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Normally, Morin liked to show off.
But not to this extent.
And he would never risk the lives of his subordinates just for spectacle.
This time was different.
This wasn't showing off.
This battle-this very fight-was of critical importance to the Templar Knights.
Without any announcement, it marked the first direct confrontation between the Templar Knights and the forces of the High Table.
A large-scale battle.
In full view of the world.
A declaration.
Thirty minutes on the road.
It was a bloodbath.
With every step forward, assassins attempted to strike.
And in the very next second, they were exposed and eliminated by Templar Knights hidden among the crowd.
The bodies on the roadside didn't cause panic.
Passersby barely reacted.
They had long grown accustomed to assassins. Accustomed to death.
The police ignored it.
The government looked the other way.
What could ordinary people do?
It wasn't that no one had ever thought of revenge after losing someone they loved.
But not everyone was a movie protagonist.
Not everyone was John Wick.
Not everyone was Wesley Gibson.
Not everyone could slaughter hundreds for a dog.
Not everyone could tear down an organization that had existed for over a thousand years and was riddled with cheats.
Faced with constant threats from assassins, societal indifference, and legal loopholes, ordinary people could only watch.
Just watch.
But hatred was always planted.
Over the years, how many dark seeds had taken root?
Morin moved forward, observing everything around him.
From time to time, he used the wrench in his hand to knock aside bullets fired from the shadows.
When he saw the satisfaction in the eyes of passersby as assassins fell, he understood.
The seeds had already sprouted.
They had grown into a dark forest.
All it needed was someone to lead it.
Someone to take the Templar Knights and forge it into a new vessel.
...
Thirty minutes.
Not a second more.
Not a second less.
Morin fulfilled his promise perfectly.
He escorted Eyre to the entrance of the New York Continental Hotel and brought him inside.
Behind him was a trail of blood.
Staying at the Continental Hotel required status-swearing allegiance to the High Table.
One had to be an assassin or part of an affiliated organization.
But with Winston already on their side, that problem didn't exist.
Anyone who used the High Table's services had to acknowledge its authority and become its affiliate.
That was how the High Table's influence spread across the entire underground world.
"You really..." Winston sighed.
"In just thirty minutes, the New York Continental Hotel has lost twenty percent of its assassins."
"Only twenty percent?" Morin asked calmly.
"That's total numbers," Winston replied, still sighing.
"If you count rank and activity level, it's closer to half."
"Saying bodies are piled high wouldn't be an exaggeration."
"A perfect debut for the Templar Knights," Morin said with a smile.
"They weren't our people anyway. No loss to us."
"Besides," he added lightly,
"their deaths were extremely valuable, weren't they?"
"That's true," Winston nodded.
"But after managing the Continental Hotel for over forty years, this change is... hard to get used to."
"You're still the manager," Morin said, standing up with a chuckle.
"You just picked up a second job."
"I'll leave things here to you."
"I have another matter to handle."
"Oh, and one more thing."
"Has the bounty gone up?"
"Of course," Winston smiled.
"The Continental Hotel never loses."
"I suspect the High Table is preparing a judgment."
"They'll probably arrive soon."
"The High Table wants power. The Continental wants money. The Templar Knights want lives," Morin said casually.
"They've got it rough."
"But then again," he added,
"who told them to keep breaking the rules?"
"In life, and in business, rules matter."
Before he finished speaking, the hotel door closed once more.
The debut had only just begun.
...
"What?"
Inside the conference room, several men stared at one another in disbelief.
They were CEOs of pharmaceutical companies.
Driven to desperation by the Eyre Group's price cuts, they had turned to the High Table.
They had paid for the right to place a bounty on Eyre.
Now, they were gathered to celebrate-and to divide up the distribution channels Eyre had monopolized.
But just as they finished carving everything up, a call came from the Continental Hotel.
"Why did they fail?" one CEO asked.
"Isn't that the hotel's responsibility?"
"The Continental doesn't negotiate," said the CEO who took the call.
"Once losses pass a certain threshold, they demand more money."
"In thirty minutes, the New York Continental Hotel lost twenty percent of its assassins."
"That price is unacceptable to them."
"So they're demanding an increase to the bounty."
"...How much?" another CEO asked grimly.
"Ten million dollars."
"And it will only keep rising."
"That's impossible. We don't have that kind of liquid capital!"
"They don't care."
"...We've already gone this far," one CEO said through clenched teeth.
"We can't back out now."
"Everyone sell some assets and prepare to-"
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The conference room door was struck sharply.
A subordinate announced,
"A representative from the High Table has arrived."
"The High Table..."
Faces drained of color.
Not only the Continental Hotel.
Now the High Table itself.
The severity was obvious.
Moments later, a woman in high heels entered the room.
Elegant. Cold.
"I am a High Table adjudicator," she said flatly.
"Due to your direct actions, the New York Continental Hotel has suffered over twenty percent losses among registered assassins."
"This isn't our fault!" one CEO protested.
"It's the hotel's incompetence, and they've already-"
"I am not here to negotiate," the adjudicator interrupted, her gaze sweeping the room.
"I am here to announce judgment."
"The Eye of the Hawk and the Continental Hotel will face judgment."
"But before that," she continued,
"it is your turn."
"Prepare yourselves."
"Forty percent of your companies' total assets will be handed over to the High Table as compensation."
"You have ten days."
"To be clear," she said coldly,
"this is not a negotiation."
She placed the contract on the table, turned, and left.
"It is a judgment."
...
The adjudicator entered her armored vehicle and prepared to depart for her remaining tasks.
A single bullet stopped her.
Bulletproof glass was meaningless before an armor-piercing round.
The driver slumped forward, blood spilling from the hole between his eyebrows.
Inside the back seat, the adjudicator froze.
Her face went pale.
The climax of the Templar Knights' debut-
Had only just begun.