The weighted training suit added an extra hundred pounds to Smith's frame, but his movements remained fluid and precise. His fists blurred through combinations, jab, cross, hook, each strike accompanied by the sharp crack of impact. Without breaking rhythm, he dropped to one hand, supporting his entire body on a single finger as he executed a series of inverted push-ups.
Between repetitions, he exhaled sharply, releasing a bullet of compressed air that screamed across the training room and obliterated a moving target. Splinters of wood scattered across the floor.
Smith straightened, examining the destruction without a single bead of sweat marking his skin. The realization brought a flicker of frustration. This wasn't training, it was barely a warm-up. His Saiyan physiology had evolved beyond what conventional exercise could challenge. He needed a gravity chamber, something that could multiply Earth's natural pull and actually strain his muscles. Without that kind of pressure, sessions like this were nothing more than going through the motions.
The training room door swung open, and Fox stepped inside. Her eyes swept across the demolished targets, lingering on the destruction with barely concealed envy. She'd seen Smith's abilities develop over the past months, watched him surpass every benchmark the Fraternity used to measure their elite assassins. It was both inspiring and humbling.
"Smith, you need to see this." She held up an envelope.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Smith materialized directly in front of her. The displacement of air ruffled Fox's hair, and she blinked, her mind still processing the fact that he'd been twenty feet away a moment ago.
"Who sent it?" Smith plucked the envelope from her fingers, already tearing it open.
Fox steadied herself, forcing her breathing to remain calm. No matter how many times she witnessed his speed, it never quite felt real. "Unknown. Someone threw it into the base courtyard with a throwing knife. The blade embedded itself three inches into a stone pillar."
Smith's eyebrows rose fractionally as he scanned the contents. Interesting delivery method, theatrical, skilled, and designed to make an impression. The message itself was typed rather than handwritten, clearly meant to avoid identification through penmanship. But the information it contained made his jaw tighten.
The Hand is mobilizing. Large-scale deployment to New York imminent.
Smith's mind immediately catalogued what he knew about the organization. The Hand operated under five leaders, Alexandra, Madame Gao, Bakuto, Sowande, and Murakami. All five had once been elders of K'un-Lun before their expulsion, and all five had survived for over five centuries through liberal use of dragon bone resurrection. The substance was rare, potent, and explained their seemingly impossible longevity.
The Hand's relationship with the Fraternity had always been contentious. While the five fingers possessed formidable combat skills and near-immortality, the Fraternity's long-range specialists could eliminate targets from distances that made traditional martial prowess irrelevant. The two organizations had clashed repeatedly over the centuries, each conflict ending in stalemate. When Sloan rose to power, he'd brokered an unofficial ceasefire. In the eighteen years since Smith had eliminated Sloan, there had been occasional friction but nothing approaching open warfare.
Until now, apparently.
Smith considered the timing. In the original timeline, Madame Gao had operated a heroin distribution network in Hell's Kitchen. More significantly, the Rand Corporation owned an unfinished building in the same neighborhood, Midland Circle, and beneath that structure lay a substantial deposit of dragon bones. The Hand's early arrival in New York could only mean one thing: they were accelerating their plans.
But why the rushed timeline?
The answer crystallized immediately: the Dragon Balls.
The Camorra bounty and John Wick's subsequent actions had made the balls legendary in underground circles. Two million dollars per ball had attracted attention from every major criminal enterprise on the planet. The Hand's leadership would have heard the rumors, investigated, and likely discovered evidence of Helen Wick's resurrection. They wouldn't understand that these Dragon Balls came from a different source than the mythical dragon bones they'd been harvesting for centuries, they'd must thought that this balls came from the Dragon Bone.
Smith's lips curved into a cold smile. Let them come. Dragon bones were valuable, excellent for both extending life and bringing people back from death. While he personally had no concerns about mortality thanks to his Saiyan biology and the Dragon Ball Z Dokkan Battle System's safety nets, dragon bones would make exceptional rewards for loyal subordinates. The Fraternity's top operatives deserved something beyond simple monetary compensation.
As for who'd sent the anonymous warning, the throwing knife narrowed it down considerably. In New York's criminal underworld, only one person had that level of skill with bladed projectiles: Bullseye, Wilson Fisk's personal enforcer.
Which meant Kingpin was trying to engineer a conflict between the Fraternity and the Hand. Clever, in a shortsighted sort of way. Fisk probably assumed both organizations would exhaust themselves fighting over territory, leaving Hell's Kitchen open for his expansion. The crime lord had no way of knowing that Smith actually welcomed this confrontation.
Smith folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. "Our old rivals from the Hand are moving into New York. This time, we're going to make sure they don't leave."
Fox straightened, her expression sharpening with anticipation.
"Call a full leadership meeting," Smith continued. "Expand attendance to include you, Wesley, and John Wick. Everyone needs to understand what's coming."
Fox nodded crisply. "I'll send word immediately."
Across the city, Wilson Fisk stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office, gazing down at Hell's Kitchen's neon-soaked streets. Night transformed the neighborhood, and in the darkness, he was king. During daylight hours, he played the legitimate businessman, bowing to regulatory oversight and legal restrictions. But when the sun set, Hell's Kitchen answered to him alone.
The High Table didn't make me kneel, Fisk thought, his massive hands clasped behind his back. And neither will the Hand.
A knock at the door interrupted his contemplation. "Come in."
Bullseye entered, moving with the casual confidence of a man who'd never lost a fight. "Boss, the letter's been delivered to the Fraternity headquarters. They know about the Hand's planned invasion."
He paused, a mischievous glint entering his eyes. "Want me to dress up as a Hand ninja and assassinate a few Fraternity members? Really sell the conflict? I'm pretty good with shuriken, could make it look authentic."
Fisk turned slowly, his cane tapping against the floor with deliberate rhythm. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "Bullseye, don't overcomplicate this."
"This operation requires a light touch. No fingerprints, no traces leading back to us."
He moved toward his desk, each step measured and purposeful. "The Fraternity and the Hand already have a long-standing feud. Just letting the Fraternity know that the Hand has shown up will be enough to start a fight. Their base of operations is in New York, so they'll see it as someone trespassing on their turf."
Fisk settled into his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "Our role is to maintain our position during the coming conflict. We watch, we adapt, and we exploit whatever opportunities emerge from their war. We do not actively participate."
Bullseye's enthusiasm dimmed slightly, but he nodded. "Understood, boss. I won't interfere with the main event." His expression brightened. "But there's that one guy who's been disrupting our operations lately. If an opportunity presents itself during the chaos, I'd like to take him out."
Fisk considered this. The costumed vigilante, The Devil of Hell's Kitchen had become increasingly problematic over recent weeks. While the man adhered to some misguided no-kill policy, he'd successfully sabotaged multiple shipments and scared off valuable business partners. The interference was costing real money.
"Fine. If you can eliminate Devil without compromising our position, proceed." Fisk's eyes narrowed. "But exercise discretion. No collateral damage that draws unwanted attention."
Bullseye's smile widened. "I'm not like him, boss. I don't do half-measures." He headed for the door, already planning his approach.
After Bullseye departed, Fisk allowed himself a moment of strategic consideration. If the Fraternity and Hand somehow avoided conflict, unlikely, but worth planning for, then perhaps this Daredevil could serve as the spark that ignited hostilities. A vigilante caught between two assassin organizations would create all sorts of interesting complications.
I wonder who would win, Fisk mused. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen or the Baba Yaga?
His desk phone illuminated, the caller ID displaying a name that commanded immediate attention: Madame Gao.
Fisk lifted the receiver. "Yes."
"I've compiled comprehensive intelligence on both John Wick and the Dragon Ball situation," he said, his tone professional and deferential. "Information on Smith Doyle as well, though most of it predates the High Table's destruction. Current intelligence on him is... limited."
He listened to the response, then nodded though she couldn't see him. "I'll transmit everything to you shortly."
"New York has been relatively quiet recently. The Fraternity hasn't made any major moves, likely consolidating their gains from destroying the High Table and absorbing former Continental assets."
Madame Gao's voice crackled through the line, and Fisk's expression grew more attentive. "Of course. These matters require face-to-face discussion. When you arrive in the city, I'll make myself available at your convenience."
He ended the call and set the phone down carefully, his mind already calculating the angles. Madame Gao would expect detailed intelligence, absolute discretion, and profitable opportunities. He could provide all three, provided the Fraternity and Hand cooperated by tearing each other apart.
Fisk returned to the window, watching the city's pulse beneath him. Soon, Hell's Kitchen would run red with assassin blood, and from that chaos, his empire would expand beyond anything the High Table or Hand could have imagined.
He just needed to ensure he survived long enough to claim his crown.