Relief washed over the room as Sloan confirmed that their enemies weren't from The Hand. For veterans like The Gunsmith and The Repairman, that was one less shadow to fear.
However, the memory of Fox's broken body—crushed by the boy, Rock Lee—kept the atmosphere heavy.
"One hit to kill, one graze to cripple," whispered The Butcher, tightening the grip on his blades. For a close-quarters specialist like him, Lee's raw power was a nightmare. The others were sharpshooters, but even The Repairman felt a cold sweat at the thought of those heavy strikes.
"Sloan," The Gunsmith broke the silence. "Are we still going after Cross's son?"
Sloan narrowed his eyes, his voice silk and steel.
"Wesley is the only one who can truly end Cross. They share the same blood."
"But Cross has the Shiranui Agency shielding him," The Gunsmith countered. "Do we even have a window? For all we know, the boy already knows the truth about his father."
Sloan looked around the circle, his gaze demanding absolute focus.
"None of you are a match for Cross. But Wesley... Wesley is the only person Cross will never pull the trigger on. If we bring him here, if we forge him into a weapon, he becomes our ultimate shield and spear."
His voice grew louder, radiating a terrifying confidence.
"As long as Wesley hasn't looked his father in the eye, as long as he hasn't seen the 'truth,' I can make him believe whatever I want. I am his master. I am his fate."
The others fell silent. There was no arguing with Sloan when he was in this state.
"Shall we all mobilize to take the boy?"
Sloan shook his head.
"No. We stay here to fortify the Mill. Cross is coming for us. If he wants to spend his money on protection, then we will spend ours to burn those protectors to the ground."
A cold smirk played on his lips.
"After all... we have far deeper pockets than Carlos."
By that afternoon, Sloan had initiated a multi-layered contract through the Continental's backchannels.
A massive bounty hit the wire: $10,000,000 total.
The target? Every single employee of the Shiranui Agency.
Five heads. Two million dollars each.
Hayate, Hotaru, Iruka, Sasuke, and Lee.
To an ordinary man, ten million was a king's ransom. To the Assassin Brotherhood, a sect with a thousand years of accumulated wealth, it was barely a drop in the bucket. They didn't even consider it an expense; it was an investment in silence.
The next morning.
Cross arrived at Hayate's residence early, hauling a heavy canvas duffel bag that looked ready to burst at the seams.
Hayate looked at the bag and raised an eyebrow.
"Friend, is that packed with grenades or are you just happy to see me?"
Carlos ignored the jab, slamming the bag onto the table and pulling out a stack of blueprints.
"Our target is the Textile Mill at 17th Street, Brooklyn. These are the original structural layouts. Study them. We need to finalize the assault plan now."
Hayate took the sheets, his eyes scanning every detail. He memorized the corridors, the storage rooms, the ventilation shafts, and the crawlspaces. In his world, a hidden enemy was a deadly one. He needed to ensure no one could pull a "pincer move" from a broom closet.
Carlos pointed to various red marks on the map.
"My plan involves thousands of rats. I've rigged miniature time-bombs—looks like watches, doesn't interfere with their movement. We unleash the swarm into the Mill, let them trigger chaos, and then we strike during the explosion."
Hayate looked at the "rat-bomb" diagram and suppressed a grimace. He wasn't a member of PETA, but the thought of catching a thousand rats from a sewer just seemed... inefficient. And disgusting.
I'll stick to Kunai and Explosive Tags, Hayate thought. Same result, less plague.
Just as Carlos began detailing the ignition sequence, Hayate's phone vibrated. It was Hotaru. He signaled Carlos to pause and took the call.
"Hotaru? This is a bit early."
"Hayate," her voice came through tight and strained. "I have bad news."
"Spit it out."
"We're on the board," Hotaru said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "All of us."
"All of us?" Hayate repeated, his eyes sharpening.
"Yes. The Continental just updated the open-contract list. Every member of the Shiranui Agency has a bounty. You, me, Iruka, Sasuke, and Lee. Two million a head. Ten million total."
"The contract is open to everyone. Every hitter in the city is probably checking their GPS for our location right now."
Hotaru took a breath, her voice trembling slightly.
"Hayate... we're in deep trouble."
Hayate's expression didn't change, but a cold light flickered in his eyes.
He had become a target of the Continental—the very organization he intended to dominate. Was this the destiny of a legendary assassin? After all, the last man to have a multi-million dollar open contract on his head was John Wick.
He found it almost insulting. A thousand-year-old brotherhood of assassins was outsourcing their dirty work to a hotel?
Don't you people have any pride?
"Hotaru, calm down," Hayate said, his voice steadying like an anchor. "We know how Continental hitmen work. They're professionals, but they aren't on your level. They're just... annoying flies."
"Stay focused. Protect yourself and Wesley. I'm with Cross now; we're going to dismantle the source. I'll make sure Sloan 'retires' those bounties personally."
Hayate knew that unless the client died or canceled, the bounty would stay active forever. Every glory-seeker and bottom-feeder in the underworld would be gunning for them.
He hated flies. Especially the ones that kept buzzing after you swatted them.
He hung up and looked at Carlos, who was waiting for an explanation. Hayate's smile was thin and dangerous.
"Change of plans, Carlos. We're moving up the timeline. The Brotherhood just put a ten-million-dollar price on my head."
"It seems Sloan wants to play a game of gold," Hayate whispered, his chakra beginning to stir. "Let's show him that gold can't buy a life when the Shinobi comes to collect."