Shiranui Hayate blurred into motion, hurtling toward the densest cluster of enemies.
"He's coming! Kill him!" a hitman wielding a machete shrieked.
A ninja blade materialized in Hayate's hand. He didn't waste words. A single cold flash of steel followed, and the man was silenced forever. One swing, one life.
In the distance, several shooters raised their pistols, their fingers frantic on the triggers.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Bullets whistled through the air, but the two-tomoe Sharingan in Hayate's eyes spun with predatory speed. To him, the lead slugs moved like dragonflies in amber. With a single, fluid leap, he somersaulted over the volley.
Landing squarely in front of a gunman, Hayate delivered a devastating roundhouse kick.
CRACK!
The hitman was sent airborne, smashing into a heavy metal dumpster. The impact didn't stop him; he and the dumpster skidded another ten meters down the asphalt before coming to a halt. The man didn't move again.
Hayate spun on his heel, closing the distance to the next target before the man could even register a thought. A clean horizontal slash followed. A head soared into the air, trailed by a geyser of crimson.
On the other side, Hotaru was far from idle. She drew her custom pistols from her harness, twin barrels spitting fire in a ruthless rhythm. She didn't spray and pray; every trigger pull was a calculated execution. One bullet, one soul.
Sasuke stood as her vanguard, his own Sharingan active. He tracked the trajectory of every incoming round, his arm a blur as he batted bullets out of the air with his kunai. Had Hayate not strictly forbidden the use of flashier Ninjutsu to keep their true nature hidden, Sasuke would have already ended the fight with a Chidori-infused slaughter.
As for anyone foolish enough to try and close the gap for a melee strike, they met the fists and feet of Rock Lee. No one survived a single hit from the boy; every strike was delivered with bone-shattering force.
A grenade arched through the sky toward Hayate. Before it could get halfway, a shuriken whistled through the air, striking the explosive and knocking it back toward the thrower.
BOOM!
The blast tore through the group of assassins who had been huddled together for cover. Shrapnel shredded the survivors.
One wounded man crawled away, his eyes wide with terror as he looked at Hayate's glowing crimson eyes. "He's a devil... he's a devil!"
Hayate didn't offer a rebuttal. Three shuriken flickered from his fingers, ending the screams. Suddenly, the street grew very quiet.
In just sixty seconds, the area outside the Continental had become a charnel house. Storefronts were shattered, the road was littered with dozens of bodies, and the dark asphalt was stained a deep, bruised purple by the flowing blood.
Inside the hotel, the observers were paralyzed. A young hitman dropped his apple, unaware it had even hit the floor. A massive Russian assassin stood with his mouth agape, whispering, "Is... is this the true power of a Legend?"
John Wick, watching from the shadows of the entrance, felt a bitter irony in his chest. I'm supposed to be the 'Baba Yaga,' he thought, but I don't have this kind of overwhelming dominance. No wonder he didn't need my help.
Those who had been considering stepping outside were now thanking whatever gods they worshipped that they had stayed behind the glass. It wasn't just Hayate; his "team" was equally terrifying.
Some veterans noticed Hotaru's "curving" bullets. The characteristic Gun Fu of the Brotherhood, they noted. They began to whisper that Hayate had destroyed the Brotherhood not just for the bounty, but perhaps for the woman at his side.
Soon, not a single hostile was left breathing within the immediate vicinity.
A few blocks away, a late-comer stepped past the 500-meter perimeter. Before his second foot hit the pavement, a shuriken buried itself in his throat. He collapsed in silence. Those trailing behind him saw the corpse, looked at the blood-drenched intersection ahead, and turned around without a word.
The money wasn't worth it if you weren't alive to spend it.
Hayate walked over to his team. "Any problems?"
Hotaru smiled, looking at the man who remained miraculously blood-free despite the carnage. "Hayate, you're too fast. I barely finished my first clip before the party was over."
Seeing everyone was unharmed, Hayate nodded. The "battle" had been so low-level it barely qualified as a warm-up.
"Are we just going to stand here until evening?" Hotaru asked.
Hayate looked toward the hotel. As he approached the glass doors, the crowd of assassins inside instinctively took a collective step back, nearly causing a stampede in their haste to get away. They thought he was coming for them next.
Hayate stopped at the threshold. "John," he called out. "Have them bring out a table and some chairs. I'm going to wait out here in case anyone else is tired of living. I'd hate to make them walk too far to find their way to hell."
John Wick looked at Winston, who gave a slight nod. "Charon," Winston said, "bring Mr. Shiranui a table, chairs, and some refreshments."
Charon personally led a crew out, setting up a comfortable station in the middle of the intersection. They even brought fruit and pastries, though the heavy iron scent of blood in the air made the snacks look decidedly unappealing.
Once they were seated, Hayate began assigning sectors.
"Hotaru, the left road is yours. Anyone who crosses the 500-meter line, take the shot."
She checked her mags and grinned. "On it."
"Sasuke, take the right. Can you handle the 500-meter range?"
Sasuke fanned out a set of shuriken on the table, his expression icy. "Don't worry, Master Hayate. No one will live long enough to stand before you."
With Hayate watching the center, the trio sat like grim reapers at a garden party. Meanwhile, Rock Lee, having no targets, found a relatively clean patch of sidewalk and started doing high-intensity squats and calisthenics.
They didn't look like they were in a war zone. They looked like they were waiting for a bus. To the assassins watching from the windows, the message was clear: You aren't enemies. You're just a nuisance.