take care of in the city."
"Notify me once the target is selected."
Smith Doyle walked out of the conference room and spotted his friend, Firefox Fox, waiting on a nearby sofa.
"Fox, let's head out."
Fox immediately stood up and joined Smith. Soon, a sleek, black Dodge Viper roared out of the textile factory's hidden entrance.
Fox asked while expertly navigating the heavy New York traffic: "Where to, Smith?"
Smith looked at the sun slowly rising outside, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Go to the Continental Hotel. You still have some of their gold coins, right?"
Hearing the destination, Fox looked genuinely confused. "I do have a few gold coins—I collected some from high-value targets and organizations I assassinated before." He then looked nervously at the powerful young man next to him. "You don't want to destroy that place, do you? The two of us certainly can't take on the Continental head-on."
Hearing Fox's words, Smith gave a cryptic, knowing smile. "No, I'm going to take you to see a good show. I have no intention of taking on the New York Continental right now."
Intrigued by the promise of spectacle, Fox grinned, pressed the accelerator, and sped toward the heart of the city's hidden underworld.
Meanwhile, back at his house, John Wick's phone rang with a chilling familiarity.
"Ding-ling-ling. Ding-ling-ling."
He picked up the receiver and immediately recognized the voice on the other end: Viggo Tarasov, the head of the Russian mafia in New York, and his former employer. The one whose spoiled, idiotic son, Iosef, had committed the unforgivable crime.
"Hello, John," Viggo said, his voice laced with forced sorrow.
"I heard about your wife, and I'm so sorry. And I am truly sorry for your loss. It seems like fate or chance... or maybe it's just pure bad luck that we meet again."
When the phone remained silent, Viggo called out again, desperation creeping in. "John? Let's not let our bad nature get the better of us. We can resolve this like civilized people."
John Wick had heard enough. He had no need to hear the weak pleas of the man who had raised his dog's killer. He simply and definitively hung up the phone.
On the other end, Viggo stared at the receiver, the dial tone a death knell. He knew then that no amount of money or diplomacy would suffice. The legendary Baba Yaga was awake.
Viggo slowly set the phone down and said to his men beside him, his face pale: "Prepare manpower. And pray."