Frank didn't lower his gun.
The M16A4's barrel shifted two centimeters, no longer aimed at Ron's heart, but not completely away either.
"Three more questions." Frank extended a finger from under the butt of his gun.
"First, what gives you the right to define justice?" Ron stood still, hands behind his back.
The air in the compartment still carried the sulfurous smell of evaporating lava, and the charred ring on the floor emitted a faint red glow.
"I don't define justice." Ron's answer was without hesitation.
"Crime defines justice. Seven lives, twenty-three stabs, each three seconds apart. That doesn't need me to define it." Frank raised his second finger.
"Second, what's the difference between you and those people you killed?"
"I didn't kill him." Ron pointed to the charred ring on the floor.
"I imprisoned him. He'll pay for his crime somewhere else. Not for a day, not for a year, but forever." Frank stared at the charred ring for two seconds.
A third finger.
"Third—what's the difference between you and me?"
Frank's breathing changed as he asked the question.
Ron heard it. Observation Haki doesn't lie.
This wasn't an interrogation; it was someone genuinely seeking answers asking for directions.
"You kill because of anger." Ron enunciated each word clearly.
"I imprison people because they deserve to be imprisoned."
Frank's gun veered a centimeter further.
But he didn't lower his weapon.
He didn't speak either.
Ron stopped looking at him.
He turned and walked out of the private room, stepping over the rubble of the collapsed ceiling in the corridor, and went downstairs.
In the lobby on the first floor, twelve bodyguards lay in various corners, all their weapons destroyed, metal fasteners on their clothing melted into slag that clung to their skin, making a hissing sound.
No fatal wounds.
But no one dared to move.
Ron walked through them and headed for the bar.
Behind the bar, three waitresses and two girls were crouching.
The girl at the very back was huddled up, hugging her knees, trembling all over.
Ron crouched down.
The girl recoiled sharply, her back hitting the refrigerator.
She was young. Sixteen or seventeen, with dark brown skin and black hair tied in a single braid, adorned with a small yellow plastic flower.
Ron took off his suit jacket and offered it to her.
The girl didn't take it. Her hands were shaking too badly.
Ron draped the jacket over her shoulders.
"It's alright. Call your family to pick you up." The girl's lips trembled for a long time before she managed to squeeze out a sentence in accented English.
"I...I don't have any family here." Ron took out his wallet from his pocket, pulled out all the cash, and stuffed it into the girl's hand.
"Take a taxi home. Don't come to places like this again."
He stood up and checked the injuries of the others one by one.
A waitress had a cut on her arm from a shard of glass, blood trickling down her forearm. Ron tore off a bodyguard's sleeve and wrapped it around her arm.
Frank had come downstairs sometime earlier.
He stood at the top of the stairs, gun at the ready, watching Ron wipe the dust from the face of a terrified waitress.
The gun slowly lowered.
The sound of sirens wailed in the distance.
At least three patrol cars approached.
Ron straightened up, raising his right hand.
His palm split open, and magma gushed from beneath his skin.
He didn't attack anyone.
The magma transformed into a dozen thin streams, precisely traversing the hall, melting all the scattered gun wreckage, spent cartridges, and magazine fragments on the floor into molten iron.
The molten iron pooled, rapidly cooling and solidifying into an irregular lump of iron.
Ron kicked the lump of iron into a trash can in the corner.
Firepower evidence, zeroed out.
Then he walked towards the office next to the VIP box.
The door was locked.
Ron extended his index finger, a drop of magma seeping from the tip, and touched the lock cylinder.
The lock melted, and the door sprang open.
There was a safe embedded in the wall in the office. A combination lock, six digits.
Ron didn't try the combination.
He pressed his entire hand against the safe door; the steel plate beneath his palm began to redden, soften, and deform.
Three seconds later, the safe door was ripped off in one piece and thrown to the floor.
Inside were three stacks of documents and a hard drive.
Ron opened the top stack.
Financial records.
Kingpin Group.
The money laundering path, from a shell company in the Cayman Islands to five restaurants in New York, was clearly written.
The second stack was bribery agreements with judges.
Three copies.
The signature on the first copy—Harold Mickson.
The same "human rights defender" who released Lester Miller this morning.
Ron put the three stacks of documents and the hard drive into a briefcase and walked back into the lobby.
Frank stood by the bar, his gun already slung over his shoulder.
Ron tossed him the briefcase. Frank caught it with one hand, unzipped it, and flipped through a couple of pages.
His Adam's apple bobbed.
"A little gift," Ron said. "The names on it will keep you busy for a while."
Frank looked up at Ron for three seconds.
"Let's go." The sirens were already at the street corner.
The two retreated through the back door.
The back alley of Hell's Kitchen was narrow and dark, with dumpsters piled everywhere. The rain hadn't stopped, but it had lessened considerably, turning into a fine drizzle.
Frank led the way.
Through twists and turns, through two underpasses and an abandoned laundry room, they finally entered the basement of an abandoned apartment building.
There were three locks on the iron door. Frank unlocked them one by one.
Inside was an armory.
Not large, about forty square meters.
The walls were covered with guns. Pistols, rifles, shotguns, two anti-tank rocket launchers. Ammunition boxes were stacked half a wall. In the corner was a cot, a gas stove, and half a can of food.
Frank pulled out a folding table, took a roll of map from under his cot, and unrolled it.
A street map of Hell's Kitchen.
Forty-seven points were marked in red. Next to each point was a date and a word or two: "Drugs," "Weapons," "Casino," "Population."
Ron glanced at it.
"You've been doing this for three years. How many have you taken down?"
Frank paused for a second.
"Eleven."
"And then?"
Frank didn't answer.
He didn't need to answer.
Take one down, and three more pop up the next day. Ron had already said that at the nightclub.
Ron closed his eyes.
His Observation Haki spread outwards.
His perception range expanded from the basement, passing through walls, floors, streets, and buildings, covering the entire Hell's Kitchen.
Three seconds.
He opened his eyes, took the red pen from Frank, and added nineteen new points to the map.
Frank stared at the newly marked locations, a vein throbbing in his neck.
"The 38th Street underground parking garage, behind the seventh parking space on level B2, there's a hidden door." Ron wrote a few words next to one of the locations. "An arms depot."
"The laundromat at the intersection of Ninth Avenue and 43rd Street, the basement connects to the drainage system, leading to an abandoned subway station three blocks away."
"That's—"
"A drug processing plant. Two shifts a day, twelve people per shift." Frank's hand rested on the table, his fingers clenching and unclenching.
"How did you do that?"
"Sensory ability." Ron didn't intend to explain the principles of Observation Haki. "I can know the location, heartbeat, weapons, and emotional fluctuations of everyone within 800 meters with my eyes closed." Frank's breath hitched.
Ron didn't give him time to process it.
He brought up the Navy rank system from the system panel.
A semi-transparent screen appeared above the folding table, visible only to Ron and his designated personnel.
The organizational chart was arranged from top to bottom.
Marshal. Admiral. Lieutenant General. Rear Admiral. Brigadier General. Colonel. Lieutenant Colonel… all the way down to Private. Frank stared at the screen, not blinking for five seconds.
"What is this?"
"The skeleton of an army," Ron said. "Not one person's revenge, but a disciplined, organized, hierarchical system of sanctions. Each level has clearly defined responsibilities and authority."
He pointed to the "Brigadier General" position.
"You, Frank Cassel, if you join, your starting rank will be—Brigadier General."
Frank stared at the screen for another three seconds, then scoffed.
"You're the commander alone? And I'm the only soldier under you?"
Ron was unimpressed.
"Every empire starts with two people."
He extended his right hand, spreading it out.
Armament Haki spread from his fingertips to his entire arm, a black sheen flowing along his skin.
"If you accept, you will gain power far beyond that of ordinary people. Not mutation, not drugs, not surgery. It's the manifestation of your own will."
Frank looked down at the hand.
Three seconds ago, it could spew magma capable of destroying everything.
Now it hung quietly in mid-air.
Frank thought of Central Park.
The moment the bullet pierced Maria's back, he was only three meters away from her.
Three meters.
He couldn't stop anything.
He grasped Ron's hand.
A system notification popped up on Ron's left side of his vision.
[Awarding Frank Cassel the rank of Commodore.]
[Haki seed implantation in progress... Armament Haki - Beginner Level, complete.]
[Issued the Justice Cloak (Commodore Spec).]
Frank's back suddenly felt heavy.
A white cloak appeared out of thin air, draped over his shoulders.
The cloak's fabric wasn't cotton or synthetic; it felt cool to the touch, yet wasn't heavy. Two words were written on the back from top to bottom—"Justice."
The cloak hugged Frank's shoulder line, neither slipping nor fluttering.
Frank reached out and tugged at it. He couldn't budge it.
"What's the material?"
"It doesn't matter," Ron said. "Try your fist."
Frank turned and glanced at the iron pillars in the armory—the I-beams supporting the basement ceiling.
He withdrew his right fist.
A thin layer of black sheen flowed across his knuckles, spreading across his fist.
Frank didn't hesitate.
He punched.
A fist-sized dent appeared on the I-beam, the steel bent inward, and rivets flew off, clanging against the wall.
Frank looked down at his fist.
No swelling. No broken skin. Even his fingernails were intact.
He punched again.
The I-beam bent at a thirty-degree angle.
"This is just the beginning," Ron said. "After I complete the next mission, you'll get something even stronger."
Frank looked at his fist, then at the white cape that wouldn't fall off his shoulder.
His lips twitched.
Not a sneer.
Four in the morning.
Ron returned to his apartment in Hell's Kitchen.
In the bathroom, hot water poured over his shoulders and back. He leaned against the wall and brought up the system panel.
[Akainu Template Synchronization Rate: 20%]
[Justice Value: 700/2000]
[Imperial Castle Level 1: 1/100 of the prisoners (Lester Miller, continuously generating Sin Value)]
[Armament Haki Proficiency: 137/1000]
[Observation Haki Proficiency: 89/1000] A new mission pops up.
[Mission: Clean up the Hell's Kitchen Dark Web]
[Destroy Kingpin's three core supply chains in Hell's Kitchen within 72 hours—the drug processing plant, the arms depot, and the money laundering front office.]
[Reward: 2000 Justice Value, Impel Down's capacity expanded to 200 people, unlocked Devil Fruit Furnace - Basic Function.] Ron stared at the words "Devil Fruit Furnace."
If he remembered correctly, this function meant he could create his own Devil Fruit.
Frank needed one.
72 hours. Three days.
That's enough.
He turned off the tap and dried his hair with a towel.
A red warning suddenly popped up on the system.
[Warning: Abnormal attention detected.]
[S.H.I.E.L.D. military satellites have locked onto the coordinates of the "Eden" nightclub incident.]
[Attention Level: Medium.]
[Attention Receiver: Nick Fury.] Ron paused for a second while drying his hair.
Then he continued.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
It was bound to happen sooner or later.
He hung the towel back on the rack, went into the bedroom, and drew back the curtains.
The skyline over Hell's Kitchen was a hazy gray; the rain had stopped, and the bottom of the clouds was tinged a dirty orange by the rooftop lights.
Thirty thousand feet above.
In the command center of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, Nick Fury stood in front of a holographic screen.
The screen repeatedly played satellite thermal images.
A humanoid heat source moved inside the "Eden" nightclub. The core temperature was 1200 degrees Celsius.
But around the heat source were multiple precise low-temperature zones—each zone's location corresponded precisely to the coordinates of a civilian. Fury swiped a single finger across the screen, zooming in.
The heat source passed through the twelve armed men; not a single civilian's heat signature disappeared or their temperature changed abruptly.
Precise control.
Not an out-of-control mutant ability, not a brutal magical release, not any known technological means.
Fury froze the image on the brightest frame of the heat source.
Then he picked up the encrypted phone on the table and dialed a number.
"Natasha." There was a two-second silence on the other end.
"Go to Hell's Kitchen." Three blocks away, in a church, Matthew Murdoch knelt beneath the cross.
His super hearing was still replaying everything from two hours ago.
The hiss of melting metal. Screams. A man's final groan before his body was swallowed by the floor.
And that word.
"Order." Matthew's right hand rested on his forehead, fingertips against his temple.
He couldn't figure out what the "Lava Man" really was.
But one thing he was certain of.
Someone more dangerous than him had come to his city. The church's wooden door was pushed open a crack by the wind.
A cold draft rushed in, and the candlelight flickered.
Matthew stood up and touched the red stick hanging on the wall.