[Marvel : The God Of Punishment] Chapter 31 - 35

Chapter 31: Royal Blood Ascension

Frost wanted to unleash a torrent of curses, but the growing discomfort spreading through his body filled him with mounting terror.

Seizing the moment, Blade launched a barrage of syringes in rapid succession, each one finding its mark in Frost's flesh.

As the vampire lord stood paralyzed, Jason quickly moved to Blade's side and hurled every remaining vial of anticoagulant. Not taking any chances, he drew his pistols and emptied two entire magazines into Frost's head and heart.

Frost's body began swelling like a grotesque balloon, expanding to impossible proportions before finally erupting with a sickening explosion. Blood and viscera splattered across the chamber, marking the end of his reign.

Jason exhaled with relief. That bastard was tougher than I expected.

A notification chimed in his mind:

[Mission updated. You may check your status.]

God bless—I got the kill credit!

He immediately accessed his system interface.

[Side Mission: Kill the vampire has been completed.
Target has been upgraded, triggering special rewards.
Extracting...
Congratulations on obtaining the source of advancement: Power of the La Magra.
System purification complete, bloodline obtained: Primary Royal Blood (can be fused)]

Jason's breath caught in his throat. A new bloodline! After quickly reviewing the details of Royal Blood, he decisively chose to fuse it with his existing attributes.

This was a high-tier vampire bloodline that transcended the three common weaknesses—sunlight, garlic, and silver. The Royal Blood would grant him physical capabilities far beyond human limitations.

Moreover, as a bearer of Royal Blood, he would command instinctive reverence from other vampires. Even pure-blood elders would feel a natural deference in his presence.

The Primary Royal Blood immediately granted him two abilities: [Blood Slave] and [Daywalker Blood].

Like other vampires, he could now transform humans into vampire. However, any vampire he created would become his Blood Slave—utterly loyal and incapable of disobeying his commands.

The [Daywalker Blood] ability allowed him to evolve his Blood Slaves, enhancing their physical attributes while eliminating the traditional vampire weaknesses. This power came from the essence produced by his unique bloodline, though its quantity was limited.

Jason sighed with satisfaction, then opened all the Iron and Bronze gift packages he had accumulated from dispatching Frost's minions, allocating the points to enhance his attributes.

[Name: Jason
Age: 22 years old
Bloodline: Primary Royal Blood: Blood Slaves, Daywalker Blood
Status: Normal
Power: 61
Speed: 76
Defense: 40
Constitution: 82
Will: 45
Skills: Combat Master, Pistol Master, Trap Proficiency, Swimming Proficiency, Basketball Proficiency, Assault Rifle Proficiency, Diving Proficiency, Sniper Proficiency, Singing and Dancing Proficiency, Helicopter Pilot Proficiency
Abilities: Night Vision, Compound Eyes, Dragon Chi: Burst, Infrared Vision, Electrokinesis
Items: None
Instance: Locked
Alternate Universe: Locked
Main task: Those who are guilty must be punished
Iron-tier target: 24/29
Bronze-tier Target: 19/29
Silver-tier target: 0/3
Latest mission: Gold Hunt
Gold-tier target: 0/1
Creed: Kill to gain redemption]

The La Magra's power had been significantly diluted through the system's purification process, which removed the corrupting elements while preserving the core enhancements. Even in this reduced form, the transformation was revolutionary.

His strength now approached that of a small vehicle—capable of lifting nearly a ton. His speed had increased dramatically, allowing him to sprint at nearly thirty meters per second. While his regenerative abilities hadn't quite reached the immortal levels of Wolverine or Deadpool, standard gunshot wounds and lacerations would heal overnight. Even severed limbs would regenerate without issue.

He had officially transcended human limitations.

In high spirits, Jason clapped Blade on the shoulder. "What's your next move? Your base is destroyed, Whistler's badly injured, and you've got a complicated maternal situation on your hands. Why not join forces with me?"

Blade studied him skeptically. "Join you? What exactly would you want me to do?"

Jason shrugged casually. "Nothing specific. Consider it more of a partnership than employment. We watch each other's backs. You hunt your vampires, I dispense my brand of justice, and when something major comes up, we face it together."

After contemplating this proposition, Blade nodded slowly, then gazed toward the ceiling with a troubled expression. "That woman... you didn't kill her?"

"Of course not. If anyone's going to make that call, it should be you," Jason replied. "Don't worry—I'll help you talk to her. Persuasion is one of my specialties. She'll listen to reason."

Jason handed Blade the keys to a remote dock he had rented. The spacious facility seemed perfect for someone accustomed to living in abandoned shipyards. After minor renovations, the living quarters proved quite comfortable.

Blade's mother, Vanessa, proved surprisingly receptive to Jason's persuasion. She now resided with her son, attempting to bridge decades of absence.

Faced with this belated maternal affection, Blade was understandably conflicted.

When Whistler recovered enough to relocate to the dock, he arrived with deep suspicions. He worried constantly that Blade might succumb to Vanessa's influence and become a pawn of the vampires.

To his relief, after several weeks of observation, Whistler detected no manipulation in Vanessa's behavior—though his vigilance never fully subsided.

Blade's routine transformed dramatically. His nights were spent hunting vampires alongside Jason, but he would return home to warm meals infused with maternal care. Between these poles of his existence, Whistler provided gruff guidance and fatherly concern, attempting to maintain balance in the daywalker's life.

Jason visited occasionally and found the entire situation surreal. Who would believe that the merciless vampire hunter—a man who dispatched enemies without hesitation—now maintained such a cozy domestic homelife? He even kept a dog!

I don't even have time for a pet!

After gathering extensive evidence documenting the vampire underworld, Jason made a tactical decision to temporarily suspend his hunting operations with Blade. The fearsome warrior had been smiling more frequently lately, his transformation increasingly apparent.

Late that night, David's fingers flew across his keyboard with practiced precision.

Before pressing the final key, he turned to Jason with concern etched across his face. "Are you absolutely certain you want to do this? The vampires will never forgive you."

Jason nodded firmly. "After examining all the photos and footage I've collected, don't you think this is necessary?"

David shrugged resignedly. "Well, God help us. Let's hope nobody traces this back to us."

"You're a world-class hacker. Are you seriously worried about being tracked?"

David sighed heavily. "To transmit these files securely, I've implemented eight distinct security protocols to prevent anyone from tracing us through the network."

Jason smirked. "Why do I get the feeling you're more concerned about this than about concealing my Hell’s Butcher identity?"

"That's completely different," David countered. "Hell’s Butcher only has to worry about the NYPD, local gangs, and maybe some S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance. If someone discovers we're behind this leak? Every vampire on the planet will hunt us for retribution."

Jason considered this sobering reality.

By revealing the existence of vampires to the world, they would be delivering a devastating blow to vampire society. Whatever clandestine arrangements existed between vampires and human authorities would disintegrate in the face of public hysteria and political opportunism.

The vampires would never rest until they found those responsible.

A chill ran down Jason's spine. "Are eight security measures enough? Maybe we should add a couple more?"

David rolled his eyes. "This is already maximum protection. Please don't question the professionalism of the world's top hacker."

Taking a deep breath, he decisively pressed Enter. A progress bar flashed across the screen as the files were uploaded and distributed.

David turned to Jason with a grim expression. "Well, there's no turning back now."

"Let's see what kind of storm tomorrow's news will bring," Jason replied, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension in his voice.

Chapter 32: Vampire Good Friday

At eight o'clock in the morning, New Yorkers followed their daily routines—waking up, washing, and preparing to start their day. Many absently switched on their TVs to catch the morning news while eating breakfast.

It didn't take long for them to realize something was different today. The news anchors were discussing... vampires and werewolves? Was this some kind of delayed April Fool's joke?

But today was April 10th. April Fool's had long passed.

Viewers changed channels with growing unease, only to discover every news outlet was covering the same story.

On the second floor of Hopewell Sanctuary, Jason and David sat transfixed before the television, watching the Daily Bugle's broadcast. J. Jonah Jameson, the paper's publisher and the station's most bombastic host, was ranting with characteristic fervor.

"This is an absolute disgrace!" Jameson bellowed, his face flushing with indignation. "Our city government, the federal administration, the Pentagon, the White House, and the Senate have deliberately deceived the American people!"

"They've concealed the existence of vampires from us! Look at these photographs and footage—these are literal demons feeding on human blood! I demand answers from our elected officials and our esteemed President Darius Freeman. How could this happen? How dare you keep your citizens so dangerously uninformed?"

"Are we living in the United States of America or the Soviet Union?"

After his tirade, Jameson wiped his mouth with visible disgust, preparing to launch into another diatribe when his attention shifted. An assistant rushed onto the set with obvious anxiety, leaning in to whisper urgently in Jameson's ear.

David observed the scene with a cold laugh. "The government's response time is impressive."

Jason shook his head. "They can't suppress this. It's literally life and death. Nobody wants to be going about their business only to have their blood suck out by a vampire. Didn't you emphasize that point in the materials we released?"

"I certainly did," David replied with a grin. "I featured several such cases from the evidence you collected. As they say in your native country, 'One minute you're enjoying hotpot and singing karaoke, the next a vampire is ripping out your jugular!' Even the media executives must be terrified by the thought of vampires lurking everywhere."

While they spoke, Jameson's expression on screen had grown increasingly troubled. He appeared to be wrestling with an impossible decision.

"My dear viewers," he began, his voice strained, "I... I..." He paused dramatically. "Ah, to hell with it! Just disregard everything I've said. There are no such things as vampires in this world!"

Despite his words, Jameson's eyes had reddened noticeably, his body trembling slightly—the very picture of a man suffering profound injustice.

"What the hell is he doing?" David exclaimed.

Jason leaned forward, intrigued. "Is he... acting?"

David's eyes widened. "Has he had a change of heart? Is he actually going to defy government pressure?"

"No way... he doesn't have that kind of backbone."

On screen, Jameson continued his performance of wounded integrity: "Rest assured, everyone, you won't be ambushed and drained by vampires in dark alleys on your way home. You won't be sacrificed at glamorous parties as refreshments for vampire revelries."

His voice cracked with emotion. "And I certainly won't be threatened by mysterious forces who promise to shut down the Daily Bugle unless I retract my statements about vampires!"

Tears welled in his eyes, giving him the appearance of someone valiantly resisting powerful oppression.

The audience could easily deduce the identity of these "mysterious forces," now nakedly exposed before the public.

A collective thought crystallized in viewers' minds: The Daily Bugle truly is the last bastion of journalistic integrity!

David turned to Jason. "Be honest—did you secretly bribe him?"

"Don't be ridiculous. How much money would it take to get a performance like that?"

"So he wrote and directed this all by himself?"

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Is it too late to buy Daily Bugle shares?"

David tapped a few keys on his laptop and snorted. "Far too late. The stock is already soaring."

"No matter. Whatever his motivation, he's serving our purpose beautifully."

Jason stood and walked to the balcony, gazing out over Hell's Kitchen. "Let the news simmer for a few days. Then all those who've targeted me will reap what they've sown."

David swallowed nervously. Only he understood that this wasn't just a prediction—it was a declaration of war.

At noon, Jason was leisurely tending to the overgrown plants in the church's back garden.

His enhanced senses detected an approaching presence. Without looking up, he continued his gardening.

After a moment, a confident male voice broke the silence: "Well, what do we have here? The legendary Iron Man is actually a humble priest. You're full of surprises."

Jason raised his head to find Tony Stark regarding him with characteristic swagger. He offered a benevolent smile. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stark. Would you care for some tea?"

Stark's expression cooled. "You don't seem surprised by my arrival."

"On the contrary, I've been expecting you."

Jason maintained his composed exterior, but internally he was cursing. How the hell did he find this place?

"Aren't you curious how I tracked you down?" Stark asked, as if reading his thoughts.

By now, Jason had led him to the small chapel. He gestured toward the crucifix. "I know. You're here under divine guidance."

Stark narrowed his eyes. This guy was a complete smartass the last time we met. Now he's playing holy man?

Jason pivoted unexpectedly: "I heard Stark Industries participated in the Defense Department's missile contract bidding recently. You were successful, I assume?"

"What?" Stark looked momentarily confused. "You're interested in defense contracts?"

"When are you scheduled to visit Afghanistan?"

"How did you—" Stark's composure faltered. The bidding information was public knowledge, but his upcoming trip to Afghanistan for weapons demonstrations remained classified.

Jason pressed further: "Have you considered abandoning weapons research altogether? Contributing to global peace instead of enabling more efficient killing?"

Stark was thoroughly disconcerted. What game is he playing?

Sensing he'd seized control of the conversation, Jason smiled. "What brings you here today, Tony Stark?"

After a brief silence, Stark gathered himself. Originally, he'd intended to confront this mysterious figure about their previous encounter. But now his curiosity had been redirected.

"I want to know who you really are," he demanded. "You, that imposing man in the leather jacket with his shotgun, and Marcus Van Sciver from the party—who are you people?"

Jason's smile never wavered. "Marcus was a pure-blood vampire elder. Blade is a vampire hunter. And I am dedicated to the cause of justice, fighting resolutely against all forms of evil."

"Like Daredevil?"

"My methods are considerably cleaner and more efficient than his."

"So you're all... enhanced individuals?"

"Each of us has unique circumstances. Our only commonality is our commitment to punishing evil and promoting good." Jason took a step closer, meeting Stark's gaze directly. "Tell me, Tony, why not ask if you can join our ranks? Contribute your considerable talents to humanity and world peace?"

Stark appeared momentarily stunned before his trademark arrogance resurfaced. "I'm not interested in your vigilante fantasies. I can't imagine spending my nights in a leather mask, sweating through the streets, dispensing so-called justice—only to drag myself to work the next morning."

Jason laughed softly. "Are you certain that's how you truly feel, deep down?"

His voice took on a more penetrating quality. "Stark, you possess the most brilliant mind on the planet, yet you live the emptiest existence imaginable. When you're old and reflecting on your life, you'll realize you've made no more impact than the homeless beggar on the corner. The world will forget you because you never truly changed it. When you die, that's the end—nothing remains. Is that what you want, Tony Stark?"

Chapter 33: The Second Generation

Tony Stark had never considered himself easily swayed by others' opinions.

Yet Jason's words had struck a chord deep within him. He'd originally planned a romantic evening with the twin Penthouse cover models, but suddenly found himself completely disinterested in the prospect.

He stared at Jason intently. "You want me to join you?"

Jason regarded him silently for a long moment before his lips curved into a subtle smile. "I'm sorry, but we're not currently recruiting unqualified personnel. However, we can accept your contribution in another form."

The phrase "unqualified personnel" sparked a flicker of anger in Stark's eyes, but curiosity quickly overshadowed his indignation. "What form?"

"Money," Jason replied simply. "Lots of money."

Stark gritted his teeth. How could I—the most brilliant mind on the planet—be worth less than mere cash? The thought was profoundly irritating.

With a theatrical display of offense, he raised his middle finger at Jason and turned to leave. "What a dump. Did you honestly think I'd want to join you here? I make several million dollars per minute. Playing superhero with you guys? Can you even afford me?"

Jason remained completely unfazed by the outburst as he escorted Stark to the door. "When you truly understand what I've said today, Stark, you'll become the hero you're meant to be."

His only response was the roar of a sports car engine and another raised middle finger as Stark sped away.

Jason shrugged as he watched Stark's departure. The guy's about to head to Afghanistan, where his life will change forever. How could I possibly alter that trajectory now?

Besides, without the months of brutal captivity in that cave, would the Iron Man born from Stark's brilliance and desperation still be the same hero the world needed?

A sudden thought occurred to Jason—he needed to find an opportunity to pass the "Iron Man" name to Stark. That way, Jason would be the first Iron Man, and Stark merely the second generation.

Better yet, I could make the wealthy Stark buy the name from me. If he refuses, I'll convince Jameson at the Daily Bugle to call him "The Human Can" on national television!

The vampire community had fallen into unprecedented chaos.

After several days of continuous media coverage, tens of millions of Americans took to the streets in protest. The entire country teetered on the edge of paralysis until the President finally addressed the situation.

He declared all vampires illegal within United States territory and established a specialized agency: the Vampire Removal Unit. The White House released the official "Vampire Hunting Manual" and began equipping police departments nationwide with anti-vampire weaponry.

These measures triggered a wave of vampire hunting across America. Much like Indian scalps had once been exchanged for government bounties in America's darker past, vampire fangs became valuable currency on the black market.

Vampire hunting evolved into the trendiest recreational activity among certain youth demographics.

Under these circumstances, vampires with obvious weaknesses suffered devastating losses. Those who survived retreated deeper into the shadows.

Jason and David monitored the situation closely, satisfied with the results. Public attention had been effectively diverted from "Hell’s Butcher," allowing Jason to prioritize his revenge against the Hell's Kitchen gangs.

It was during this period that an unexpected visitor arrived at the church—Wesley Gibson, the man whose life had been crushed by misfortune and mediocrity.

His eyes reflected profound confusion as he entered, hands clasped tightly together as if protecting something precious. Upon reaching Hopewell Sanctuary, he sat silently on a bench, unresponsive until Jason approached him.

Jason frowned with concern. "Wesley, what's wrong?"

Wesley had visited several times since their first meeting, with Jason providing heartfelt guidance and encouragement on each occasion. To Wesley, who had been mercilessly battered by life's cruelties, Jason had become nothing less than a spiritual mentor.

Wesley extended his clasped hands toward Jason and slowly opened them, revealing two flies with their wings torn off. They writhed feebly, nearly dead from his tight grip during the journey.

"Father, the change you predicted has already happened. You couldn't possibly imagine what I've discovered!" Wesley's voice trembled with excitement. "I... I shot the wings off flies!"

Jason paused, recognizing that the predicted storyline was unfolding. The Fraternity—a secret society of assassins—received targets through coded messages in fabric woven by a mystical loom. These names represented individuals destined to commit terrible acts, allowing the Fraternity to maintain world order through preemptive elimination.

But the current Fraternity leader, Sloan, had fallen from grace, consumed by greed for money and power. He had begun exploiting the organization's elite killers for personal profit.

Wesley's father, Cross, had discovered this corruption, prompting Sloan to silence him. When Cross proved too formidable to eliminate directly, Sloan's attention turned to Wesley himself. His plan: train Wesley and manipulate him into killing his own father.

Jason placed a reassuring hand on Wesley's shoulder. "Did you meet some interesting people today?"

"Yes, there was a big boss, a beautiful woman, and... others."

"What did you think of them?"

Wesley's excitement calmed slightly. He raised his head with newfound determination. "My life is complete shit. They're offering me something different—I want to try it."

Jason shrugged casually. "Then go ahead and try."

Wesley fell silent, confused by Jason's easy acquiescence. In their previous conversations, Jason had repeatedly cautioned against making hasty decisions. Why wasn't he trying to dissuade him now?

Jason smiled knowingly. "I'm encouraging you to learn from them. They'll train you to become an elite assassin. But when they assign you a mission, come see me first—especially when they ask you to avenge your father's death."

Wesley's eyes widened with shock. "Avenge my father's death? What do you mean?"

Jason shook his head solemnly, gesturing toward the crucifix behind him. "Destiny cannot be predicted with certainty, but God has revealed the path to salvation. When you return here next, everything will become clear to you."

Jason's campaign of vengeance had officially begun.

His recent investigations had identified six major criminal organizations responsible for issuing the bounty on Hell’s Butcher: the Russian Mafia, Algerian Mafia, Gambino Family, Irish Mob, Kingpin, and the shadowy ninja clan known as The Hand.

That night, with David's technical assistance, Jason infiltrated a luxurious estate in New Jersey, situated near the Hudson River directly across from Manhattan. In stark contrast to Manhattan's dazzling lights and ostentatious displays of wealth, this neighborhood maintained a deliberately low profile.

This was the domain of the Gambino Family—a powerful Mafia organization that had contributed $800,000 to the bounty on Hell’s Butcher, along with over a dozen gunmen. Their primary enterprise involved arms trafficking; they had supplied the RPG that nearly killed Jason during that fateful confrontation.

As Jason penetrated the estate's defenses, he moved with lethal precision and supernatural speed. Each guard fell before they could even register his presence, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

When he reached the main building, the lights remained dimmed. However, his infrared vision easily penetrated the walls, revealing several armed figures concealed behind the structure's various partitions.

Jason replaced his standard sidearm with a custom weapon specially modified by Whistler. Though classified as a handgun, it more closely resembled a compact cannon—featuring single-shot loading, a 20mm caliber, double-charge capacity, and specialized spiral armor-piercing rounds. The recoil would shatter an ordinary person's wrist.

Jason had named it "The Executioner."

BOOM!

The first round tore through the concrete wall as if it were paper, obliterating the head of the figure hiding behind it.

Nine shots later, the Gambino Family had been erased from existence.

The few servants cowering in the staff quarters heard only muffled gunfire and footsteps before silence descended once more. When police later questioned them, they appeared genuinely bewildered, their knowledge of the events even more limited than the investigators'.

News of the massacre quickly reached Commissioner George Stacy, who harbored growing suspicions that Hell’s Butcher had returned. But glancing at the mountain of paperwork on his desk—all related to the vampire crisis—he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and handed the file back to his subordinates.

"Handle it discreetly," he instructed.

Afterward, he returned to the vampire-related cases consuming the department's resources.

These government officials concealed the existence of vampires to protect their own interests, he thought bitterly. Now that public outrage has erupted, why are we—the police—the ones bearing the consequences?

What a farce.

Chapter 34: The Day of Reckoning

While Commissioner George Stacy fumed through overtime shifts, Hell's Kitchen's criminal underworld received word of the Gambino family massacre.

In a luxurious office sequestered behind heavy curtains, Wilson Fisk—the Kingpin—conducted an urgent conference call with the remaining crime lords.

"Gentlemen, I can confirm with absolute certainty that it was HIM. If we continue to operate independently, he'll pick us off one by one," Kingpin's voice resonated with controlled fury. "I propose we unite our resources and eliminate this threat once and for all."

An elderly woman's voice crackled through the line. "I concur with Kingpin. This 'Hell’s Butcher' may be more formidable than we initially assessed."

"And how exactly do you propose we kill him?" another voice challenged.

Kingpin paused deliberately. "I previously assembled a hunting team that failed. This time, we require superior resources—more professional assassins, greater numbers, and a flawless strategy." His voice dropped to a menacing rumble. "Furthermore, I will personally oversee the operation on-site."

A pregnant silence followed before someone finally asked, "Are you certain that's wise?"

"I intend to confront this man face-to-face," Kingpin declared.

The proposal received unanimous approval.

The elderly woman spoke again. "What's the first phase of your plan?"

Kingpin's lips curved into a calculating smile. "First, we allow him to continue his revenge—unchallenged."

Jason's campaign of vengeance proceeded smoothly.

After dismantling the Gambino family, he delivered devastating blows to both the Algerian and Irish criminal organizations.

Now he stood atop a high-rise, surveying his next target. Earlier that day, David had discovered that the Lanska brothers—key figures in the Russian mafia—might appear at the bar below.

The brothers presented a unique challenge, not because of their combat prowess but their exceptional talent for evading detection. The same could be said for Jason's remaining targets. Kingpin, in particular, had not only escaped but had also abducted Vanessa—an unforgivable transgression.

Jason's mind buzzed with elaborate scenarios for retribution, though he had no one with whom to share these creative impulses.

Two inebriated figures soon emerged from the bar entrance, each accompanied by an elaborately made-up woman. They staggered toward a vehicle parked along the street.

Jason focused his concentration, and the scene before him transformed instantly.

His vision zoomed with preternatural clarity, bringing the distant figures into sharp focus. The familiar faces of the Lanska brothers appeared as if merely feet away—every detail visible, down to their unshaven stubble.

This was a new ability Jason had developed in recent days: Eagle Eyes. Simply put, it granted him extraordinary long-range vision. Even targets as small as rabbits or mice could be clearly discerned from distances of several kilometers.

Combined with his other enhanced senses, this ability flooded his mind with vast quantities of visual information whenever he surveyed his surroundings. After his attribute increase, he had allocated five points to his will attribute to better process this sensory influx.

He still had five attribute points in reserve. The healing effect triggered when allocating points could prove valuable in emergency situations.

Below, the Lanska brothers approached their car, women in tow.

David's voice crackled through Jason's earpiece. "You'd better take them down now. That beat-up pickup truck of yours won't keep pace with their Cadillac."

"I want to track them to their hideout," Jason replied.

"Don't worry. Without these two moderately intelligent bosses, those brutish Russian foot soldiers won't be able to conceal themselves effectively."

"Fair point."

Jason raised his rifle, took aim, and fired two rapid shots.

The bullets should have struck both brothers squarely in the chest, but at the critical moment, the shorter brother stumbled unexpectedly.

The bullet whizzed past his head.

A scream pierced the night. As the shorter Lanska turned, he witnessed a bright crimson fountain erupting from his brother's chest.

Little Lanska's heart seized with terror. Recognizing the imminent danger, he acted without hesitation, diving through the open car door.

BOOM!

A thunderous impact resonated from the car's roof.

BANG! BANG!

The bullets failed to penetrate—the vehicle was armored.

"Drive! NOW!" Little Lanska roared, his gaze fixed on his brother sprawled in a widening pool of blood on the asphalt. Big Lanska's eyes locked with his, the blue irises shifting slightly as if struggling to communicate one last message.

But blood spilled over his lips and teeth, and the familiar eyes gradually dimmed.

SCREECH!

The tires violently gripped the road, releasing clouds of blue smoke that momentarily obscured visibility.

In the next instant, the Cadillac lurched forward, carrying Little Lanska away from the scene.

From his vantage point, Jason adjusted his aim for the tires. BANG!

The car briefly lost control before stabilizing, though its speed diminished significantly.

Jason stowed his sniper rifle with a bemused expression. Lucky bastard.

But at that reduced speed, can you really outrun my old pickup?

A frenetic chase erupted along the city streets.

Jason's ancient pickup truck roared to eighty miles per hour, maintaining pace with the compromised Cadillac. He drew his sidearm and fired repeatedly, each impact leaving ghostly white craters across the luxury car's windows.

Under normal circumstances, with his master-level pistol skill, he could concentrate fire on a single point to eventually overcome the bulletproof glass. However, the pickup's poor suspension caused severe vibration, hampering his accuracy.

The situation called for "The Executioner."

Little Lanska noticed the weapon upgrade and screamed at his driver: "EVADE!"

BOOM!

The Cadillac's reinforced rear window finally surrendered to the impact, a gaping hole torn through the material.

However, Little Lanska had anticipated the shot, dropping low with his hands protecting his head. His foresight saved his life.

As Jason prepared to fire again, the Cadillac abruptly veered directly toward him.

Shit!

Though Jason possessed exceptional combat skills, his driving abilities were considerably less refined. According to the system's rating, his driving proficiency was mediocre at best.

The Lanska driver's skill clearly surpassed his own. Moreover, Jason genuinely feared that his decrepit pickup would disintegrate upon impact, forcing him to retreat.

Still, the Cadillac's damaged wheel prevented it from building sufficient speed to escape the pursuit.

As Little Lanska's anxiety peaked, his phone rang.

The voice on the line was immediately recognizable—Kingpin.

"If you wish to survive, follow my instructions precisely."

After the brief conversation, Little Lanska's expression darkened considerably.

Kingpin had revealed that a trap had been prepared, instructing him to lure his pursuer to the designated location.

Little Lanska suddenly recalled how one of his lieutenants had been uncharacteristically insistent about going out that evening after days of confinement. The brothers had relented, bringing their entourage for an evening of recreation.

The realization crashed over him—I've been used as bait.

Murderous rage surged through him, but he recognized his powerlessness in the moment.

With a resigned sigh, he instructed his driver, "Turn right at the next intersection. We have a new destination."

Shortly thereafter, the Cadillac descended into the underground parking facility of a nondescript building.

Jason followed, but quickly lost visual contact within the labyrinthine garage.

His communication with David had also been severed.

Damn it! Should have invested in that Ferrari after all.

Suddenly, a voice echoed through the empty concrete structure: "Welcome, Hell’s Butcher."

Jason located the source—a speaker mounted near a surveillance camera.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "You've got the wrong guy. I'm the new hero, Iron Man. I know the vigilante you're referring to—handsome and formidable as he is—but that's not me."

"Ha ha ha..." A deep, familiar laugh resonated through the speaker. "You might fool those incompetent police officers, but you can't deceive me, Hell’s Butcher."

Kingpin.

Jason remained silent for a moment, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. Finally, he smiled coldly. "So you've become just another coward hiding behind a computer screen, Wilson Grant Fisk? Face me directly if you have the courage, you miserable bastard!"

Chapter 35: A Gallery of Killers

Kingpin's laughter echoed through the speakers, reverberating off the concrete walls of the parking garage.

"Oh, I'll face you—when your face is being peeled from your skull!"

As the final word faded, Jason detected subtle movements behind him. His enhanced senses immediately registered multiple shadowy figures emerging from the darkened corners.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A storm of gunfire erupted, bullets cutting through the air where he had stood only milliseconds earlier. Jason's form dissolved into a blur of motion as he wove through the underground parking structure.

Despite being surrounded, he moved with absolute confidence. His figure darted like wind incarnate, sweeping from south to north, east to west. When he finally reappeared before the surveillance camera, the metallic patter of spent Glock casings had barely finished echoing through the space.

"Is this truly the best you can offer, Kingpin?"

"Hardly," Kingpin's voice oozed satisfaction. "Seventh floor. Come and find me."

Jason glanced toward the stairwell entrance with a smirk. "Do you honestly believe I'd walk into such an obvious trap? I am the hunter, and you are the target. What makes you think you can dictate terms to me?"

"So... you're not coming?" The disappointment in Kingpin's voice was palpable.

Jason studied the camera, eyes narrowing in calculation. He realized Kingpin wouldn't allow him to leave so easily—the exits had likely been sealed. If that was the case, he might as well discover what other surprises awaited.

"No, I'm definitely coming," Jason declared with predatory enthusiasm. "I simply enjoy the sensation of the hunt too much to resist."

Gripping his pistols firmly, he kicked open the stairwell's iron door.

BOOM!

A massive concussive wave slammed into him—an invisible wall offering no opportunity for evasion. Hurled backward through the air, Jason glimpsed a horn-shaped device mounted just inside the doorway, activated the instant he breached the threshold.

Kingpin's gleeful voice filled the space once more: "Hahaha! What, you didn't detect that little toy?"

Jason twisted mid-flight, managing a semi-controlled landing despite the disorientation. The powerful shock wave had left his internal organs churning with discomfort.

"You're still light-years from killing me," he taunted.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than several precisely aimed shots forced him into evasive action.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Multiple footsteps approached rapidly. A silver flash registered in his peripheral vision.

Before he could fully process the threat, a crimson blur materialized beside him—a graceful yet robust woman in red, wielding a silver weapon that thrust forward with lethal precision.

Master-level fighter!

The thought registered even as Jason twisted away from the strike. But the danger wasn't isolated. Behind him, two suited figures advanced with identical sword techniques of astonishing skill.

In desperation, Jason blocked an incoming blade with the Glock in his right hand. The reinforced steel barrel separated like butter beneath the impossibly sharp edge.

He retreated through successive waves of attacks, narrowly evading the coordinated assault of four skilled combatants.

When the initial flurry subsided, Jason stood at the center of their formation, surrounded from four directions. A quick assessment confirmed his suspicion—three of the four attackers registered as silver-level target in his system.

In the near distance, Kingpin's imposing figure had materialized, resplendent in a pristine white suit, leaning on an ebony cane. Behind him stood three women and a man in red and blue attire.

This was clearly a trap from the beginning, Jason realized. He wondered how Kingpin had convinced the Russian brothers to act as bait—or, more likely, how thoroughly he had betrayed them.

Jason calmly drew the twin daggers from his belt, voice measured and controlled. "Kingpin, during our last encounter, you sent four assassins after me. I eliminated three. It seems you've learned your lesson—bringing a small army this time."

An indignant voice piped up from nearby. "Hey, I'm a celebrity in certain circles! Don't lump me in with those generic killers. My rates are astronomical!"

The speaker continued with theatrical offense. "It was absolute negligence that Mr. Fisk didn't contract me last time. I'm going to end you today, Hell’s Butcher. Though I should thank you—it's people like you who keep me employed. Honestly, the mercenary business has gotten so competitive lately..."

"Silence, Wade!" Kingpin barked.

"Whatever you say, Big Daddy!" the mercenary acquiesced cheerfully.

Jason studied the chattering man—handsome in a roguish way, armed with dual swords, and possessing an apparent inability to stop talking.

"Wade Wilson?" Jason inquired.

The dual-wielding mercenary's eyes lit up with delight. "He knows me! See? I told you I was famous!"

Wade pivoted toward the woman in red. "Hey, Elektra, I wasn't kidding before. Want to discuss sword techniques later? My girlfriend's out of town tonight. We could explore some... alternative positions..."

"ENOUGH!" Kingpin roared. "If you expect payment, shut your mouth. NOW."

Wade shrugged dramatically, pantomiming zipping his lips.

Jason noted that, currently, Wilson was merely a human mercenary—the only bronze-level target among the four surrounding him. He hadn't yet undergone the transformation that would turn him into the regenerating nightmare known as Deadpool.

Jason shifted his attention to the woman in red holding twin sai. "You're Elektra?"

"You know me?" Her voice carried both curiosity and warning.

Jason allowed his gaze to linger appreciatively on her athletic form. "I find you... fascinating."

He then addressed Kingpin with calculated nonchalance. "You've clearly invested considerable resources in this operation. Since some of us may not survive this encounter, perhaps introductions are in order?"

"Ha ha ha..." Kingpin's face contorted with mockery. "What's this? You want to know your executioners? Are you frightened?"

"Not at all," Jason replied coolly. "I simply recalled that when I commission your headstone, I'll need to know what name to engrave."

"Ha!" A middle-aged man behind Jason laughed coldly. "If you survive long enough to try, remember the name Murakami!"

Jason tilted his head slightly. "One of the Five Fingers of the Hand, I presume?"

He had wondered about the man's accented English. Murakami nodded with predatory satisfaction. "Don't concern yourself. You'll be the first to die."

Jason turned to another opponent. "And you are?"

"Sowande," came the curt reply.

"Excellent," Jason responded with faux cheerfulness. "You'll be second."

Both were silver-level targets, possessing not only formidable skill but also the added value of being high-ranking gang leaders.

Jason shifted his attention to those standing behind Kingpin.

"Echo," a woman stated.

"Natalie," offered another.

"The Bride of Nine Spiders," came a third voice.

"Speed Demon," concluded the man in red and blue.

Jason smiled and nodded appreciatively. "You are all enhanced people..."

Wait—Natalie?

His mental calculations stuttered. Gold-level target?

He examined the red-haired woman with an eyepatch more carefully, experiencing a flash of recognition. Her form-fitting tactical suit accentuated a mature, athletic physique exuding both danger and allure.

Since when has S.H.I.E.L.D. collaborated with Kingpin? Could they have dispatched one of their top operatives?

Jason's mind raced back to his recent encounter with Coulson and Clint Barton.

Are those two watching from outside the building right now? Is S.H.I.E.L.D. attempting to use Kingpin as a cat's paw?

Another realization struck him. Black Widow, the system marked you as target? How many lives have you taken in service to S.H.I.E.L.D.? It seems even your bald director can't escape my judgment.

"ENOUGH!" Kingpin's cane struck the concrete floor with thunderous impact. "Hell’s Butcher, you talk far too much. I believe their blades thirst for action."

Jason adjusted his grip on his daggers, settling into a combat stance. "Actually, I'm quite economical with words. I simply enjoy savoring my target's fear before they die. I'm meticulous that way."

"Hahaha! Let's discover who truly has reason to fear!" Kingpin slammed his cane down once more, the sound reverberating like a starting pistol.

Instantly, Jason found himself under assault from all directions. Blades whistled through the air from every angle, their passage creating an otherworldly howl like vengeful spirits.

His trained eye could see that all four primary attackers possessed master-level combat skills—or at minimum, stood at the threshold of such expertise.

Murakami and Sowande clearly possessed physical attributes beyond human norms. Wade hadn't yet transformed into Deadpool, but his physique already approached the upper limits of natural human capability.

Jason realized that without his recently acquired Royal Blood, surviving this encounter would have been nearly impossible.

With that sobering thought, he abandoned all hesitation.

Dragon Chi: Burst! Full power!