"Just a test." This sentence hung in the safe house all night.
At dawn, Ron sat at the folding table, laid out before him all the ninja equipment salvaged from the previous night's battle—fourteen short swords, three smoke bomb casings, and a photo of the hydra tattoo on the neck of the tall, thin ninja.
He closed his eyes, using his Observation Haki to revisit the last aura he had sensed the previous night.
Eight hundred meters away.
It lingered for 0.3 seconds before disappearing.
No hostile fluctuations, no preparation for attack, not even tension.
The aura was chillingly calm.
Ron brought up the system analysis panel.
[Poisonous Hand - New York Branch Leader. Individual combat strength assessment: Approximately equal to 35% of Akainu's template synchronization rate. Host's current synchronization rate: 30%. Significant risk in combat.] A difference of five percentage points.
It doesn't sound like much.
But at this level, every percentage point difference is enough to determine life or death.
Frank rolled off his cot. The bandage on his right arm had been changed, but the skin beneath was still faintly bluish-purple—a burn from the lava toxins of the previous night.
He flexed his right hand, clenching and unclenching his fists.
"How long will it take to heal?" Ron asked.
"The Wolf Fruit's regeneration is working, but at the wrong speed."
Frank unwrapped a corner of the bandage, revealing the wound beneath.
Newly formed muscle fibers slowly writhed on the wound, but at only half the normal rate of regeneration.
Residual dark energy was interfering with cell division.
Ron used Observation Haki to penetrate Frank's wound tissue, scanning layer by layer.
Ninety percent of the toxin had been burned away, but the last ten percent had seeped deep into the periosteum, embedded in the bone's microstructure, slowly corroding the surrounding tissue.
A system notification popped up.
[Armament Haki: Ryuo can "shake out" foreign objects from the body through internal vibrations. Current Ryuo proficiency is insufficient to precisely target the deep periosteum. Continue to improve proficiency.] "Dark power is specifically designed to counter those with extraordinary physiques." Ron withdrew his hand.
"The stronger your regenerative abilities, the deeper it penetrates. Once I've mastered the Flowing Sakura technique, I'll clean up the remnants for you." Frank rewrapped the gauze, asking no further questions.
A dull thud came from the corner as fists struck the sandbag.
Jack, shirtless, punched the canvas sandbag Frank had hung up the day before.
Each punch landed within a 30-centimeter diameter circle.
The gray sheen on his fist was half a shade brighter than last night, and without flickering—a steady output.
Ron timed it.
Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds. Twenty seconds. Twenty-five seconds. Thirty seconds.
The gray sheen faded.
Jack withdrew his fist, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the concrete.
"Thirty seconds," Ron said.
He could only maintain it for five seconds before the fight last night.
It increased sixfold overnight.
The corrupted serum enhanced Jack's nerve conduction rate, making his "Willpower Manifestation" conversion efficiency at least twice that of an ordinary person.
This kid's got potential.
Ron was about to explain the next training plan when Frank's vertical pupils suddenly constricted.
His nostrils flared twice, and he sprang up from the cot, his right hand reaching for his gun.
"The door." Ron's Observation Haki simultaneously detected it.
Something had appeared on the floor of the corridor outside the safe house's iron door.
There were no signs of any living being near it.
Frank's six vibration sensors hadn't triggered.
The newly replaced mechanical lock on the iron door was intact.
But the thing was there.
Ron walked over and opened the iron door.
A black envelope lay on the concrete floor in front of the threshold.
Gold lettering.
A single Chinese character—"Invitation."
Ron crouched down, scanning the envelope with his Observation Haki—no toxin residue, no electronic components, no mechanical mechanisms.
Unnaturally clean.
He opened the envelope.
Inside was an invitation.
Black cardstock, silver lettering, vertical layout.
"The Lord of Impel Down, Venomous, New York Chapter Leader of the Hand, cordially invites you to a meeting tonight at midnight at the Dragon and Phoenix Tea House in Chinatown. Attend alone, or face the consequences." Ron flipped it over.
A photograph.
Jessica Jones lay on her side on a cot in the inner room of the safe house, a blanket covering her waist, the bandaged wound on her left foot clearly visible.
The angle of the shot—the ceiling.
Lava oozed from Ron's right hand.
The invitation and photograph turned to ash in a second, carbonized fragments falling from between his fingers, leaving a small pile of black powder on the floor.
The temperature in the safe house rose four degrees in three seconds.
Frank took a half step back.
Jack stopped punching the sandbag, his hair standing on end.
Ron stood up and walked into the inner room.
The ceiling.
In the left corner where the wall met the wall, a dark object, the size of a grain of rice, was embedded in a crack in the plaster.
Ron reached down and removed it.
Metal casing, miniature lens, traces of modification by the Hand Society's concealed weapon craftsmanship.
The circuit board inside the camera was carbonized—the self-destruct program activated the moment the envelope arrived.
Last night's battle.
In the chaos of twenty-three ninjas rushing into the safe house, one of them accomplished this feat in a corner of the ceiling.
The whole process took less than two seconds.
Frank's security system had absolutely no protection against the ceiling.
Ron threw the fragment on the ground and crushed it under his foot.
"Get Jessica up."
Three minutes later.
Jessica stood in front of the folding table, her hands in her pockets.
Ron pushed the remaining fragment of a photograph from the ashes on the floor in front of her.
Jessica glanced down at it.
The color drained from her face in two seconds.
"This was taken inside the safe house."
Not a question.
Ron nodded.
Jessica pulled her right fist from her pocket, her knuckles clenching so tightly they cracked.
"The Hand," Ron said. "Viper sent me an invitation. Tonight at midnight, Chinatown, a private meeting."
Frank spoke first.
"No." Jack also stood at the table.
"A trap." Ron swept the remaining ashes into the trash can.
"Viper's 'invitation' has three meanings."
He raised his index finger.
"First, demonstrating infiltration capabilities. He's telling me—your safe house is as flimsy as paper." Middle finger.
"Second, demanding a private meeting. It could be negotiation, it could be a trap, but he chose 'invitation' instead of 'assassination.'" Ring finger.
"Third, using Jessica as leverage. Implying 'I can touch the people around you at any time.'" Frank's claws slashed across the butt of his gun.
"So you definitely can't go. He's figured everything out on your turf, and you're going to his turf—"
"If he only wanted to kill me, he wouldn't have sent twenty-three test pawns last night."
Ron interrupted him.
"He coming alone would have been more effective than all twenty-three combined. His choice to 'invite' means he has something to ask—what does the Hand want from me?"
Frank fell silent.
Ron pulled out a list of backup locations in Hell's Kitchen and circled the third address.
"I'll go negotiate. You take Jack and Jessica to the backup safe house on 45th Street."
He slammed the backup transmitter for the encrypted channel on the table.
"No signal from me for two hours—you know what to do."
Frank didn't reply.
He stared at Ron for five seconds.
Then asked a question.
"The invitation said 'Lord of Impel Down.'"
Frank's vertical pupils narrowed into two golden lines.
"How does he know the name Impel Down?"
The safe house was silent for three seconds.
Ron's back stiffened. Impel Down.
He had never uttered those three words to anyone.
Frank didn't know. Jack didn't know. Jessica knew even less.
Kingpin's surveillance footage captured the spatial rift, captured people being swallowed up.
But the name "Imperial Down"—couldn't be deduced from the footage.
Unless the Hand had its own information channels.
Ancient legends about the "dimensional prison."
Ron didn't voice this deduction.
"Before I leave, I have two things to do."
First. Ron retrieved the Target-Target Fruit and three spare conceptual Seastone handcuffs from his system space, placed them in a waterproof bag, and handed them to Frank.
"Hide them under the floor of the spare safe house. Don't move them unless absolutely necessary."
Frank took them, without asking why.
Second.
Ron closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into the dimensional Impel Down.
First level, the Blue Prison District. Ten cages were neatly arranged, the prisoners appearing normal.
Second level, Beast Hell.
Bullseye crouched in the corner, his hands bound by Seastone handcuffs, his ten fingers constantly gripping the air.
Kilgrave, the Purple Man— Ron's attention was fixed on his cage.
Cracks appeared on the cage walls.
A very pale purple spread along the swirling patterns of the conceptual Seastone, extending from the bottom of the cage to waist height.
The edges of the cracks pulsated slowly, the frequency perfectly synchronized with the rhythm of some external force.
A red warning popped up in the system.
[Weak dimensional interference fluctuations detected. Source analysis—Dimensional resonance of the Hand's "Dark Power."]
[Additional analysis: There is an ancient connection between the Hand's dark magic and Impel Down's dimensional space. The Dark Power is attempting to "resonate" with Impel Down's dimensional barriers from the outside, creating micro-cracks.]
[Current threat level: Low. The crack is expanding extremely slowly; it is estimated that it will take 72 hours at the current intensity to form a usable structural defect.] [Recommendation: Eliminate the external resonance source, or increase the strength of Impel Down's dimensional barrier.] Ron exited the dimensional space.
The Hand, the name of Impel Down, dimensional resonance.
Venom knew far more than he had anticipated.
As night fell, Ron changed into a black trench coat.
Underneath the coat, Armament Haki was ready to activate on the surface of his skin, ready to harden in 0.2 seconds.
Observation Haki was pushed to its limit, with a perception radius of 300 meters.
Frank, with Jack and Jessica, evacuated through the underground pipes.
Before leaving, Frank turned back once.
"Two hours." Ron nodded.
The iron gate closed.
Ron was alone in the safe house.
He pushed open the iron gate and stepped into the night.
Chinatown.
Two hundred meters north of the intersection of Mott Street and Canal Road, the Dragon and Phoenix Tea House was tucked between two old apartment buildings, its storefront so narrow that only two people could stand side by side.
A red-lacquered wooden door, with a faded gold signboard hanging above it.
Two people stood in the doorway.
Old people.
A man and a woman, both dressed in dark gray Tang suits, stood upright with their hands clasped in front of them.
Their facial expressions were devoid of any extra muscle movement.
Both pairs of eyes were fixed on Ron.
The information relayed by his Observation Haki—their heart rates were both forty beats per minute, their breathing rate was extremely low, and the flow of energy within their bodies was completely different from that of ordinary people.
Dark energy circulated slowly within their meridians.
Dark power.
System-marked sin value: 800 each.
The Hand's "Gatekeepers."
Ron didn't stop, walking straight towards the wooden door.
The two old people simultaneously stepped aside to let him pass, their movements synchronized and at the same angle.
The wooden door opened silently from the inside.
The scent of sandalwood wafted out from the crack in the door.
Ron stepped inside.
The lights on the first floor of the teahouse were off.
All the chairs were upside down on the table.
The wooden floor was spotless; Ron's shoes made no sound as he walked.
The stairs were on the right, narrow and steep, each step intricately carved with Sanskrit.
Ron began to ascend the stairs.
His Observation Haki penetrated the wooden floor of the second floor.
A living being.
Heartbeat forty-eight beats per minute.
Normal body temperature.
No one else.
But the concentration of that being's aura—twenty times that of the two gatekeepers downstairs combined.
Ron stepped onto the last step.
The second floor was a spacious tea room, its walls adorned with faded ink paintings.
In the center of the room stood a low mahogany tea table.
Two celadon cups sat on the table, the tea still steaming.
Behind the table, a person knelt.
Not the gaunt old man Ron had expected.
A man in his thirties, with handsome features and a sharp jawline.
A black kimono, its lapels neatly fastened.
His left eye had a normal black iris.
His right eye—pure white.
No pupil, no iris; the entire eyeball was a uniform, porcelain-like white.
That white right eye turned towards Ron the moment he stepped into the room.
A chill ran down Ron's spine.
Something was moving within that eye.
Deep within the white iris, a tiny, blurry shadow was slowly rotating.
Iron bars. Corridor. Cage.
Impact.
A venomous smile curved his lips.
"Finally, we meet, Warden of Impel Down."
He raised his right hand, gesturing for a seat.
"Or rather—" The prison shadow reflected in the white blind eye cleared for a moment.
"You prefer to be called 'Admiral'?"