As Wesley escorted John Wick to the recovery chamber for treatment, Smith Dole sat down to examine the documents Fox had delivered.
These files were a summary concerning the twelve seats of the Takadai Shou (High Table). The material was extensive. While it clearly identified which twelve organizations held the seats, both the High Table's headquarters and the headquarters of the twelve factions were still under investigation.
Groups like the Gomorrah and the Mafia were easy to identify, but their actual headquarters were deeply hidden.
Furthermore, taking down the High Table wasn't as simple as killing the twelve elders. To truly eliminate them, their organizations had to be completely uprooted. Otherwise, due to bloodline succession, new leaders would simply take the place of the fallen.
Attacking all twelve groups simultaneously was a challenge, but splitting forces into three would pose no problem for the Assassins' Guild.
The textile factory might seem small, and the number of assassins modest, but this was just the headquarters.
The Assassins' Guild had endured for over a millennium—its branches were numerous. With his current strength, Smith could easily crush opposition with some caution and a well-led force.
As for Casablanca, where an elder of the High Table hid in the desert… that mission might need to fall to John Wick.
······
The Next Day
After reviewing the documents, Smith Dole spent the day training on the field. But the results were disappointing.
It had been weeks since he received Yamcha's battle power and bloodline, yet he still couldn't sense ki. The Earthling bloodline from Dragon Ball didn't seem to offer much bonus at all.
If he relied only on training and Yamcha's initial power level, it would take quite a while to grasp ki. Clearly, John Wick needed to speed up his collection of the Doragon Bōru (Dragon Balls). A major Marvel event was about to unfold.
Leaving the training field, Smith took a bottle of bourbon and headed to the recovery room.
There, he saw John Wick submerged completely in wax, with only his face exposed.
Hearing footsteps, John immediately stirred, alert. But with his face coated in wax, he couldn't speak—only letting out a muffled, "Mmm! Mmm!"
Smith walked over and asked,
"John, are you okay?"
Recognizing Smith's voice, John stopped struggling. His face had started to crack through the wax, and some bits even dropped toward his mouth.
"My injuries feel much better… I'm just a bit thirsty," John managed to say as more wax flaked away.
Smith helped clean off his face and said,
"Here. Drink some water."
Instead, he uncapped the bourbon he brought, poured a bit into a cup, and offered it to John.
As the whiskey flowed down his throat, John felt a surge of relief.
"Thanks. I love the taste of bourbon," he said.
"This wax bath… what is it?"
Smith wasn't surprised John liked it—after all, he was Belarusian, and people from that region rarely disliked alcohol.
Setting the bottle aside, Smith sat next to John and explained,
"This wax bath stimulates white blood cells. It dramatically speeds up healing."
"Here, bruises, cuts, even fractures—can heal within hours."
John was stunned.
"Th-this… this is incredible!"
"With this, injuries are practically meaningless!"
"Even the Continental doesn't have anything like this!"
For assassins, this was a miracle. Wounds that would normally take weeks to heal could vanish overnight—allowing anyone to rejoin the fight immediately.
Such was the legacy of a thousand-year-old organization. Who knew how many treasures they held?
Smith, however, didn't think much of it. What he really wanted was a healing pod or Senzu Beans through a wish from the Dragon Balls—those were true game changers. Unless someone died instantly, recovery was guaranteed.
He said plainly,
"This bath is good, but it only heals external injuries. If you take a bullet to a vital organ, there's nothing we can do."
"If the opportunity arises, you'll see what real treasures look like."
John didn't seem disappointed. To him, the wax bath was already a marvel. Still, he grew curious about what Smith referred to.
"This is already near perfection. If word of this spread, assassins and criminal gangs alike would go mad for it."
Smith didn't dwell on John's words.
"Alright, I'll leave you now. Once the wax melts, come to the conference room. I'll be waiting."
······
New York, Continental Hotel
A black Mercedes stopped in front of the hotel. A tall woman in a long black coat, black boots, black fingernails, and a close-cropped haircut stepped out, carrying a sleek black briefcase.
She walked toward the Continental's entrance with sharp, chilling presence.
At the front desk, Charon looked up as she approached and asked,
"Welcome to the Continental. How may I help you?"
Without a word, she slid a special coin across the counter with two fingers—a coin marking her identity as The Adjudicator.
Charon studied the coin, then placed it back down and picked up the phone. He dialed a secure line.
"Sir, an Adjudicator wishes to see you."
"...Yes, sir."
He then turned to her and said respectfully,
"The manager is in the lounge."
The Adjudicator retrieved her coin and silently walked toward the lounge.
Inside, Winston waited. He glanced at the approaching woman.
"I assume you're here about John Wick?"
"If so, let's be brief."
"I told him to walk away. He refused. That's the whole story."
The Adjudicator stopped in front of Winston and said bluntly,
"Mr. Wick broke the rules."
Winston nodded.
"Yes."
"I have no idea where he—"
She cut him off:
"You misunderstand. I'm not here to find Mr. Wick."
"I'm here because blood was spilled on the grounds of the Continental."
"Is that not true?"
Winston's voice turned heavy.
"Yes."
······
(End of Chapter)
[Check Out My P@treon For +20 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!!][[email protected]/euridome]
[Thank You For Your Support!]