John Wick's reflexes kicked in instantly. He yanked the German Shepherd's body upward, using it as a makeshift shield to protect his face and chest.
The impact drove him back a step. His bulletproof suit absorbed countless tiny pellets that peppered his torso. Without hesitation, he hurled the dog's riddled corpse at his attacker.
Mr. Nobody's finger froze on the trigger. He couldn't bring himself to shoot through his beloved companion's body. Instead, he dodged sideways.
John Wick closed the distance in three strides. His right hand clamped around the rifle barrel while his left hand brought up his pistol. He squeezed the trigger.
Grief clouded Mr. Nobody's eyes, but his training held firm. The bullet struck center mass, absorbed by his vest. He wrenched the rifle hard, firing a desperate shot toward John Wick's lower body.
The round sparked off the concrete inches from John Wick's foot.
John Wick jerked the muzzle skyward and drove his elbow into Mr. Nobody's chin. The satisfying crack of impact coincided with another pistol shot that punched through the hunter's shoulder.
Pain lanced through the hunter's arm. His grip failed. The rifle clattered to the ground, and John Wick snatched it up in one fluid motion.
He worked the action, chambering a fresh round, and aimed at the hunter's face.
Mr. Nobody collapsed with a strangled cry. John Wick put two more rounds through his skull for certainty. He dropped the rifle beside the corpse and walked away without looking back.
Through the Fraternity channels in Osaka, John Wick secured passage directly to Hong Kong.
New York
Night draped itself over the city like a funeral shroud. Outside the Fraternity's base, a small army assembled in the darkness, High Table adjudicators in tactical gear, the blade master Zero and his students, and a dozen contract killers lured by blood money.
One adjudicator hefted an RPG onto his shoulder. The backblast illuminated his grim expression as he fired.
The first rocket screamed toward the textile factory's gate.
BOOM!
The explosion tore through the entrance, shredding metal and wood. Two more rockets followed in quick succession. The gate disintegrated into twisted debris. The surrounding wall buckled and cracked but refused to collapse entirely.
The lead adjudicator lowered his night-vision goggles and raised one fist.
"Move in. Hunt down the target."
The assembled killers surged through the ruined gateway, boots crunching over rubble as they advanced toward the castle's main entrance.
Gunfire erupted from above.
Muzzle flashes lit up the castle walls like lightning strikes. Assassins hidden along the battlements opened fire, pouring lead down on the invaders below. The elevated positions gave them a devastating advantage. Bullets found skulls and throats. The lightly armored contract killers dropped first, blood pooling beneath their twitching bodies.
Zero, renowned for his mastery of cold steel, never got close enough to draw a blade. A three-round burst stitched across his chest, and he crumpled. His students fell beside him, cut down in the opening salvo.
The High Table adjudicators returned fire immediately. Assault rifles barked, chewing into the stone battlements. Several adjudicators yanked grenades from their webbing and hurled them toward the walls.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The firefight intensified. Then base windows burst open on all floors. Assault rifles and specialized firearms emerged from every opening.
Streams of fire erupted from the castle itself. A metal storm of bullets swept across the courtyard, shredding the exposed attackers. The cross-fire was devastating.
Mr. X, Cross, Wesley, and the other Fraternity members methodically eliminated targets that would have challenged ordinary killers. For assassins who could curve bullets, the heavily armed adjudicators were merely difficult, not impossible.
Smith Doyle stood atop the highest tower, observing the battlefield below with cold calculation. His Scouter swept across the courtyard, analyzing power levels and counting hostiles. No exceptional combatants registered. No reinforcements waited in reserve.
The Fraternity would win this fight. But the casualties would mount higher than necessary if he remained on the sidelines.
Smith Doyle stepped off the tower.
Darkness concealed his descent. The adjudicators, focused on the walls and windows ahead, never thought to look up.
He dropped into the center of their defensive formation.
His hand shot out, seized an adjudicator by the tactical vest, and launched him skyward.
The man's scream dopplered as he arced through the air and slammed into the concrete with bone-shattering force.
The adjudicators spun toward him, assault rifles swinging around.
Smith Doyle moved faster. His boot caught one attacker in the chest with enough force to send him flying backward. The man crashed into three more adjudicators behind him, and all four went down in a tangle of limbs and weapons.
Smith Doyle waded into the High Table forces like a wolf among sheep. His fists and feet became instruments of precise destruction.
"Wolf Fang Wind Fist!"
His attack frequency tripled. Punches blurred through the air. Helmets crumpled. Tactical masks shattered. Even fully armored, the adjudicators couldn't withstand more than two strikes. Meanwhile, Mr. X, Cross, and the others continued cutting down targets on the perimeter. Caught between two forces, the High Table's assault team died quickly.
Bullets occasionally found Smith Doyle. They ricocheted harmlessly off his enhanced physiology, leaving not even bruises.
One adjudicator, realizing conventional weapons were useless, stripped every grenade from his vest. He charged toward Smith Doyle, fingers already pulling pins.
Smith Doyle had tracked the man's movements through his peripheral vision. He caught the suicide bomber by the shoulder and hurled him with his full strength.
The adjudicator sailed over the castle wall, still screaming defiance when the grenades detonated mid-air. The explosion painted the night sky orange for a brief moment before darkness returned.
Impressive loyalty, Smith Doyle thought, accelerating his assault. The High Table trains them well.
Within minutes, the last attacker fell.
Silence settled over the courtyard, broken only by the crackle of small fires and the groans of the dying.
"Get the cleaners," Smith Doyle ordered. "Sanitize everything. Bodies go in the incinerator."
Mr. X approached, examining Smith Doyle with barely concealed amazement. Not a scratch marred his leader's skin despite the intensity of the close-quarters combat.
"GOD," Mr. X said, "you've given us quite the revelation tonight."
"Placing the Fraternity in your hands was indeed the wisest choice we could have made."
Not everyone in the organization had witnessed Smith Doyle's true capabilities. But everyone who fought tonight had seen it clearly.
Their leader, Smith Doyle, was truly a god-like existence, worthy of the title GOD.
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