Marvel : Reborn With Dragon Ball Chapter 41: Strategy

The wall-sized screen divided into twelve sections, one for each Elder of the High Table. Video feeds connected one by one, faces materializing in the darkness of secure bunkers scattered across the globe.

Only nine screens illuminated. The other three remained dark.

The silence stretched, heavy with implications.

Elder Don Massimo spoke first. "The Fraternity has broken decades of détente. They've struck three of us simultaneously. The High Table faces an existential threat."

He paused, letting that sink in. "You all know their code. They don't negotiate. They don't compromise. They eliminate what they consider corruption."

A Russian Elder, pale, hard-eyed, built like a boxer gone to seed, growled, "Then we give them war. The High Table has never cowered before any organization."

The Mafia representative, elegant in a tailored suit, nodded grimly. "The war's already begun. If we don't respond with overwhelming force, they'll co for the rest of us. One by one."

Don Massimo waited until each Elder had voiced their agreent, then continued. "Before we commit to action, review the footage. All three attacked locations sent recordings before communications ceased."

The screens shifted, displaying surveillance video from three battle sites simultaneously.

In the Italian feed, Camorra guards fell to impossible gunshots, bullets curving around corners, striking targets that should have been safe behind cover. The Fraternity's signature technique.

The Paris footage showed similar carnage. Gramont's elite bodyguards, cut down by operatives who moved with surgical precision.

But it was the Morocco video that made them all fall silent.

A figure, Smith Doyle, according to the data, charged through a corridor while three submachine guns emptied their magazines at him. Bullets sparked off his body, tearing his clothes but not penetrating. He closed the distance in seconds and killed all three gunn with his bare hands, each strike lethal.

An Asian Elder, Japanese, judging by his bearing, spoke carefully. "Are we certain this footage is authentic? Not doctored? Because what I'm seeing..." He trailed off, then started again. "Even Captain Arica in his pri would have taken cover. This man is tanking automatic weapons fire and continuing his assault."

The Italian Elder leaned forward. "No wonder they felt bold enough to attack us. They have a living weapon."

"The Super Soldier Serum," Don Massimo said quietly. "They've replicated it."

Another long silence.

The Japanese Elder's expression was bleak. "If they've truly reproduced the serum, we should negotiate surrender now. One Captain Arica destroyed HYDRA, an organization far more militarized than we are. If the entire Fraternity becos superhuman?" He shook his head. "We can't win that war."

The observation was defeatist, but no one disagreed. They'd all studied the historical records. Captain Arica had been a one-man army. Dozens of super soldiers would be unstoppable.

"Even if we surrender," Don Massimo countered, "do you think they'll accept? They view themselves as the world's immune system, destroying what they consider cancer. They don't take prisoners."

He pulled up additional footage. "Look at all three attack sites carefully. Smith Doyle is the only superhuman. The operatives in Paris and Italy were highly skilled, but within normal human paraters. And they took casualties, multiple deaths, nurous wounded."

Don Massimo zood in on a sequence from Morocco. "Notice here: Smith Doyle dodges a grenade. He's enhanced, yes, but he's not invulnerable. Explosives still pose a threat."

A different Elder, Eastern European, with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, asked the question they were all thinking. "What if he's just the prototype? The first of many?"

Don Massimo's expression darkened. "Then we choose our graves and die fighting. But before that, I'm taking at least two of them with ."

The Russian Elder grunted approval. "What's your plan, Don Massimo?"

"Focus everything on Smith Doyle. Concentrate all available forces and eliminate him in the first wave. If he dies and no other super soldiers appear, the Fraternity loses their decisive advantage." Don Massimo's voice hardened. "We can grind them down through attrition. Their numbers are limited. Ours are not."

"I support this," the Russian said imdiately.

"Agreed," the Italian added.

One by one, the remaining Elders voiced their consent. It was the only path forward that offered hope.

Kill Smith Doyle. Pray he's unique. Then drown the Fraternity in bodies if necessary.

Continental Hotel, New York

Winston fought from behind overturned furniture in his safe house, three floors beneath the hotel proper. His remaining loyalists had been whittled down to a handful, veterans all, but no match for Zero's supernatural skill or the High Table enforcers' military-grade equipnt.

Without John Wick leading counterattacks, without the Fraternity creating chaos elsewhere, Winston's rebellion was dood.

Zero cut through his guards like smoke. The man's blade work was poetry and murder combined, fluid, precise, unstoppable. His students flanked him, providing covering fire and eliminating anyone who tried to flank their master.

The armored enforcers simply walked through Winston's defensive positions, their body armor turning aside his people's pistol rounds. They thodically cleared room after room.

The door to Winston's final refuge blew inward. Smoke grenades followed. Then Zero erged from the haze like a ghost.

Winston's pistol clicked empty. He reached for a spare magazine, too slow.

The Adjudicator entered behind Zero, her expression cold and final.

"Winston. No one defies the High Table's will. You attempted the impossible and lacked even the capability to make it interesting."

Winston lowered his weapon. "I lost. I accept judgnt."

The Adjudicator regarded him for a long mont. "You who rebelled against the High Table, I pass sentence. Separation of soul from body."

Zero stepped forward. His blade whispered from its sheath.

Winston closed his eyes.

The strike was clean. Professional. His head separated from his shoulders and hit the floor with a dull thud.

Zero wiped his blade and sheathed it. The Adjudicator turned and walked out, already composing her report.

The New York Continental was secured.

Fraternity Headquarters – Textile Factory

Chidi's assault force had numbers and equipnt. What they didn't have was Mr. X.

The master assassin moved through the textile factory like a supernatural force. Dual wielding pistols, bullet ti activated, he beca untouchable. Rounds that should have killed him simply weren't where he was anymore, he'd already moved, already shifted, already lined up his next three shots.

The High Table's tactical teams had trained for urban warfare against conventional opponents. They had no answer for an enemy who could see bullets coming and guide his own shots around cover.

Caine fought valiantly despite his blindness, his hearing and spatial awareness allowing him to track opponents with eerie accuracy. But he'd never faced the Fraternity's signature curved bullets. He positioned himself behind what should have been perfect cover, and died when a round bent around the corner and found his forehead.

The High Table enforcers broke and ran. Those who didn't flee fast enough died. Chidi himself barely escaped, dragging three wounded operators with him.

Paris and Italy

Cross and the Gunsmith achieved their objectives with minimal resistance. Gramont had sent his best forces to attack the textile factory, a catastrophic miscalculation that left his headquarters vulnerable. He died in his office, still holding a phone to his ear, begging for reinforcents that would never arrive.

The Camorra was already wounded from John Wick's previous rampage. The Fraternity's surgical strike finished what John had started. The Italian organization collapsed like a house of cards.

The High Table was bleeding. And the Fraternity wasn't done.