"Frank, full power."
Frank didn't ask why.
His spine arched, bones violently dislocated beneath his skin, muscle fibers torn and reassembled at three times the density. Coarse, gray fur bristled from his pores, covering his entire arm and back. His facial bones protruded, his snout elongated into a beastly muzzle, canines squeezed out from his gums, exceeding five centimeters in length.
He landed on all fours.
Completely transformed.
A gray wolf, standing 1.2 meters tall and over 2 meters long, stood on the platform, its vertical pupils contracting into two golden slits.
Bullseye's playing card hovered between his fingers, not immediately thrown.
He was recalculating.
Ron didn't give him time.
"Go." Frank launched himself from the ground. The explosive power of his four legs was more than three times that of his two feet, his gray figure tracing a zigzag trajectory on the platform, each change of direction staying outside Bullseye's predicted throwing window.
The playing card flew out.
Frank was no longer in that position.
The second card. It veered off course.
Bulleye's right foot took a half step back.
Frank lunged at him, his forepaws slashing down with a dark, Armament Haki-infused glow. Bulleye sidestepped, his right elbow blocking the wolf claw's wrist joint, and swung a backhand strike at Frank's neck.
Frank's beast-like neck muscles swelled before the palm strike arrived, withstanding the blow.
He didn't retreat.
His left claw swept across.
Bulleye leaned back, his waist contorting at an unnatural angle to avoid the claw's tip. His fighting foundation was extremely solid; every dodge was executed with minimal distance, not a centimeter wasted.
But Frank didn't need precision.
He needed Bulleye to be unable to create distance.
Ron cut in from Bulleye's left rear. Armament Haki covered his right fist, aiming straight for his lower back.
It was as if Bulleye had eyes in the back of his head—he twisted his spine, slipping out from under Frank's claws, simultaneously kicking over a piece of broken brick.
A piece of brick bounced up, deflected by his knee, and flew precisely towards Ron's face.
Ron tilted his head. The brick grazed his ear and blasted a crater in the concrete pillar behind him.
Frank pounced again.
Bullseye was caught between the two, the attack interval compressed to less than 0.5 seconds. His dodges became increasingly smaller, and his steps began to show a barely perceptible hesitation.
His hand reached into his pocket.
Ron's Observation Haki caught a signal 0.2 seconds before the movement was complete—the object in the pocket wasn't a playing card, nor a screw.
It was a metal ball.
"Frank, shut up—" Too late.
Bullseye slammed the metal ball onto the concrete ground at his feet.
White light.
Not the visible light frequency of an ordinary flashbang. This thing's light intensity reached military-grade 20 million candrades, simultaneously releasing high-frequency sound waves exceeding 170 decibels.
Frank's werewolf senses were completely overloaded in that instant.
A surge of information, ten times greater than his capacity to process, flooded his senses—sight, hearing, and smell—simultaneously, causing him to let out a piercing howl. His forelimbs clutched his ears, and his entire body tumbled to the ground, limbs convulsing.
Ron's Observation Haki was also torn open by the high-frequency sound waves.
His perception of the location of all living beings vanished within 0.8 seconds.
One second.
One second of perceptual blankness.
In that one second, Bullseye completed three actions.
His right hand drew a dagger from behind his waist. The blade was twelve centimeters long, dark gray, and non-reflective. His wrist rotated 180 degrees, his index and middle fingers gripping the end of the hilt.
He threw it.
The dagger's trajectory perfectly bypassed the 0.2-second window before Ron's Observation Haki recovered, aiming straight for his throat.
His Observation Haki offered no warning.
His Akainu-esque combat experience saved him.
His body reacted before his consciousness. His right shoulder slumped, and his head and neck turned to the right.
The dagger grazed his neck. A shallow welt appeared on the Armament Haki-covered skin.
Blood seeped from the wound, trickling down his neck and into his collar.
Ron stopped.
He touched his neck. Blood was on his fingertips.
The dagger was embedded in the iron pillar behind him, the blade a third of the way in, its tip vibrating at a very low frequency.
Vibranium.
The dagger was made of vibranium alloy.
The only material in this world capable of leaving a wound on Armament Haki-hardened skin.
"Kingpin gave it to you?" Bullseye had already moved fifteen meters away, standing beside the blast door frame. His right leg trembled slightly—Frank's claw had grazed his outer thigh, three welts seeping through his trouser leg.
But he was smiling.
"A birthday present. Pretty useful, huh?" Ron glanced down at the welt on his neck.
Three centimeters long, 0.5 millimeters deep.
His first injury since activating the system after arriving in this world.
"Good." Ron raised his right hand, fingers spread.
The skin beneath his palm cracked, magma gushing from the muscle fibers. But this time, it wasn't flowing, it condensed.
Five fist-sized magma balls formed at his fingertips, their temperature soaring to 1500 degrees Celsius, 300 degrees higher than normal output.
"Meteor Volcano." Five magma projectiles were fired simultaneously.
Not in a straight line. Five arcing trajectories surrounded the target's position from different angles, sealing off the left, right, top, and front directions. The fifth projectile, bouncing off the ground, cut in, blocking the last remaining space below.
The target's precise perception calculated the five trajectories in a fraction of a second.
The first, coming from the right, he leaned forty degrees to the left to avoid it.
The second, from the upper left, he crouched.
The third, slightly to the right front, he rolled to the side.
The fourth, from above, he slid close to the ground.
All four were avoided.
The fifth changed its trajectory.
Ron's Observation Haki locked onto Bullseye's landing point the instant he rolled to the side—his center of gravity would shift to his right knee in 0.3 seconds, his only point of support.
The magma projectile curved through the air.
The moment Bullseye's right knee touched the ground, the 1500-degree magma ball slammed into his right shin.
The leather and metal buckles of his combat boots vaporized upon contact, the magma burning directly through the skin and muscle on the outside of his shin. The smell of burning flesh exploded in the air.
Bullseye groaned, kneeling on one knee.
His right leg was severely burned below the knee; the periosteum on his tibia was carbonized by the intense heat, exposing the whitish bone beneath.
He didn't cry out.
His teeth clenched so tightly he tried to stand, his left hand bracing against the ground.
Frank's beastly form rammed into him from behind.
The gray wolf's forelimbs passed under his armpits, locking Bullseye's arms. His hind legs pushed off the ground, slamming Bullseye to the ground. The beastly bite concentrated on the neck muscles, the wolf's jaws gripping Bullseye's collar, slamming his face against the concrete.
Ron took three steps to Bullseye.
His right hand retrieved conceptual seastone handcuffs from his system space. The black metal, its swirling patterns gleaming coldly in the platform's white light.
He crouched down and fastened the handcuffs to Bullseye's wrists.
Ding.
The locks snapped shut.
Bullseye's body stiffened abruptly.
The stiffness wasn't from pain. It was as if something had been ripped from his body.
His pupils dilated sharply, his focus blurring. The automatically marked ballistic prediction lines, mechanics analysis frames, and center of mass markers in his vision—all vanished.
The world became blurry.
It wasn't a decline in vision. It was that his way of perceiving the world had been completely stripped away.
"My…" Bullseye struggled, but Frank's beastly lock remained unmoved. He tried again, finding he couldn't even pry open Frank's forelimbs.
His stamina had dropped to that of an ordinary human. "I can't see the trajectory anymore—" His struggle intensified, his head thrashing upwards, veins bulging on his neck.
"What did you do to me!" Ron didn't answer.
The trial interface popped up on the left side of his vision. Bullseye's list of sins scrolled rapidly from top to bottom.
Assassinated 47 people. Three of them were children.
Performed 12 targeted elimination missions for Kingpin.
Illegal arms dealing.
Assisted with human experiments at Hydra's Bronx base.
Total sins: 4500.
Ron crouched down in front of Bullseye, looking him in the eye.
"Bullseye, this court sentences you—to Impel Down Level Two, permanent imprisonment." The color drained from Bullseye's face the instant those words were spoken.
"No—you can't—" A spatial rift tore open beneath him, a dark red vortex swirling and pulling his body downwards. Frank released his lock and took two steps back.
Bullseye's fingers gripped the concrete, his nails breaking, leaving ten white scratches.
It was no use.
The vortex swallowed him.
Silence returned to the platform. Only a ring of charred marks and ten nail scratches remained on the ground.
System notifications popped up continuously.
[Capture successful. Number of prisoners in Impel Down's second level: 1/50.]
[Justice Value +3000 (Elite target defeat bonus).]
[Armament Haki Proficiency +500. Breaking through the threshold—unlocking "Flowing Sakura: Beginner".]
[Akainu Template Synchronization Rate Increased: 20%→30%.]
[Extra Reward: Bullseye's "Gene-Level Precise Perception" detected as an S-rank extraordinary origin. Can be put into the Devil Fruit Furnace.]
[Fused Product: Paramecia-type Target-Target Fruit (100% Accuracy). The user gains absolute precision, able to control the trajectory of any projectile with zero error.] Ron closed the reward interface and stood up.
Frank had reverted from his beast form back to his half-beast form; his gray fur had receded beneath his skin, his canines had shortened, and his vertical pupils hadn't fully returned to their round shape.
His ears were still ringing. The aftereffects of the flashbang would last at least half an hour.
"Those handcuffs," Frank said, flexing his left shoulder, "what's their working principle?"
"Suppressing all supernatural powers. Mutations, magic, technological enhancements—all sealed away." Frank's vertical pupils contracted slightly.
"How many are left?"
"Four." Frank didn't ask further.
Ron turned and walked towards the open blast door deep within the platform.
The white light of the operating lights shone through the door, illuminating his face.
Three operating tables. The leftmost one had an open abdominal cavity; the liver was gone, and the monitor's waveform was a straight line. The middle one had its chest cavity stretched to the sides, the space where the heart should have been was empty.
Also a straight line.
On the rightmost table, the third test subject was still alive.
Young, around twenty years old, a white male, his head shaved. The monitor on his chest showed a heart rate of 37 beats per minute and blood oxygen saturation of 81%. Both were on the verge of breaking the rule.
A number was tattooed on the inside of his right arm—WS-07.
Ron walked to the operating table and opened the folder on it.
The first page was titled with the Hydra logo and a line of bold text—"Winter Soldier Replica Project, Batch Seven."
Below were the experimental records: serum injection dosage, muscle fiber mutation rate, progress of neural synapse remodeling, mind control implantation nodes… Ron turned to the last page.
"Batches 1-6: All deceased. Cause of death: Serum rejection leading to multiple organ failure."
"Batch 7 (WS-07): Surviving. Serum fusion rate 64%. Mind control not yet implanted. Recommendation to transfer to D-7 base for the next stage of modification." Ron closed the folder.
The young man on the operating table twitched his eyelids but did not open them.
Ron placed his right hand on the young man's chest. Lava seeped from his fingertips, but the temperature was precisely controlled at thirty-seven degrees Celsius—exactly the core body temperature.
A warm current spread from beneath his palm, creeping along the young man's chest to his extremities. His heart rate slowly climbed from thirty-seven to forty-two, forty-six, fifty-one. His blood oxygen saturation returned to eighty-eight from eighty-one.
Frank stood at the lab doorway, glancing at the three operating tables.
His vertical pupils lingered on the other two corpses for two seconds, his jaw muscles tensing. Then he turned his head and began rummaging through a filing cabinet in the corner of the lab.
Five minutes later, Frank slammed a stack of documents onto a trolley next to the operating tables.
"Coordinates of seven Hydra outposts in North America. Personnel structure, experimental projects, funding sources—it's all in there."
He dusted off the document covers.
"This intelligence is worth a gold mine." Ron withdrew his hand from the young man's chest. Heart rate stabilized at fifty-five beats per minute, blood oxygen ninety-two. No immediate danger to his life.
"Keep it; we'll use it later."
He dialed an encrypted channel. "Frank, take this guy back to the safe house and find a doctor who won't talk too much."
"What about the other mission? The Moonlight Foundation." Ron glanced at the system panel.
[Mission: Clean up the Hell's Kitchen dark web (72 hours)]
[Remaining time: 16 hours 02 minutes]
[Target 3: The Moonlight Foundation money laundering front desk on Fifth Avenue. Incomplete.]
"No need to go." Frank turned his head away.
Ron pulled out the stack of bank statements and bribery agreements he'd taken from the Eden safe last night from the bottom of the folder, along with the Hydra financial chain records he'd found in the lab tonight, and divided them into three parts.
The first part was placed in a blank envelope with the address written on it—Hell's Kitchen, Nelson & Murdoch Law Firm.
The second part was placed in another envelope—The New York Times Investigative Department, Ben Urick.
The third part was sent via encrypted email—FBI New York Anti-Corruption Task Force.
"Some things," Ron said, stuffing the envelope into his suit pocket, "still need to be addressed by the law, to give it its last breath." Frank stared at him for three seconds without speaking.
He bent down, hoisted the young man from the operating table onto his shoulder, and turned to walk towards the exit. He paused at the doorway.
"The wound on your neck." Ron touched it. The blood had congealed, forming a thin, dark red scab.
"It's nothing." Frank didn't turn back, disappearing behind the blast door with the man on his back.
Ron stood alone in the lab, facing two corpses and a pile of scattered documents.
He turned off the operating room lights.
The system popped up a confirmation message:
[72-hour mission – "Clean up the Hell's Kitchen Dark Web": Achieved.]
[Total reward calculation in progress…] Before the results screen could finish loading, a red alert covered the entire system interface.
[Warning: S.H.I.E.L.D. reconnaissance drone has entered Hell's Kitchen airspace.]
[Level 3 Sky Eye satellite has locked onto the coordinates for the demolition of the abandoned subway station.] [The S.H.I.E.L.D. Rapid Response Team is expected to arrive at the scene in 15 minutes.]
[Team Leader Agent Codename – "Black Widow".] Ron stopped in front of the blast door.
Natasha Romanoff. A Red Room graduate, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top three infiltration specialists, her close-combat skills are sufficient to take on most enhanced humans head-on.
Fury didn't send a regular agent just to go through the motions.
He sent his best pieces.
Ron raised his right hand, looking at the dark red slit beneath his palm. The light of the lava reflected on the steel plate of the blast door, flickering.
Fifteen minutes.
Frank, carrying the wounded, would take at least twelve minutes to get back to the safe house.
Ron turned around and walked back to the platform.
He stopped beside the ten fingernail scratches left by Bullseye, looking up at the shaft leading to the surface.
The night wind blew down from the shaft opening, carrying the distinctive rusty smell of the Bronx. In the distance, somewhere 30,000 feet above the ground, the engine of a Quinjet was preheating.
Ron's right hand was spread wide, magma seeping from between his fingers, condensing into a fist-sized ball of light in his palm.
He walked upwards.
Step by step, he descended the collapsed stairs of the abandoned subway station towards the ground.
The iron railings of the ground exit had been warped by the previous explosion, and a cold wind seeped in through the gaps. Ron squeezed past the railings and stood on a Bronx street.
3:47 AM. The streets were deserted.
His Observation Haki spread out to the northeast, traversing six city blocks, detecting a rapidly approaching energy signal.
Not on the ground.
In the air.
The high-frequency vibrations characteristic of a Quinjet's turbofan engine, four kilometers away, at 600 km/h, descending.
Ron withdrew his Observation Haki and glanced down at himself—his ripped suit, charred cuffs, and scabs of blood on his neck.
He took his gold-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket and put them back on his nose.
There was a crack in the lens.
At the very bottom of the western horizon, a black dot was magnifying.