Inside the shrine, Okamoto Reiichi watched everything unfold, his anxiety mounting by the second.
In mere moments, nearly all of his remaining men had been wiped out.
It wasn't that he cared about their lives.
He understood one simple truth:
once the shield of bodies protecting him disappeared…
he would be next.
Watching his men continue rushing Toby bare-handed, Okamoto roared in fury:
"Baka! Are you idiots?! You're out of bullets — use your blades! Have you lived in America so long you've forgotten how to use a knife?!"
His reminder struck like lightning.
The surviving gangsters suddenly remembered who they were.
They had once trained with swords.
Hand-to-hand combat was suicide… but with numbers and steel, they might still win.
If they surrounded him and attacked together, they could hack him to pieces.
Steel rasped free from lacquered scabbards.
Katana flashed in the rain.
Confidence returned to their faces as they closed in.
"Weapons now?" Toby scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "So the rules finally change?"
If they were abandoning restraint, there was no reason for him to continue treating this like a sparring match.
Toby bent his knees slightly—
—and leapt.
Under the stunned gaze of the gang members, he defied gravity and landed in a crouch beneath the thick branch of the century-old cherry tree standing at the center of the courtyard.
Then something even more inhuman occurred.
From his wrists, white strands shot outward.
Spider silk.
Each strand wrapped precisely around a gangster's head and neck.
Before they could react—
Toby pulled.
With a violent jerk, more than a dozen men were yanked off their feet and hoisted into the air, their bodies swinging helplessly as the silk tightened and suspended them from the branches.
Feet kicked.
Fingers clawed.
No air.
Only strangled choking sounds.
Snap—
The faint sound jolted Okamoto Reiichi back to reality.
He stared in horror as the towering figure stepped into the shrine.
Behind Toby, the last survivors writhed beneath the cherry tree, cocooned in silk, suffocating.
Okamoto stumbled backward in terror.
But he was already at the rear of the hall.
There was nowhere left to retreat.
His heel struck the ancestral altar, sending wooden spirit tablets crashing to the floor.
It was as if his ancestors themselves were calling from the underworld, urging their unfilial descendant to join them.
"I don't want to die…"
With one hand hidden behind his back, he stretched the other toward Toby in desperate appeal.
"Damn it! You can't kill me! I serve the Hand! If you kill me, they won't let you live!"
"We can talk! I can pay you — money, lots of money!!"
Toby did not slow.
His footsteps echoed like a funeral drum.
Seven steps away.
Okamoto's fearful expression vanished.
In a blur, he drew a pistol from behind his back and fired repeatedly at Toby's head.
"Nisunai! Nisunai! Nisunai!!"
At seven paces, a gun is both fast and accurate.
This was his American-style iaijutsu.
Unless his opponent was Superman, no one could evade such close-range fire.
Toby wasn't Superman.
But he possessed superhuman reflexes.
He tilted his head slightly.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each bullet missed by millimeters.
"What?!"
Okamoto's eyes widened in disbelief.
Dodging bullets — at this distance?
Before he could fire again, his throat tightened as he was lifted into the air.
He swung the pistol toward Toby's head—
—but his wrist was seized mid-motion.
Metal and bone met crushing force.
Crunch.
The pistol frame collapsed along with his hand.
"Aaaaaah! Baka! It hurts! How dare you— I am Okamoto Reiichi of the Hand!"
It is said the fingers connect directly to the heart.
Having one's entire palm crushed into pulp produces pain beyond comprehension.
For a moment, he forgot fear and screamed in rage.
Then his voice stopped abruptly.
A blood-slick hand clamped over his jaw.
His words became muffled whimpers.
"I… spare… I give… anything…"
Realizing his life hung by a thread, terror returned to his eyes.
Toby chuckled.
"You'll give me anything?"
He tilted his head.
"Then lend me that chamber-pot head of yours. You won't mind, right?"
"Ah—?"
Pressure tightened around his neck.
His body suddenly felt weightless.
The next moment—
he saw his own body collapse to the floor.
Why… is my body down there?
Where is my head?
…
Darkness took him.
Ten minutes later
Fisk Tower — Top Floor
Ding—
The private elevator doors slid open.
It was not Wilson Fisk, the undisputed Kingpin of New York, who stepped out.
It was Toby.
In his hand, he carried Okamoto Reiichi's severed head, eyes frozen in death. Blood dripped steadily, painting the elevator floor crimson.
As Toby walked forward, the head left a wet trail across the immaculate carpet.
Kingpin's secretary and the armed security guards saw everything.
None moved.
None spoke.
They lowered their eyes, sweat running down their temples, as if meeting his gaze might cost them their lives.
Ignoring them, Toby kicked open the office doors.
Inside stood two figures.
Seated behind the desk: Wilson Fisk — massive, imposing, dressed in an immaculate white suit, his presence filling the room like a mountain.
Standing nearby: Bullseye — lean, blond, cold-eyed, dressed in black, his expression carved from malice.
Seeing Toby enter carrying the head, Fisk did not show anger.
Instead, he rose with a warm, almost paternal smile.
"Well, well… if it isn't my best partner. My dear friend, Toby."
"But why bring back the target's head? Does your Uncle Fisk doubt your work?"
Toby tossed the head onto the floor at Fisk's feet.
It rolled once before coming to rest.
His voice was calm.
"Whether you believe me is irrelevant."
"This is professional ethics."
"The payment goes to my black card."
He glanced toward the hallway.
"You may want to use the bathroom afterward."