Russia – Siberia
John Wick stepped out of Ivan Vanko's home. Of all the Dragon Balls he'd collected so far, this last one had been the easiest to obtain.
He didn't have to call in any favors, make any promises, or jump through any hoops. He simply raised the offer to $100,000, and Ivan handed it over without hesitation. Thinking about it, John couldn't help but let a small smile tug at the corner of his lips.
"Helen, we're so close. I'll be seeing you soon."
With all seven Dragon Balls finally gathered, all he had to do now was return to the Assassin's League headquarters in New York and summon their combined power to make his wish come true.
The thought made John itch to teleport straight back to New York that instant.
Wasting no time in Russia, John used the League's secret channels to head straight for home.
On his way back, he also sent a warning to his friends: there was major unrest brewing within the High Table. They were not to get involved—stay clear of the conflict.
---
Meanwhile...
The High Table convened another emergency council, but the results were disappointing.
They had finally confirmed that only Smith Doyle possessed truly extraordinary abilities, yet still no one could come up with a better solution. After all, their last attempt—throwing dozens of elite assassins at him—had ended in utter failure.
There was even talk of using missiles to eliminate Smith Doyle. But in a city like New York, they neither had the power nor the guts to pull such a stunt.
Minor skirmishes might be overlooked, but a missile strike would be seen as an act of terrorism. The Continental's counterterrorism units would wipe them off the map before anyone else even reacted.
Some elders did suggest seeking a truce, but frankly, the chances of success were slim.
And just as they were debating, the Assassin's League launched a fresh wave of attacks—this time hitting three targets at once.
Smith Doyle, alongside Fox and other League members, launched a surprise assault in Italy, aiming directly at the head of the Mafia.
As they surveyed the sprawling estate, Assassin League snipers had already taken up positions at various vantage points, preparing for coordinated strikes.
Their first priority: eliminate the outer guards. Second: block any chance of escape. Fox calmly adjusted his aim through his scope, locking onto the targets one by one.
Smith Doyle stood at the estate's imposing front gate. He didn't bother with the doorbell. Instead, he simply leapt over the high walls, clearing them effortlessly.
The gates and walls meant nothing to someone like him.
He made no attempt to hide his approach. Not long after entering, he ran into a patrol.
"Stop right there!"
"Who are you?!"
Smith Doyle came to a halt. Instead of answering, he simply snapped his fingers.
SNAP–SNAP!
In an instant, the patrolmen dropped dead, bullets piercing their skulls cleanly.
Smith glanced toward the source of the shots and flashed a smile before continuing his walk toward the villa.
Fox, watching through his scope, caught the smile and couldn't help but grin a little himself. He kept picking off any Mafia members who dared approach.
Smith made his way forward, bodies falling around him under sniper fire, until he entered the villa, out of sight of the supporting snipers. Only then did the long-range gunfire stop.
Inside, Smith Doyle barely broke stride. He landed a single punch on a waiting Mafioso, sending him flying into a wall with a THUD.
"Hmph."
"Too weak."
"You're not even good enough for a warm-up."
"What's the matter? Can't even pull the trigger?"
Smith tore through the villa like a force of nature. No one inside could so much as slow him down.
Meanwhile, in a conference room elsewhere, Marktum, the Mafia boss, saw a subordinate rush in, panic written all over his face.
"What's the meaning of this?" Marktum snapped.
"Can't you see I'm in a meeting?"
The subordinate leaned in and whispered urgently:
"Smith Doyle is here. The outer guards have been wiped out. He's already inside the villa!"
Marktum's expression darkened. He turned to the council.
"My apologies. The Assassin's League has launched an attack. I must handle this immediately."
Almost simultaneously, elders from Russia and the German Illuminati ended their video calls, citing similar attacks on their own territories. The remaining six elders looked around, faces pale and anxious.
Indeed, as Smith Doyle moved, X and Wesley simultaneously launched attacks on two other High Table elders. It was a three-pronged assault.
Back inside the villa, the bloodshed continued.
Suddenly, one of the heavy doors opened, and Marktum emerged, flanked by fully armed High Table agents.
"Mr. Smith, perhaps we can talk this over?" Marktum called out.
Smith Doyle smiled coldly at the well-dressed man before him.
"Marktum, you really think there's anything left to talk about?"
Marktum forced himself to remain calm, though hatred burned in his eyes.
"Anything can be negotiated. We don't have to be enemies."
"Whatever the Assassin's League wants, we can provide it. Just name your price and call off this fight."
Smith Doyle shook his head slowly.
"Anything you can offer... I don't want it."
"This world is filthy—and it's long overdue for a cleansing."
"Wolf Fang Whirlwind Fist!"
Without another word, Smith charged.
CRACK–CRACK–CRACK!
The marble floor shattered under his feet as he dashed forward like a wolf pouncing on prey.
Marktum's bodyguards, though quick on the draw, were still a fraction too slow.
RAT–TAT–TAT!
Gunfire erupted, but Smith evaded every bullet with terrifying ease, closing the distance in a flash.
One swipe of his claw-like hand snapped a man's neck. One kick launched another crashing into the wall, leaving deep cracks.
AHH!
CRASH!*
Watching Smith rip through his guards like paper, Marktum panicked and bolted for a nearby safe room.
Smith didn't even break stride. He finished off the last of the guards before chasing after Marktum.
Marktum almost made it to the door—almost.
HAH!
Smith's punch struck him square in the back. Marktum slammed into the reinforced door with a BOOM, then slid lifelessly to the floor.
Smith pulled out his phone and called Fox.
"Marktum's done. Tell the others to move in and clean up. Leave only a few on perimeter duty."
"Understood, GOD," Fox replied.
He clicked off the call, raised his walkie-talkie, and barked out orders:
"Team Three, hold the perimeter. Everyone else, move in for cleanup!"
—End of chapter—
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