"In his third year as a judge, Ron finally burned the first murderer to death in court."
But that was later.
Now he sat motionless in the third row of the gallery at the New York Supreme Court, impeccably dressed in a suit, his back pressed against the chair.
The woman in the witness stand was trembling. Her name was Mary Coleman, forty-one years old, a neighbor of the murderer's third victim. That night, she saw Lester Miller dragging something wrapped in a garbage bag downstairs through her window.
The garbage bag contained a nineteen-year-old girl.
"I saw it clearly," Mary's voice rang out. Intermittently, "It's him."
Lester Miller sat in the dock, dressed in a clean grey prison uniform, his hair neatly combed. He stared at Mary, his right index finger tapping rhythmically on the table.
The rhythm was slow and steady.
Ron, in the gallery, counted the frequency. One tap every three seconds. Matching the spacing of the stab wounds described in the autopsy report—the medical examiner said the killer paused for three seconds after each stab, waiting for the victim's struggles to subside before delivering the next.
This wasn't intermittent bursts. This was enjoyment.
The prosecutor stood up and presented the sixth piece of evidence. The case was submitted to the court. Fingerprints taken from the killer's apartment matched 100% with those on the seven victims. Surveillance footage covered the timeline of four of the cases. All six eyewitnesses identified the perpetrator.
An airtight case.
Three years after transmigrating to this world, this was Ron's first major case as a magistrate judge—because the case involved Kingpin's influence, he voluntarily applied to attend the hearing and followed the case for nine months, from gathering evidence to connecting clues.
The defense attorney stood up.
Ron recognized him. Nathaniel Weiss, one of Manhattan's top five criminal defense lawyers, charging two dollars per hour. Starting at a thousand dollars. A serial killer can afford a lawyer like that.
Someone's footing the bill.
Wes wore a platinum cufflink on his left wrist, engraved with a diamond-shaped emblem. Each of the four corners of the emblem was set with a tiny ruby.
Kingpin.
Ron had spent three years in Hell's Kitchen and seen this mark far too many times. It was on the police chief's tie clip, on the city councilor's pen cap, and now on the defense lawyer's cufflink.
The city's judicial system was rotten to the bone.
"Your Honor, the defense submits evidence number seven."
Wes's His voice was unhurried as he pulled a beautifully bound report from his briefcase. It bore the signature of Richard Griffin, a tenured professor of psychiatry at Columbia University, and the diagnosis was clearly stated: "Intermittent burst disorder; the defendant lacked full criminal responsibility at the time of the crime."
Ron glanced down at his hands. His fingernails had dug into his palms, leaving four white marks.
Griffin. Griffin again. The same diagnosis for the veteran who killed three homeless men in the Bronx last year. And for the drug addict who randomly stabbed people in the subway the year before. Professor Griffin owns a townhouse on the Upper East Side, worth twelve million US dollars. A university professor.
In the presiding judge's seat, Harold Mickson opened the psychiatric evaluation report, his reading glasses slipping down to the tip of his nose. Fifty-six years old, he had worked in the New York legal profession for thirty years; the media labeled him a "human rights defender."
Ron retrieved Mickson's bank statements from a drawer. On the fifteenth of every month, an anonymous transfer of thirty thousand US dollars, originating from the Cayman Islands. This hadn't stopped for three years.
Twenty-seven.
In the three years since his arrival, Mickson had handled the release of twenty-seven people. Ron investigated each of the convicted felons. Eleven of them had committed murder again after their release.
Eleven lives. Less than thirty thousand dollars per life.
"The defense's motion is accepted by this court."
Mickson's voice was sickeningly calm.
"Given the defendant's mental condition, this court finds him not guilty and releases him to a mental health facility for three months of observation."
A deathly silence fell over the gallery, then a sharp sob.
Ron turned his head.
In the front row of the family section sat Susan White, forty-three years old. The last victim, Emily White... Ron recognized her. Three months ago, in his office, Susan sat for two hours, clutching her daughter's photograph, crying the entire time.
That day, Ron had told her, "This time, there will be a result."
Now he looked at Susan's hands. She was clutching Emily's photograph, her ten fingers gripping the frame so tightly that her nails were bent and bleeding, bright red liquid dripping down the frame onto her dress. She didn't wipe it away.
A soft chuckle came from the defendant's dock.
Lester Miller turned his head, past the lawyer's shoulder, and looked directly at the family section. His mouth split open, revealing neat teeth. That smile was aimed at... The direction he was heading was towards Susan White.
In the parking lot outside the courthouse, a black Lincoln limousine was already running.
Ron stood up, the chair leg scraping against the floor.
Three years.
Three whole years in this world. He'd seen heroes pin villains to the ground, only for the villains to be released on bail the next day and continue killing. He'd seen stray bullets from gang shootouts pierce apartment walls, an eight-year-old boy slumped over his workbook, a hole in his back. He'd seen drug lord lawyers hold up the "Bill of Rights" in court, reading it line by line to the judge.
The judge nodded. Every single time. This world has superheroes, S.H.I.E.L.D., and countless people who claim to uphold justice.
No one can truly stop evil.
Something cracked deep within Ron's body. Not a psychological collapse, but a physical burning—a molten lava-like heatwave was expanding wildly in the center of his chest, creeping through his veins to his limbs, even his fingertips were burning.
The phantom of a colossal building exploded on his retina.
Iron-gray walls, endless cages, layer upon layer extending into the earth. Ron recognized this structure. He had seen countless like it in his past life. Everywhere.
Imperial City.
A cold notification sound exploded in his skull.
[Imperial City Overlord System successfully bound.]
[Host detected strong sense of justice. Bound to Admiral Akainu template, initial synchronization rate 20%.]
[Unlocked basic Armament Haki.]
[Unlocked basic Observation Haki.]
[Unlocked Dimensional Impel Down - First Layer.]
Ron's body temperature soared above sixty degrees Celsius within three seconds. The edges of the oak chair beside him began to blacken, the paint bubbled, and a burnt smell permeated the air.
The bystander next to him shrank back, thinking it was warm. The gas line malfunctioned.
Ron stood there, looking down at his palm. Dark red lines flowed beneath his skin—magma.
The system interface unfolded on the left side of his vision.
[Initial Mission: Punish Evil]
[Objective: Capture serial killer Lester Miller and his protectors.]
[Reward: 1000 Justice Points, Armament Haki Proficiency +100.]
[Additional Note: Evil beyond the reach of the law will be dealt with by Impel Down.]
Ron looked up.
The courtroom doors were opening, and Lester Miller was being escorted by two lawyers... He emerged, surrounded by his entourage. Passing the family section, he deliberately slowed his pace, glancing sideways at Susan.
Susan didn't move, remaining stiffly seated in her chair, her ten fingers gripping her daughter's photo frame tightly. Bleeding seeped from her folded nails, dripping down the edge of the frame onto her dress, congealing into dark brown stains. Her eyes were empty, like a dried-up well; her soul seemed to have been ripped out, even her tears had run dry.
Ron walked over.
Susan looked up. Three months ago, her hair was dark brown; now it was half white. Her lips moved slightly.
"Judge Ron..." "Is there any fairness left in this world?"
Ron stopped, but didn't turn around.
"The answer will be tonight."
He walked out of the courthouse. It had started to rain. The September rain in Manhattan was cold and heavy, splashing white foam on the steps.
Lester Miller got into the black Lincoln. The moment the door closed, he gave Ron the middle finger through the window.
Ron remembered that finger.
Two hours later.
Ron stood on the rooftop of his apartment building, the neon lights of Hell's Kitchen blurred into spots of light in the rain. He slowly raised his right hand, fingers spread.
Palm A crack appeared in his heart, and a dark red light shone through his skin. Magma. Real magma. Temperatures exceeding 1200 degrees Celsius.
Raindrops landed on his palm, evaporating into white mist before they could even make a sound.
A red dot popped up on the system interface—Lester Miller's real-time location. Hell's Kitchen, 42nd Street, Kingpin's "Bird of Paradise" nightclub, VIP box.
A victory celebration was underway.
"The law finds you innocent."
Ron clenched his fist, the magma in his palm forming a ring of steam, the heat forcing the surrounding rainwater into a wall of vapor.
"But from now on..." "The sky rises—"
He didn't finish.
Because his Observation Haki caught a signal at that moment. Eight hundred meters away, on the rooftop of an abandoned apartment building in the eastern part of Hell's Kitchen, someone was setting up a sniper rifle.
An M82A1, a Barrett anti-materiel sniper rifle. The infrared beam from the scope pierced through the rain, all pointing in the same direction.
"Bird of Paradise" nightclub.
The man had a white skull imprinted on his chest—Ron recognized the mark; it was the Punisher. Like him, he loathed this hypocritical justice, yet was accustomed to ending evil with bullets.
(Next chapter: Lava vs Killer!)
"当法官第三年,罗恩终于亲手烧死了第一个被当庭释放的杀人犯."
但那是后来的事.
此刻他坐在纽约最高法院旁听席第三排,西装笔挺,脊背贴着椅背,一动不动.
证人席上的女人正在发抖.她叫玛丽·科尔曼,四十一岁,凶手的第三个受害者的邻居.那天晚上她透过窗户看见莱斯特·米勒拖着一个裹在垃圾袋里的东西下楼.
垃圾袋里装的是一个十九岁的女孩.
"我看得很清楚."玛丽的声音断断续续,"就是他."
莱斯特·米勒坐在被告席上,穿着一身干净的灰色囚服,头发梳得整整齐齐.他盯着玛丽看,右手食指在桌面上一下一下地敲.
那节奏很慢,很稳.
罗恩在旁听席上数着那个频率.每三秒一下.和尸检报告里描述的刀伤间距一致——法医说凶手每刺一刀,都会停顿三秒,等受害者挣扎的幅度减弱后再刺下一刀.
这不是什么间歇性爆发.这是享受.
检察官站起来,将第六份物证递交法庭.凶手公寓里提取的指纹,与七名受害者身上的吻合率百分之百.监控录像覆盖其中四起案件的时间线.六名目击证人全部指认.
铁案.
穿越到这个世界三年,这是罗恩以地方法官身份协办的第一桩重案——因案件牵扯金并势力,他主动申请列席旁听,从取证到串联线索,整整跟进了九个月.
辩护律师站了起来.
罗恩认识这个人.纳撒尼尔·韦斯,曼哈顿排名前五的刑辩律师,代理费每小时两千美金起.一个连环杀人犯请得起这种律师.
有人在替他买单.
韦斯的左手腕上戴着一只白金袖扣,扣面上刻着一个菱形纹章.纹章的四个角各嵌了一颗极小的红宝石.
金并集团.
罗恩在地狱厨房待了三年,见过太多次这个标记.警察局长的领带夹上有,市议员的钢笔帽上有,现在辩护律师的袖扣上也有.
这座城市的司法系统从骨头缝里烂透了.
"法官大人,辩方提交第七号证据."
韦斯的声音不紧不慢,从公文包里取出一份装订精美的报告.哥伦比亚大学精神科终身教授理查德·格里芬的签章,诊断结论写得清清楚楚——"间歇性爆发障碍症,被告在犯案时不具备完全刑事责任能力".
罗恩低头看了一眼自己的手.指甲已经掐进掌肉里,留下四道白印.
格里芬.又是格里芬.去年那个在布朗克斯区杀了三个流浪汉的退伍军人,也是这份诊断.前年那个在地铁里随机捅人的瘾君子,还是这份诊断.
格里芬教授在上东区有一栋联排别墅,市场价一千两百万美金.一个大学教授.
主审法官的席位上,哈罗德·密克森翻开那份精神鉴定报告,老花镜滑到鼻尖上.五十六岁,在纽约法律界混了三十年,媒体给他的标签是"人权守护者".
罗恩从抽屉里调过密克森的银行流水.每月十五号,一笔三万美金的匿名转账,来源地开曼群岛.三年没断过.
二十七个.
穿越三年来,密克森经手释放了二十七名重罪犯.罗恩一个一个查过后续.其中十一人出狱后再次犯下命案.
十一条人命.合每条人命不到三万美金.
"辩方动议,本庭予以采纳."
密克森的声音平静得令人作呕.
"鉴于被告精神状况,本庭判定——被告无罪释放,移交精神康复机构观察三个月."
旁听席上一片死寂,然后是一声尖锐的抽泣.
罗恩侧过头.
家属席最前排,苏珊·怀特,四十三岁.最后一名受害者艾米莉·怀特的母亲.罗恩认识她.三个月前在他的办公室里,苏珊攥着女儿的照片坐了两个小时,从头哭到尾.
那天罗恩对她说:"这次一定会有结果."
现在他看着苏珊的手.她抱着艾米莉的照片,十根手指死死箍住相框边缘,指甲盖翻折出血,鲜红的液体沿着相框滴在裙子上.她没擦.
被告席上传来一声轻笑.
莱斯特·米勒转过头,越过律师的肩膀,直直看向家属席.他的嘴咧开,露出整齐的牙齿.那个笑容对准的方向,是苏珊·怀特.
法庭外的停车场,一辆黑色林肯加长已经发动了引擎.
罗恩站起来,椅子腿在地板上刮出一声刺响.
三年.
来这个世界整整三年.他见过英雄把反派摁在地上,第二天反派保释出狱继续杀人.他见过黑帮火并的流弹穿透公寓墙壁,一个八岁的男孩趴在作业本上,后背一个洞.他见过毒枭的律师在法庭上举着"人权法案",逐条逐句地念给法官听.
法官点头.每一次都点头.
这个世界有超级英雄,有神盾局,有无数号称维护正义的人.
没有一个人能让罪恶真正停下来.
有什么东西在罗恩的身体深处裂开了.不是心理上的崩溃,是物理层面的灼烧——胸腔正中,一团滚烫的熔岩似的热浪正在疯狂膨胀,顺着血管爬向四肢百骸,连指尖都在发烫.
一座巨型建筑的虚影在视网膜上炸开.
铁灰色的高墙,无穷无尽的牢笼,层层叠叠向地底延伸.罗恩认得这个结构.前世看过无数遍.
推进城.
冰冷的提示音在颅腔里炸响.
[推进城主宰系统绑定成功.]
[检测到宿主强烈正义执念.绑定海军大将·赤犬模板,初始同步率20%.]
[解锁基础武装色霸气.]
[解锁基础见闻色霸气.]
[解锁维度推进城·第一层.]
罗恩的体温在三秒内飙过六十度.身边的橡木座椅边缘开始发黑,漆面起泡,焦糊的气味在空气里弥散.
旁边的旁听者往后缩了缩,以为是暖气管道出了问题.
罗恩站在原地,低头看着自己的手掌.皮肤下面有暗红色的纹路在流动,那是岩浆.
系统界面在视野左侧展开.
[初始任务:惩罚罪恶]
[目标:抓捕连环杀人犯莱斯特·米勒及其背后保护伞.]
[奖励:正义值1000点,武装色霸气熟练度+100.]
[附加说明:法律无法制裁之恶,由推进城执行.]
罗恩抬起头.
法庭的门正在打开,莱斯特·米勒在两名律师的簇拥下走出来.他经过家属席,刻意放慢脚步,侧过头看了苏珊一眼.
苏珊没有动,就那么僵坐在椅子上,十根手指死死箍着女儿的相框,翻折的指甲渗出血珠,顺着相框边缘滴在裙子上,凝固成一块块深褐色的印记.她的眼神空洞得像一口枯井,灵魂像是被生生抽走,连眼泪都流干了.
罗恩走过去.
苏珊抬起脸.三个月前她的头发还是深棕色的,现在白了一半.她的嘴唇翕动了几下.
"罗恩法官...这个世界还有公平吗?"
罗恩停下脚步,没有转身.
"今晚会有答案."
他走出法庭大门.雨已经下起来了.曼哈顿九月的雨又冷又急,打在台阶上溅起白沫.
莱斯特·米勒钻进那辆黑色林肯.车门关上的瞬间,他隔着车窗冲罗恩竖了一根中指.
罗恩记住了那根手指.
两小时后.
罗恩站在自己公寓的天台上,地狱厨房的霓虹灯在雨幕里模糊成一片光斑.他缓缓抬起右手,五指张开.
掌心裂开一条细缝,暗红色的光从皮肤下透出来.岩浆.真正的岩浆.温度超过一千二百度.
雨滴落在手掌上,连声响都没来得及发出,直接蒸发成白雾.
系统界面弹出一个红点——莱斯特·米勒的实时定位.地狱厨房42街,金并名下的"天堂鸟"夜总会,VIP包厢.
正在开庆功宴.
"法律判你无罪."
罗恩收拢五指,掌心的岩浆被握成一个拳头,热浪将周围的雨水逼成一圈蒸汽墙.
"但从今天起——"
他没有说完.
因为他的见闻色在那一刻捕捉到了一个信号.距离他八百米,地狱厨房东区某栋废弃公寓的楼顶,有一个人正在架设狙击步枪.
M82A1,巴雷特反器材狙击步枪.瞄准镜的红外线穿过雨帘,落点是同一个方向.
"天堂鸟"夜总会.
那个人的胸口印着一个白色的骷髅头——罗恩认得那个标记,是惩罚者.和他一样厌恶这虚伪的正义,却习惯用子弹终结罪恶.
（Next chapter: Lava vs Killer!）