Frank didn't lower his gun.
The M16A4's barrel shifted two centimeters, no longer aimed at Ron's heart, but not completely away either.
"Three more questions."
Frank extended a finger from under the butt of his gun.
"First, what gives you the right to define justice?"
Ron stood still, hands behind his back.
The air in the compartment still carried the sulfurous smell of evaporating lava, and the charred marks on the floor emitted a faint red glow.
"I don't define justice."
Ron's answer was without hesitation.
"Crime defines justice. Seven lives, twenty-three stabs, each three seconds apart. That doesn't need me to define it."
Frank raised his second finger.
"Second, what's the difference between you and those people you killed?"
"I didn't kill him."
Ron pointed to the charred marks on the floor.
"I imprisoned..." "He'll pay for it somewhere else. Not for a day, not for a year, but forever."
Frank stared at the scorch mark for two seconds.
The third finger.
"The third—what's the difference between you and me?"
Frank's breathing changed as he asked the question.
Ron heard it. Observation Haki doesn't lie.
This wasn't an interrogation; it was someone genuinely seeking answers asking for directions.
"You killed because of anger."
Ron enunciated each word clearly.
"I imprisoned him because he deserved it."
Frank's gun veered a centimeter further.
But he didn't lower his weapon.
He didn't speak either.
Ron stopped looking at him.
He turned and walked out of the private room, stepping over the shattered ceiling debris in the corridor, downstairs.
In the lobby on the first floor, twelve bodyguards lay in various corners, all their weapons destroyed, their clothes... The metal fasteners on the object melted into slag and clung to his skin, hissing.
There was no fatal wound.
But no one dared to move.
Ron walked through them to the bar.
Behind the bar, three waitresses and two girls were crouching.
The girl furthest inside was huddled in a ball, hugging her knees, trembling all over.
Ron crouched down.
The girl recoiled sharply, her back hitting the refrigerator.
She was young, about sixteen or seventeen, with dark brown skin and black hair tied in a braid with a plastic yellow flower pinned to the end.
Ron took off his suit jacket and offered it to her.
The girl didn't take it. Her hands were shaking too badly.
Ron draped the jacket over her shoulders.
"It's alright. Call your family to pick you up."
The girl's lips trembled for a long time before she managed to squeeze out a sentence in accented English.
"I...I don't have a home." "They're over here."
Ron pulled his wallet from his pocket, took out all the cash, and stuffed it into the girl's hand.
"Take a taxi back. Don't come to places like this again."
He stood up and checked the injuries of the others one by one.
A waitress had a cut on her arm from a shard of glass, blood trickling down her forearm. Ron tore off a bodyguard's sleeve and wrapped it around her arm.
Frank had come downstairs sometime earlier.
He stood at the top of the stairs, gun at the ready, watching Ron wipe the dust off a crying waitress's face.
The gun slowly lowered.
The sound of sirens came from afar.
At least three patrol cars approached.
Ron straightened up, raising his right hand.
His palm split open, and lava gushed from beneath his skin.
He didn't attack anyone.
The lava split into a dozen thin streams, precisely traversing the lobby, wiping away all the scattered debris on the floor. Gun wreckage, spent cartridges, and magazine fragments all melted into molten iron.
The molten iron pooled, rapidly cooled, and solidified into an irregular lump of iron.
Ron kicked the lump of iron into a corner trash can.
Firepower evidence, zeroed out.
Then he walked to the office next to the VIP box.
The door was locked.
Ron extended his index finger, a drop of molten lava seeping from the tip, and touched the lock cylinder.
The lock cylinder melted, and the door sprang open.
Inside the office was a safe embedded in the wall. A combination lock, six digits.
Ron didn't try the combination.
He placed his entire hand on the safe door; the steel plate beneath his palm began to redden, soften, and deform.
Three seconds later, the entire safe door was ripped off and thrown to the ground.
Inside were three stacks of documents and a hard drive.
Ron opened the top stack.
Financial records.
Kingpin Group.
From the Cayman Islands. The money laundering route from the shell companies in the archipelago to five restaurants in New York was meticulously documented.
The second stack contained bribery agreements with judges.
Three copies.
The first one was signed—Harold Mickson.
The same "human rights champion" who released Lester Miller this morning.
Ron packed the three stacks of documents and hard drives into a briefcase and returned to the lobby.
Frank stood by the bar, his gun already slung over his shoulder.
Ron tossed him the briefcase.
Frank caught it with one hand, unzipped it, and flipped through a couple of pages.
His Adam's apple bobbed.
"A little gift," Ron said. "The names on it will keep you busy for a while."
Frank looked up at Ron for three seconds.
"Let's go."
The sirens were already at the street corner.
The two retreated through the back door.
The back alley of Hell's Kitchen was narrow and dark, with dumpsters piled everywhere. The rain hadn't stopped, but it had lessened considerably, turning into a fine drizzle.
Frank led the way.
They wound their way through two underground passages and an abandoned laundry room, finally entering the basement of an abandoned apartment building.
The iron door had three locks. Frank unlocked them one by one.
Inside was an armory.
It wasn't large, about forty square meters.
The walls were covered with guns: pistols, rifles, shotguns, and two anti-tank rocket launchers. Ammunition boxes were stacked half a wall. In the corner was a cot, a gas stove, and half a can of rations.
Frank pulled out a folding table, took a roll of map from under the cot, and unfolded it.
A street map of Hell's Kitchen.
Forty-seven points were marked on it in red pen. Next to each point was a date and a word or two: "Drugs," "Arms," "Casino," "Population."
Ron glanced at it.
"You've been doing this for three years." "How many will you clear out?"
Frank paused for a second.
"Eleven."
"And after you clear them out?"
Frank didn't answer.
He didn't need to answer.
Clear one, and three more will appear the next day. Ron had already said that at the nightclub.
Ron closed his eyes.
His Observation Haki spread outwards.
His perception range expanded from the basement, passing through walls, floors, streets, and buildings, covering the entire Hell's Kitchen.
Three seconds.
He opened his eyes, took the red pen from Frank, and added nineteen new points to the map.
Frank stared at the newly marked locations, a vein throbbing in his neck.
"The 38th Street underground parking garage, B2 level, seventh parking space has a hidden door." Ron wrote a few words next to one of the points, "Arms depot."
"The laundromat at the intersection of Ninth Avenue and 43rd Street, the basement connects to the row of..." "Water pipes lead to an abandoned subway station three blocks away."
"That's—"
"A drug processing plant. Two shifts a day, twelve people per shift."
Frank's hand rested on the table, his fingers clenching and unclenching.
"How did you do that?"
"Sensory ability." Ron didn't intend to explain the principles of Observation Haki, "I can know the location, heartbeat, weapons, and emotional fluctuations of everyone within 800 meters with my eyes closed."
Frank's breath hitched.
Ron didn't give him time to process it.
He brought up the naval rank system from the system panel.
A semi-transparent screen appeared above the folding table, visible only to Ron and his designated personnel.
The organizational chart was arranged from top to bottom.
Front Marshal, Admiral, Vice Admiral, Rear Admiral, Brigadier General, Colonel, Lieutenant Colonel... all the way down to Private.
Frank stared at the screen, not blinking for five seconds.
"What is this?"
"The skeleton of an army," Ron said. "Not one person's revenge, but a disciplined, organized, hierarchical system of sanctions. Each level has clearly defined responsibilities and authority."
He pointed to the "Brigadier General" position.
"You, Frank Castle, if you join, your starting rank is—Brigadier General."
Frank stared at the screen for three seconds, then scoffed.
"You're the commander all by yourself? And I'm the only soldier under you?"
Ron was unimpressed.
"Every empire begins with two people."
He extended his right hand, spreading it open.
Armament Haki spread from his fingertips to his entire arm, a black sheen flowing along his skin.
"Accept it, and you will gain power far beyond that of ordinary people. Not mutation, not drugs, not surgery. It's the manifestation of your own will."
Frank looked down at his hand. Three seconds ago, it could have spewed out devastating magma.
Now, it hangs quietly in mid-air.
Frank thought of Central Park.
The instant the bullet pierced Maria's back, he was only three meters away from her.
Three meters.
He stopped nothing.
He grasped Ron's hand.
A system notification popped up on the left side of Ron's vision.
[Awarding Frank Cassel the rank of Commodore.]
[Haki seed implantation in progress... Armament Haki - Beginner Level, complete.]
[Issued the Justice Cloak (Commodore Spec).]
Frank's back suddenly felt heavy.
A white cloak appeared out of thin air, draped over his shoulders.
The cloak's fabric wasn't cotton or synthetic; it felt cool to the touch, yet wasn't heavy. Two words were written on the back from top to bottom—"Justice."
The cloak hugged Frank's shoulder line, neither slipping nor fluttering. Frank reached out and tugged at it. He couldn't budge it.
"What's it made of?"
"It doesn't matter," Ron said. "Try your fist."
Frank turned and glanced at the iron pillars in the armory—the I-beams supporting the basement ceiling.
He withdrew his right fist.
A thin layer of black sheen flowed across his knuckles, spreading across his entire fist.
Frank didn't hesitate.
He punched it.
A fist-sized dent appeared on the I-beam, the steel bent inward, and rivets flew off, clanging against the wall.
Frank looked down at his fist.
No swelling. No broken skin. Even his fingernails were intact.
He punched it again.
The I-beam bent at a thirty-degree angle.
"This is just the beginning," Ron said. "After I complete the next mission, you'll get something even stronger."
Frank Rank looked at his fist, then at the white cloak that wouldn't fall off his shoulder.
His lips twitched.
Not a sneer.
Four o'clock in the morning.
Ron returned to his apartment in Hell's Kitchen.
In the bathroom, hot water poured over his shoulders and back. He leaned against the wall and brought up the system panel.
[Akainu Template Synchronization Rate: 20%]
[Justice Value: 700/2000]
[Imperial Castle Level 1: Number of Prisoners 1/100 (Lester Miller, continuously generating Sin Value)]
[Armament Haki Proficiency: 137/1000]
[Observation Haki Proficiency: 89/1000]
A new mission popped up in the system.
[Mission: Clean up the Hell's Kitchen Dark Web]
[Destroy Kingpin's three core supply chains in Hell's Kitchen within 72 hours—the drug processing plant, the arms depot, and the money laundering front office.] [Reward: 2000 Justice Points, Impel Down's capacity expanded to 200, Devil Fruit Furnace - Basic Function Unlocked.]
Ron stared at the words "Devil Fruit Furnace."
If he remembered correctly, this function meant he could create his own Devil Fruit.
Frank needed one.
72 hours. Three days.
That's enough.
He turned off the tap and started drying his hair with a towel.
Suddenly, a red warning popped up.
[Warning: Abnormal attention detected.]
[S.H.I.E.L.D. military satellites have locked the coordinates of the "Eden" nightclub incident.]
[Attention Level: Medium.]
[Attention Follower: Nick Fury.]
Ron paused for a second while drying his hair.
Then he continued.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
It was bound to happen sooner or later.
He hung the towel back on the rack, went into the bedroom, and pulled open... Curtains.
The skyline of Hell's Kitchen was a hazy gray. The rain had stopped, and the bottom of the clouds was tinged a dirty orange by the rooftop lights.
Thirty thousand feet above the ground.
In the command center of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, Nick Fury stood before a holographic screen.
The screen repeatedly played satellite thermal images.
A humanoid heat source moved inside the "Eden" nightclub. Its core temperature was 1200 degrees Celsius.
But around the heat source were multiple precise low-temperature zones—each zone's location corresponding precisely to the coordinates of a civilian.
Fury swiped a single finger across the screen, zooming in.
The heat source passed through twelve armed personnel; not a single civilian's heat signal disappeared or their temperature changed abruptly.
Precise control.
Not an out-of-control mutant ability, not a brutal magical release, not any known technological means.
Fury froze the image on the heat... The brightest frame of the source.
Then he picked up the encrypted phone on the table and dialed a number.
"Natasha."
Two seconds of silence on the other end.
"Go to Hell's Kitchen."
Three blocks away, in a church, Matthew Murdoch knelt beneath the cross.
His heightened hearing was still replaying everything from two hours ago.
The hiss of melting metal. Screams. A man's final groan before his body was swallowed by the floor.
And that word.
"Order."
Matthew's right hand rested on his forehead, fingertips against his temple.
He couldn't figure out what this "Lava Man" really was.
But one thing he was certain of.
Someone more dangerous than him had come to his city.
The church's wooden door was pushed open a crack by the wind.
A cold draft rushed in, and the candlelight flickered.
Matthew stood up and touched the red stick hanging on the wall.
弗兰克没有收枪.
M16A4的枪管偏了两厘米,不再对准罗恩的心脏,但也没有完全移开.
"还有三个问题."
弗兰克的左手从枪托下方伸出一根食指.
"第一,你凭什么定义正义?"
罗恩站在原地,双手背在身后.
包厢里的空气还残留着岩浆蒸发后的硫磺味,地板上那圈焦黑的痕迹散发着微弱的红光.
"我不定义正义."
罗恩的回答没有任何犹豫.
"罪行定义正义.七条命,二十三刀,每刀间隔三秒.这不需要我来定义."
弗兰克的第二根食指竖起来.
"第二,你杀了那些人,和他们有什么区别?"
"我没杀他."
罗恩指了指地板上的焦痕.
"我关押了他.他会在另一个地方为罪行付出代价.不是一天,不是一年,是永远."
弗兰克盯着那圈焦痕看了两秒.
第三根手指.
"第三——你和我有什么不同?"
这个问题问出来的时候,弗兰克的呼吸频率变了.
罗恩听到了.见闻色不会骗人.
这不是一个质问,是一个真正想要答案的人在问路.
"你杀人是因为愤怒."
罗恩一字一顿.
"我关人,是因为他该被关."
弗兰克的枪口又偏了一厘米.
但他没有收枪.
也没有说话.
罗恩不再看他.
他转身走出包厢,踩过走廊里被炸塌的天花板碎块,下了楼.
一楼大厅里,十二个保镖躺在各个角落,枪械全部报废,衣物上的金属扣件熔成铁渣粘在皮肤上,发出滋滋的声响.
没有致命伤.
但也没人敢动.
罗恩穿过他们中间,走向吧台.
吧台后面蹲着三个女服务员和两个陪酒的女孩.
最里面那个女孩缩成一团,双臂抱着膝盖,整个人在发抖.
罗恩蹲下来.
女孩猛地往后缩,后背撞上冰箱.
她很年轻.十六七岁的样子,深棕色皮肤,黑发扎成一根辫子,辫梢上别着一朵塑料做的黄花.
罗恩解下自己的西装外套,递过去.
女孩没接.她的手抖得太厉害.
罗恩把外套搭在她肩上.
"没事了.叫你家人来接你."
女孩的嘴唇哆嗦了半天,挤出一句带口音的英语.
"我...我没有家人在这边."
罗恩从口袋里掏出钱包,抽出里面所有的现金,塞进女孩手里.
"打车回去.别再来这种地方."
他站起来,一个一个检查其他人的伤势.
一个女服务员的手臂被玻璃碎片划了一道口子,血沿着小臂往下淌.罗恩扯下一个保镖的袖子,给她缠上.
弗兰克不知什么时候下了楼.
他端着枪站在楼梯口,看着罗恩给一个吓哭的女服务员擦脸上的灰.
枪口慢慢垂了下去.
远处传来警笛声.
由远及近,至少三辆巡逻车.
罗恩站直身体,右手抬起.
掌心裂开,岩浆从皮肤下涌出.
他没有朝任何人动手.
岩浆化作十几条细线,精准地穿过大厅,将地面上所有散落的枪械残骸,弹壳,弹匣碎片全部熔化成铁水.
铁水汇聚成一滩,迅速冷却凝固,变成一块不规则的铁疙瘩.
罗恩一脚把铁疙瘩踢进角落里的垃圾桶.
火力证据,清零.
然后他走向VIP包厢旁边的办公室.
门锁着.
罗恩伸出食指,指尖渗出一滴岩浆,点在锁芯上.
锁芯熔化,门弹开.
办公室里有一个嵌入墙壁的保险柜.密码锁,六位数.
罗恩没试密码.
他把整只手贴在保险柜门板上,掌下的钢板开始变红,变软,变形.
三秒后,保险柜门板被整块扯下来,扔在地上.
里面是三沓文件和一个硬盘.
罗恩翻开最上面那沓.
资金流水.
金并集团的.
从开曼群岛的壳公司到纽约五家餐厅的洗钱路径,写得清清楚楚.
第二沓是法官受贿协议.
三份.
第一份上面的签名——哈罗德·密克森.
就是今天上午释放莱斯特·米勒的那位"人权守护者".
罗恩把三沓文件和硬盘装进一个公文包,走回大厅.
弗兰克站在吧台旁边,枪已经挂回了肩上.
罗恩把公文包扔给他.
弗兰克单手接住,拉开拉链,翻了两页.
他的喉结滚动了一下.
"见面礼."罗恩说,"上面的名字,够你忙一阵了."
弗兰克抬起头,看了罗恩三秒.
"走."
警笛声已经到了街口.
两人从后门撤离.
地狱厨房的后巷又窄又暗,垃圾箱堆得到处都是.雨没停,但小了很多,变成绵密的毛毛雨.
弗兰克在前面带路.
七拐八拐,穿过两条地下通道和一个废弃的洗衣房,最后钻进一栋报废公寓的地下室.
铁门上有三道锁.弗兰克一道一道打开.
里面是一个武器库.
不大,大概四十平米.
墙上挂满了枪.手枪,步枪,霰弹枪,两把反坦克火箭筒.弹药箱摞了半面墙.角落里有一张行军床,一个煤气灶和半箱罐头.
弗兰克拉开一张折叠桌,从行军床底下抽出一卷地图,摊开.
地狱厨房的街区图.
上面用红笔标注了四十七个点.每个点旁边写着日期和一两个词."毒品""军火""赌场""人口".
罗恩扫了一眼.
"你干了三年,清掉几个?"
弗兰克沉默了一秒.
"十一个."
"清完之后呢?"
弗兰克没答.
他不需要答.
清掉一个,第二天冒出来三个.这话罗恩在夜总会里已经说过了.
罗恩闭上双眼.
见闻色铺开.
感知范围从地下室向外扩散,穿过墙壁,地板,街道,建筑,覆盖整个地狱厨房.
三秒.
他睁开眼,从弗兰克手里拿过红笔,在地图上新添了十九个点.
弗兰克盯着那些新标注的位置,脖子上的青筋跳了一下.
"38街地下停车场,B2层第七个车位后面有暗门."罗恩在其中一个点旁边写了几个字,"军火中转站."
"第九大道和43街交叉口的洗衣店,地下室连着排水管道,通向三个街区外的废弃地铁站."
"那是——"
"毒品加工厂.一天两班倒,每班十二人."
弗兰克的手搭在桌面上,五指收拢又松开.
"你怎么做到的?"
"感知能力."罗恩不打算解释见闻色的原理,"闭着眼能知道八百米内所有人的位置,心跳,武器和情绪波动."
弗兰克的呼吸停了一拍.
罗恩没给他消化的时间.
他从系统面板中调出海军军衔体系.
一块半透明的光屏浮现在折叠桌上方,只有罗恩和他指定的人能看到.
组织架构图从上到下排列.
元帅.大将.中将.少将.准将.上校.中校...一直排到列兵.
弗兰克盯着那块光屏,五秒没眨眼.
"这是什么?"
"一支军队的骨架."罗恩说,"不是一个人的复仇,是一个有纪律,有编制,有层级的制裁体系.每一层都有明确的职责和权限."
他指了指"准将"的位置.
"你弗兰克·卡索,如果加入,起始军衔——准将."
弗兰克盯着光屏又看了三秒,嗤了一声.
"你一个人当司令?手底下就我一个兵?"
罗恩不以为意.
"所有帝国都是从两个人开始的."
他伸出右手,摊开.
武装色从指尖蔓延至整条手臂,黑色的光泽贴着皮肤流转.
"接受的话,你会得到远超凡人的力量.不是变异,不是药物,不是手术.是你自己意志的具现."
弗兰克低头看着那只手.
三秒前它能喷出毁灭一切的岩浆.
现在安安静静地悬在半空.
弗兰克想到了中央公园.
子弹穿过玛丽亚后背的那个瞬间,他距离她只有三米.
三米.
他什么都没拦住.
他握上了罗恩的手.
系统提示在罗恩视野左侧弹出.
[授予弗兰克·卡索军衔:海军准将.]
[霸气种子植入中...武装色·入门级别,完成.]
[配发正义披风（准将规格）.]
弗兰克的后背忽然一沉.
一件白色的披风凭空出现,搭在他的双肩上.
披风的布料不是棉也不是化纤,触感冰凉,重量却不大.背面从上到下写着两个字——"正义".
披风贴合着弗兰克的肩线,不下滑,不飘动.
弗兰克伸手扯了扯.扯不动.
"什么材质?"
"不重要."罗恩说,"试试拳头."
弗兰克转身,看了一眼武器库里的铁柱——支撑地下室天花板的工字钢.
他收回右拳.
指节表面流过一层极薄的黑色光泽,那层光泽沿着拳面扩散到整个拳头.
弗兰克没有犹豫.
一拳砸上去.
工字钢的表面塌陷了一个拳头大小的凹坑,钢材向内弯折,铆钉崩飞出去,弹在墙上叮当作响.
弗兰克低头看自己的拳头.
没有红肿.没有破皮.连指甲都完好无损.
他又砸了一拳.
工字钢弯成三十度.
"这只是开始."罗恩说,"等我完成下一个任务,你还能得到更强的东西."
弗兰克看着自己的拳头,又看了看肩上那件不肯掉落的白色披风.
他的嘴角动了一下.
不是冷笑.
凌晨四点.
罗恩回到自己在地狱厨房的公寓.
浴室里,热水冲在肩背上.他靠着墙壁,调出系统面板.
[赤犬模板同步率:20%]
[正义值:700/2000]
[推进城第一层:关押人数1/100（莱斯特·米勒,持续产出罪恶值中）]
[武装色霸气熟练度:137/1000]
[见闻色霸气熟练度:89/1000]
系统弹出新任务.
[任务:清剿地狱厨房暗网]
[在72小时内摧毁金并在地狱厨房的三大核心产业链——毒品加工厂,军火仓库,洗钱前台公司.]
[奖励:正义值2000,推进城容量扩展至200人,解锁恶魔果实熔炉·初级功能.]
罗恩盯着"恶魔果实熔炉"四个字.
如果他没记错,这个功能意味着他可以自己制造恶魔果实.
弗兰克需要一颗.
72小时.三天.
够了.
他关掉水龙头,拿毛巾擦头发.
系统忽然弹出一条红色警告.
[警告:检测到异常关注.]
[S.H.I.E.L.D.军事卫星已锁定"伊甸园"夜总会事发坐标.]
[关注等级:中.]
[关注者:尼克·弗瑞.]
罗恩擦头发的手停了一秒.
然后继续擦.
神盾局.
早晚的事.
他把毛巾挂回架子上,走进卧室,拉开窗帘.
地狱厨房的天际线灰蒙蒙的,雨停了,云层底部被楼顶的灯光染成脏橙色.
三万英尺高空.
神盾局天空母舰的指挥中心里,尼克·弗瑞站在全息屏幕前.
屏幕上反复播放着卫星热成像画面.
一个人形热源在"伊甸园"夜总会内部移动.核心温度1200摄氏度.
但热源周围存在多个精确的低温区域——每一个低温区的位置都恰好对应一个平民的坐标.
弗瑞用单指在屏幕上划了一下,放大.
热源穿过十二个武装人员中间,没有一个平民热信号消失或出现温度骤变.
精准控制.
不是失控的变异能力,不是粗暴的魔法释放,不是已知的任何科技手段.
弗瑞把画面定格在热源最亮的那一帧.
然后他拿起桌上的加密电话,拨了一个号.
"娜塔莎."
电话那头安静了两秒.
"去地狱厨房."
三个街区外的教堂里,马修·默多克跪在十字架下方.
他的超级听觉还在回放两小时前的一切.
金属熔化的嘶鸣.惨叫.一个男人的身体被地板吞噬前最后的哀嚎.
还有那个词.
"秩序."
马修的右手搭在额头上,指尖抵着太阳穴.
他分不清那个"熔岩人"到底是什么.
但有一件事他确定.
他的城市里,来了一个比他更危险的人.
教堂的木门被风推开了一条缝.
冷风灌进来,烛火摇了摇.
马修站起身,摸到了挂在墙上的那根红色棍子.