"In his third year as a judge, Ron finally burned his first convicted murderer to death in court."
But that was later.
Now he sat motionless in the third row of the New York Supreme Court gallery, impeccably dressed in a suit, his back pressed against the chair.
The woman in the witness stand was trembling. Her name was Mary Coleman, forty-one years old, a neighbor of the murderer's third victim. That night, she saw Lester Miller dragging something wrapped in a garbage bag downstairs through her window.
The garbage bag contained a nineteen-year-old girl.
"I saw it clearly," Mary's voice broke. "It was him." Lester Miller sat in the dock, wearing a clean gray prison uniform, his hair neatly combed. He stared at Mary, his right index finger tapping rhythmically on the table.
The rhythm was slow and steady.
Ron counted the frequency in the gallery. Once every three seconds. The spacing of the stab wounds matched the autopsy report—the forensic pathologist said the killer paused for three seconds after each stab, waiting for the victim's struggles to subside before striking again.
This wasn't intermittent bursts. This was enjoyment.
The prosecutor stood up and presented the sixth piece of evidence to the court. Fingerprints taken from the killer's apartment matched those on the seven victims 100%. Surveillance footage covered the timeline of four of the cases. All six eyewitnesses identified the perpetrators.
A rock-solid case.
Three years after arriving in this world, this was Ron's first major case as a magistrate judge—because the case involved Kingpin's influence, he had voluntarily applied to attend the hearing and followed the case for nine months, from gathering evidence to connecting the leads.
The defense attorney stood up.
Ron recognized him. Nathaniel Weiss, one of Manhattan's top five criminal defense lawyers, charging at least $2,000 per hour. A serial killer could afford such a lawyer.
Someone was paying for it.
Wes wore a platinum cufflink on his left wrist, engraved with a diamond-shaped emblem. Each of the four corners of the emblem was set with a tiny ruby.
Kingpin.
Ron had spent three years in Hell's Kitchen and had seen this mark far too many times. It was on the police chief's tie clip, on the city councilor's pen cap, and now on the defense attorney's cufflinks.
The city's justice system was rotten to the bone.
"Your Honor, the defense submits evidence number seven." Wes's voice was unhurried as he took a beautifully bound report from his briefcase. It bore the signature of Richard Griffin, a tenured professor of psychiatry at Columbia University, and the diagnosis was clearly stated—"Intermittent burst disorder; the defendant lacked full criminal responsibility at the time of the crime."
Ron glanced down at his hands. His fingernails had dug into his palms, leaving four white marks.
Griffin. Griffin again. The same diagnosis for the veteran who killed three homeless people in the Bronx last year. The same drug addict who randomly stabbed someone in the subway two years ago received the same diagnosis.
Professor Griffin owns a townhouse on the Upper East Side, worth twelve million US dollars. A university professor.
In the presiding judge's seat, Harold Mickson opened the psychiatric evaluation report, his reading glasses slipping down to the tip of his nose. Fifty-six years old, thirty years in the New York legal profession, labeled by the media as a "human rights defender."
Ron retrieved Mickson's bank statements from his drawer. An anonymous transfer of thirty thousand US dollars every month on the fifteenth, originating from the Cayman Islands. For three years without interruption.
Twenty-seven.
In the three years since his transmigration, Mickson had handled the release of twenty-seven serious criminals. Ron investigated the follow-up of each one. Eleven of them committed murder again after their release.
Eleven lives. Less than thirty thousand US dollars per life.
"The defense's motion is accepted by this court." Mickson's voice was sickeningly calm.
"Given the defendant's mental state, this court hereby acquits the defendant and releases him/her to a mental health facility for three months of observation." A deathly silence fell over the gallery, followed by a sharp sob.
Ron turned his head.
In the front row of the family section sat Susan White, forty-three years old. The mother of Emily White, the last victim. Ron knew her. Three months ago, in his office, Susan had sat for two hours clutching her daughter's photograph, weeping the entire time.
That day, Ron had told her, "This time, there will be a result."
Now he looked at Susan's hands. She clutched Emily's photograph, her ten fingers gripping the frame tightly, her nails bent and bleeding, bright red liquid dripping down the frame onto her dress. She didn't wipe it away.
A soft chuckle came from the defendant's dock.
Lester Miller turned his head, past his lawyer's shoulder, and looked directly at the family section. His mouth parted, revealing neat teeth. That smile was directed at Susan White.
Outside the courtroom, in the parking lot, a black Lincoln limousine was already running. Ron stood up, the chair leg scraping against the floor.
Three years. Three whole years in this world. He'd seen heroes pin villains to the ground, only for the villains to be released on bail the next day and continue killing. He'd seen stray bullets pierce apartment walls during gang shootouts, an eight-year-old boy lying on his homework, a hole in his back. He'd seen drug lord lawyers holding the Bill of Rights in court, reading it line by line to the judge.
The judge nodded. Every single time.
This world had superheroes, S.H.I.E.L.D., countless people claiming to uphold justice.
No one could truly stop the evil.
Something cracked deep within Ron. Not a psychological breakdown, but a physical burning—a molten lava-like heatwave was expanding wildly in the center of his chest, creeping through his veins to his limbs, even his fingertips were burning.
The phantom of a colossal building exploded on his retina.
Iron-gray walls, endless cages, layer upon layer extending into the earth. Ron recognized this structure. He'd seen it countless times in his past life.
Impact Castle.
A cold notification exploded in his skull.
[Impact Castle Dominator System successfully bound.]
[Host detected strong righteous obsession. Bound to Marine Admiral Akainu template, initial synchronization rate 20%.]
[Unlocked basic Armament Haki.]
[Unlocked basic Observation Haki.]
[Unlocked Dimensional Impact Castle - First Layer.] Ron's body temperature soared above sixty degrees Celsius within three seconds. The edges of the oak chair beside him began to blacken, the paint blistering, and a burnt smell permeated the air.
The bystander next to him shrank back, thinking there was a problem with the heating pipes.
Ron stood still, looking down at his palms. Dark red lines flowed beneath his skin—magma.
The system interface unfolded on the left side of his vision.
[Initial Mission: Punish Evil]
[Objective: Capture serial killer Lester Miller and his protectors.]
[Reward: 1000 Justice Points, Armament Haki Proficiency +100.]
[Additional Note: Evil beyond the reach of the law is dealt with by Impel Down.] Ron looked up.
The courtroom doors were opening, and Lester Miller emerged, surrounded by two lawyers. He deliberately slowed his pace as he passed the family section, glancing sideways at Susan.
Susan didn't move, remaining stiffly seated in her chair, her ten fingers gripping her daughter's photo frame tightly, blood seeping from her folded nails, dripping down the edge of the frame onto her dress, congealing into dark brown stains. Her eyes were empty, like a dried-up well, her soul seemingly drained away, even her tears dried up.
Ron walked over.
Susan looked up. Three months ago, her hair was dark brown; now it was half white. Her lips moved slightly. "Judge Ron…is there any fairness left in this world?"
Ron stopped, without turning around.
"The answer will be tonight."
He walked out of the courthouse. It had started to rain. The September rain in Manhattan was cold and torrential, splashing white foam on the steps.
Lester Miller got into the black Lincoln. The moment the door closed, he gave Ron the middle finger through the window.
Ron remembered that finger.
Two hours later.
Ron stood on the rooftop of his apartment building, the neon lights of Hell's Kitchen blurred into spots of light in the rain. He slowly raised his right hand, fingers spread.
A thin crack appeared in his palm, a dark red light seeping from beneath his skin. Lava. Real lava. Temperatures exceeding 1200 degrees Celsius.
Raindrops landed on his palm, evaporating into white mist before they could even make a sound.
A red dot popped up on the system interface—Lester Miller's real-time location. 42nd Street, Hell's Kitchen, Kingpin's "Bird of Paradise" nightclub, VIP box.
A victory celebration is underway.
"The law finds you innocent." Ron clenched his fist, the lava in his palm turning into a steam wall around the surrounding rain.
"But from today onwards—" He didn't finish.
Because his Observation Haki caught a signal at that moment. Eight hundred meters away, on the rooftop of an abandoned apartment building in the East Side of Hell's Kitchen, someone was setting up a sniper rifle.
An M82A1, a Barrett anti-materiel sniper rifle. The infrared beam from the scope pierced through the rain, all pointing in the same direction.
"Bird of Paradise" nightclub.
The man had a white skull imprinted on his chest—Ron recognized the mark; it was the Punisher. Like him, he loathed this hypocritical justice, yet was accustomed to ending evil with bullets.
(Next chapter: Lava vs Killer!)