24: Chapter 24 Establishing Rules in the Dark: The Absolute Laws of the Courtyard

The next morning. The top floor of Fisk Tower.

The floor-to-ceiling windows that Lynn had torn apart last night had already been replaced overnight with new bulletproof glass. The bits of flesh and bloodstains on the floor had been cleaned away completely, and the air was filled with a faint scent of cigars and disinfectant.

Lynn, dressed in a clean black shirt, sat casually in the large leather executive chair that originally belonged to Kingpin.

Thirteen people stood in front of the wide office desk.

They were the leaders of the remaining major gangs in Hells Kitchen—the Russian Mafia, the remnants of the Italian Mafia, and the leaders of the Irish Gangs.

These ruthless gang bosses, who usually commanded the wind and rain on the streets of New York, now stood as straight as a group of quails waiting to be slaughtered, cold sweat constantly sliding down their foreheads.

Standing expressionlessly at the doorway behind them was Frank Castle, wearing his signature skull tactical trench coat. Hanging on the outside of his thigh was that dark red Ion Laser Gun.

“Kingpin is dead. The Hand has also been wiped out.”

Lynn’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk, making a crisp 'clack, clack' sound. To the ears of those gang bosses, this sound was like a countdown from the God of Death.

“From today onwards, Hells Kitchen has a new Master. The Crimson Court is taking over everything here.” Lynn’s voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of absolute, unquestionable power.

The room was deathly silent. No one dared to breathe heavily.

A few seconds later, a burly Russian gang leader with a fleshy face gritted his teeth and mustered the courage to take a step forward.

“We are glad Kingpin is dead. But Hells Kitchen has its own rules.”

The Russian leader looked at Lynn, who was sitting in the chair, trying to regain some of his confidence as a boss. “You alone can't swallow such a big pie. Everyone is out here to make money. We can pay protection fees according to Kingpin's rules, but you can't just swallow us all...”

“Swoosh—!”

An extremely piercing hum suddenly rang out, and a faint blue high-energy beam instantly shot across the entire office.

The Russian leader's words came to a screeching halt.

Everything above his neck had vanished into thin air.

Not even a drop of blood flowed out; his entire head had been instantly vaporized by thousands of degrees of heat. The headless corpse swayed and hit the carpet with a thud. The stump of his neck was charred black.

Behind them, Frank slowly lowered the Ion Laser Gun in his hand, a wisp of extremely faint smoke rising from the muzzle.

“Thud! Thud!”

The remaining twelve gang leaders were so terrified that their legs went weak. Several of them knelt directly on the ground, their bodies shaking like leaves in the wind.

At the slightest disagreement, he vaporized a head! There was no room for negotiation!

“I am not here to negotiate with you.”

Lynn didn't even glance at the headless corpse on the floor. His fingers stopped tapping, and his cold gaze swept across the room.

“I am only setting three rules.”

“First, starting this month, seventy percent of the profits from all your establishments will be handed over to the Crimson Court.”

“Second, without my permission, you are not allowed to use heavy weaponry in this city, and you are not allowed to touch ordinary civilians.”

“Third, and most importantly.”

Lynn leaned forward, like a tiger looking down on a flock of sheep. “Don’t provoke me.”

“Do you understand?”

“We understand! Boss!”

The twelve gang leaders bowed and bent over in unison, their voices trembling with fear that they might follow in the Russian's footsteps if they were even a second too slow.

“Get out.” Lynn waved his hand.

The gang leaders felt as if they had been granted a grand amnesty, and they scrambled out of the top-floor office.

...

On the street outside Fisk Tower.

Several NYPD patrol cars with flashing lights were parked by the roadside.

Old Captain George Stacy sat in the car, rolled down his window, and stared at the main entrance of the tower with a furrowed brow. He watched as those gang bosses, who were usually arrogant and overbearing, ran out of the building with faces as pale as ash.

“Officer, hundreds of people died here last night. Even Kingpin had his head blown off.”

The young Officer in the passenger seat gripped his sidearm and gritted his teeth. “Are we really just going to sit here and watch? Aren't we going up to make arrests?”

“Arrest them? With what?”

George lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “Just two hours ago, the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. called me personally. Top-secret orders: All NYPD personnel are to stand by; no one is to approach that tower for any reason.”

The young Officer was stunned. “S.H.I.E.L.D.? Are they protecting criminals?!”

“No, they are afraid.”

George exhaled a cloud of smoke, looking at the overcast New York sky. “When even the state machinery chooses to turn a blind eye, it means the existence inside has completely exceeded the constraints of law and firepower. Hells Kitchen has welcomed a true tyrant.”

...

Night fell. Heavy rain once again shrouded Manhattan.

Opposite Fisk Tower, perched on a gargoyle statue of a Gothic building, was a man wearing a dark red, tight-fitting blind man's combat suit.

Daredevil, Matt Murdock.

Even though he was blind, his Super-senses were sharper than anyone's eyes. He was the Guardian of Hells Kitchen in the night.

But at this moment, Matt's body was shaking uncontrollably.

He was listening. He was sensing.

In his World of Super-senses, a terrifying aura that made him feel suffocated was entrenched on the top floor of the Fisk Tower across from him.

That was not a human life field at all.

It was a mixture of tyranny, nuclear radiation, Abyss Magic, and endless slaughter. The thick, nauseating scent of blood crossed the distance of over a hundred meters and pierced Matt's nerves.

“Ugh...”

The intense physical discomfort caused Matt to suddenly grab the stone horn of the gargoyle and retch violently.

He didn't even dare to use his proud super-hearing to carefully capture the heartbeat of the man in the building. Because that dull, thunderous thumping felt like it could shatter his eardrums at any moment.

“Kingpin is dead. But a true demon has arrived.”

Matt wiped the saliva from the corner of his mouth and tightened his grip on his Billy Club (nunchucks).

He was afraid. But his moral compass as a superhero made it impossible for him to tolerate a butcher who viewed human life as grass ruling his neighborhood. If such a monster were allowed to establish such overbearing underworld laws, Hells Kitchen would never know peace.

He took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his instinctive trembling.

He leaped.

Firing a cable, Matt moved through the night like a nimble bat, using the cover of the heavy rain to silently swing toward the top-floor vent of Fisk Tower.

He wanted to meet this tyrant. He had to try to stop this bottomless reign of darkness.

...

Inside the top-floor office of the tower.

Lynn stood quietly by the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a glass of red wine.

After merging Bullseye's [Absolute Precision and Dynamic Vision], his senses were also sharp to the extreme.

The sound of the wind, the trajectory of the raindrops, and the extremely faint sound of someone crawling in the ventilation ducts were all clearly outlined in Lynn's mind.

Lynn tilted his head slightly and glanced at the metal ventilation grille above him.

A trace of cold playfulness flashed in his black eyes.

“A blind man?”

Lynn took a sip of red wine. “How interesting.”