Marvel's whitewashing cop, you want me to save the world?

Chapter 133 Captain, We Can't Go to Hell Yet

The three members of Frank's team stood on the bridge, motionless.

The captain just gave very clear instructions: stay on the bridge and shoot any suspicious person you see.

They had clearly heard the burst of gunfire that had been so intense and almost continuous a few minutes earlier under the bridge.

The sounds included automatic rifles, short-barreled shotguns, submachine guns, and even the explosion of a single-person rocket launcher.

The muzzle flashes intermittently through the gaps in the bridge railing.

You can vaguely see people moving around on the riverbank that is illuminated white by the searchlight.

At least thirty targets are unleashing their firepower in the same direction.

But they didn't charge down, because that was what Captain Frank had ordered.

Sure enough, they soon saw the iron chains.

The iron chain, wreathed in flames, was flung out of the explosion's smoke and dust.

A dark red arc of light trailed through the air, burning the first assassin who tried to escape by jumping into the river to ashes.

Then more screams came from under the bridge, one after another, overlapping each other.

One after another, they went out.

Finally, silence fell.

On the riverbank, the assassins were still frantically pulling the trigger.

Shell casings kept jumping out of the ejection port, clattering and falling into the muddy water at our feet.

The muzzle flashes of gunfire rose and fell in the darkness, so densely packed that it looked like someone had set off a chaotic fireworks display on the riverbank.

But those bullets hit Frank without even making him sway.

The bullet struck the flame-covered bulletproof vest, melting into molten copper before even touching the fabric. The molten copper dripped down the folds of the vest, making a soft sizzling sound as it landed on the muddy ground.

Frank's skull turned slightly, and the two dark blue lights deep in his eye sockets suddenly surged.

With a flick of his right wrist, the iron chain wrapped in flames flew out of his palm.

The iron chain unfurled in the air, its interlocking metal links emitting a dark red light under the flames, moving so fast that its trajectory could not be captured.

It didn't hit anyone directly, but instead made an extremely tricky arc in the air.

Starting with the assassin on the far left, they circled around their waists one by one.

The chain grazed the tactical vest, sliced ​​through the leather holster, and circled around the shoulders and back of the neck.

Like a serpent wreathed in flames, it bound together nearly thirty assassins on the beach in an instant.

Frank raised his right hand slightly upwards.

The chains tightened, and all thirty people were simultaneously pulled off the ground by that force, their feet dangling in the air, all dragged in front of him.

Strangely, when the chain wrapped in flames was pressed against their bodies, no one felt any burning sensation.

The flames on the chain seemed to be separated by an invisible membrane; they burned right next to the skin, yet not a single hair was singed.

The heat exploded only when they were dragged in front of Frank.

This wasn't the flames of the chains themselves, but rather a scorching heat radiating from the burning skull in front of them, a heat that penetrated flesh and burned directly into the bones.

These assassins are all seasoned veterans who have been navigating the underworld for many years, and each of them has a long list of kills on their hands.

They accepted the bounty offered by the Continental Hotel and ambushed the leader of the Hellsword squad.

Normally, they wouldn't even flinch at something like this.

Receive the mission, scout the location, set up an ambush, complete the attack, confirm the death, and collect the payment.

This is their daily routine; they have long been prepared to die at someone else's gunpoint one day.

They'd rather die from bullets, from knives, or in any way they could understand.

But they never imagined they would die in a scene like this.

He died on a burning iron chain, with a glowing skull pointed at his face, and was then cast into hell.

One of the assassins in the front row suddenly broke down.

He desperately turned his head and opened his mouth to his colleague beside him. When the voice squeezed out of his throat, it was completely distorted.

"Bite my neck! Now, bite my neck!"

The person next to him froze, stared at him for half a second, then also realized what was happening and turned to shout at the other person, "Quick, who's near me! Bite me, bite my carotid artery!"

In the afternoon's live television broadcast, everyone witnessed firsthand how Frank crushed and burned the heads of those Hollywood stars, pharmaceutical company chairmen, and members of Congress, one by one.

Then they declare them guilty and cast their souls into hell.

Rather than end up like that, with their souls dragged into hell for eternity after death, they'd rather have their fellow human beings kill them.

Being killed by a fellow soldier is the same as being killed by a regular bullet; it's just death in the ordinary sense.

Where the soul goes after death is God's business.

It's better than being judged guilty by this burning skull and dragged to hell on the spot.

After this statement exploded among the assassins, everyone had the same idea.

They turned their heads to each other, opened their mouths, and bit the neck of the nearest fellow human.

But they failed.

Frank raised his right hand another inch.

The chains tightened suddenly, and the pressure squeezed in from all directions at once, making it hard for everyone to breathe.

The ribs bent inward, the lungs were compressed to only half their normal size, and even breathing through the nostrils became an extremely difficult luxury.

Forget about turning around to bite someone's neck, they can't even open their mouths.

Frank took a step, his boots sinking into the mud, each step leaving a charred footprint.

He walked up to the nearest assassin, extended his left hand, and gripped the top of the assassin's head with his five fingers.

He pulled that face, which had turned purplish-red from suffocation, directly in front of his skull.

The Eye of Judgment is activated.

The two dark blue lights deep in his eyes suddenly intensified, turning the assassin's entire face blue and white.

All the crimes that man had committed, from childhood to adulthood, from his first theft to his last assassination commission, were clearly visible.

These images unfolded frame by frame in Frank's mind.

There was no fast-forwarding, no frame skipping; every single detail was crystal clear, without missing a single thing.

"You are guilty."

Frank's jaws parted slightly, and the moment the voice, enveloping two voices, fell, the assassin's body burst into flames from within.

Flames erupted from his eye sockets, nasal cavity, mouth, and ear canals simultaneously, his skin turned inside out, and his bones shattered into grayish-white powder under the high temperature.

An extremely sharp wail was squeezed out of his melting throat, stretching into a soundtrack that rose into the sky from near to far.

The assassins standing nearby stared wide-eyed.

They saw a blood-red vortex slowly rotating at Frank's feet, on the cracked mud ground baked by the flames.

Deep within the vortex lies a bottomless, dark red void, its edges entwined with countless translucent faces screaming silently.

The thing that had just emerged from the assassin's body—a grayish-white, misty outline enveloped in flames and constantly twisting and struggling—was sucked into the vortex and disappeared.

"No—please don't!" The other assassin completely broke down. His voice was no longer a roar, but a dry howl that came from the friction of air after his vocal cords had been torn apart.

"I can die! Let me die! Don't drag me in, don't drag me into hell!"

He lowered his head with all his might, pressing his chin against the cross necklace that had been hanging on his chest for years, but which he had never properly prayed over.

His lips trembled violently as he repeated the same indistinct phrase over and over again.

But when he looked up again, he did not see God's forgiveness.

What he saw was Frank's burning skull and those judgment eyes that were now glowing with a dark blue light.

"You are guilty."

Frank's palm landed on his head, and flames engulfed his entire body.

The wailing sounded again, and yet another gray-white soul, enveloped in flames, fell into the blood-red vortex.

He didn't stop, one after another, head after head.

Frank walked up to each of the chained killers, placed his hand on their heads, read the entire chronicle of sins with a judgmental gaze, and then uttered those two words.

Each time the flames ignited, another scream echoed across the riverbank.

Each time the screams subsided, the crimson vortex sucked in another soul.

One, three, ten, twenty, all of them.

The last mournful cry faded into the night wind, the blood-red vortex slowly closed, and only Frank remained on the riverbank.

He stood there, the two dark blue lights on the skull flickering continuously, like an old light bulb with unstable voltage.

Using the Judgment Eye to send someone to hell is completely different from simply shooting someone to death.

Firing a gun only requires pulling the trigger, but the Eye of Judgment will play all the crimes the other person has committed frame by frame in his mind in a way that cannot be turned off.

Every frame is real, every frame carries the fear and pain of the victims at that time.

You can't fast forward, skip, or close your eyes to avoid watching any frame.

Even for someone with an iron will like Frank, swallowing the complete criminal memories of dozens of people in one go required a moment's pause.

A moment later, he turned around and walked to the riverbank.

With his left hand, he took the same shotgun, also wreathed in flames, from his back, pointed the muzzle at the black river water, and pulled the trigger.

With a loud bang, the shotgun fired something other than ordinary bullets.

Those were two thick, high-temperature pillars of fire, imbued with the flames of evil spirits.

The moment it shot out from the muzzle, it distorted and warped the surrounding air.

The pillar of fire poured straight into the river. The river water did not evaporate into mist the moment it came into contact with the flames; instead, it was burned through directly.

Two holes, each nearly a meter in diameter and bottomless, were punched into the water's surface.

Flames surged down the edge of the hole, burning several assassins who had been lurking at the bottom of the river and hadn't yet surfaced.

Several more jets of fire blasted into the riverbed, clearing out all the remaining targets lurking underwater.

He put away his shotgun, looked up, and gazed at the rooftops of the two abandoned buildings across the river.

The searchlight was still on, but the sniper who had been positioned there was gone.

Only two abandoned lamps remained on the rooftop, their beams still sweeping back and forth across the charred crater on the riverbank.

Frank turned around and walked towards the bridge.

On the bridge, the three members of Hellsword remained in a defensive formation, their guns locked in different directions.

Seeing the burning skull approaching from the riverbank, the three men simultaneously lowered their guns and stood up straight, their heels hitting each other with a crisp crack.

The leftmost player took a step forward, pulled an old-fashioned flip phone from his pocket with his right hand, flipped it open, and turned the screen toward Frank.

"Captain Frank, it's confirmed. All of these people accepted the bounty offered by the Continental Hotel."

"The mission was just issued today. The reward is two million US dollars per person, on the condition that you participate in the attack and confirm your death."

The message on the screen was very concise.

Bounty target: Frank Castle.

Reward: Each registered member who participates in the attack and confirms the target's death will receive two million US dollars, settled in a hotel in mainland China, paid in a lump sum.

Every member of the Hellsword Squad has registered as a member at a hotel in mainland China.

While patrolling and chasing targets, they would also take on a few bounties targeting gangs to earn some extra money.

Is this illegal? Are you kidding me?

Even their leader, Li En, is a registered member of the Mainland Hotel.

After clearing out gang strongholds himself, he would also collect the bounty on them.

The Captain Frank next to him, with his skull ablaze, is also a registered member.

Since everyone is in the same system, taking on tasks and receiving rewards from each other, no one is any cleaner than anyone else.

Frank's skull turned around, its eye sockets, still pulsating with a dark blue light, scanning the faces of the three team members in turn.

His jaw moved slightly, making two clicks, and the ethereal sound, enveloping two layers of vocal range, rang out again.

"You are guilty!"

The three team members' expressions remained unchanged, and they didn't even adjust their posture.

The one standing at the front even closed his flip phone and put it back in his pocket, then nodded to Frank, his tone even calmer than when he was reporting mission information earlier.

"Captain, we know we are guilty, but now is not the time for us to go to hell."

"When we're no longer needed here, please have the captain take us to hell."

After he said that, the vengeful spirit within Frank remained silent for a moment.

Then it stopped making noise.

Frank tapped the skull twice.

He walked to the black Hummer SUV parked next to the bridge railing, opened the door, and got into the driver's seat.

He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his fingers tightening, and flames spread from the back of his hands, spreading along the steering wheel to both sides, engulfing the entire cockpit in a moment.

The dial lit up with a dark red flame.

All four tires burst into flames at the same time, their rubber hissing as it came into contact with the flames, and streaks of bright white flames shot out from the gaps in the engine compartment.

The three team members did not board the vehicle through the door.

They skillfully climbed onto the roof of the SUV, gripped the roof rack bars with both hands, bent their knees, and lowered their bodies to find a stable position on the roof.

Frank started the engine.

A black SUV engulfed in flames shot off the bridge and sped down Ninth Avenue toward the downtown area.

The four tires left four charred streaks on the asphalt road, and the exhaust pipe spewed out thick smoke filled with sparks.

Before he even crossed the first intersection, Barron in the Umbrella School of Cyber ​​Security Lab had already noticed the speeding vehicle.

He sprang up from his seat, his ten fingers simultaneously swiping across several touchscreens, revealing multiple different colored interfaces.

Without looking up, he shouted at the ceiling.

"On Sunday, clear the way for Captain Frank, and turn the green lights at all the intersections along his route ahead of him."

"All vehicles coming from both sides were blocked behind the red light, giving no opportunity for any traffic to intersect with it."

"Received, Mr. Barron," Sunday's synthesized voice rang out smoothly from the speaker.

From Ninth Avenue to the financial district where the Continental Hotel is located, the traffic light control system at every intersection along the way has already switched before vehicles approach.

Vehicles traveling east-west were stopped at the red light, while all traffic lights for north-south traffic turned green.

The drivers who were initially stopped were impatiently honking their horns.

Someone leaned out of the car window and peered at the empty intersection ahead, muttering curses under their breath.

But when the black SUV engulfed in flames roared past them, all the horns stopped simultaneously.

All the heads that had been sticking out of the car windows simultaneously pulled back in.

They recognized the car and the three people crouching on its roof.

They recognized the charred marks left on the road after the tires had run over it.

No one honked anymore, no one grumbled anymore.

They simply sat quietly in their respective driver's seats, their hands gripping the steering wheel.

Only after the SUV's exhaust disappeared at the next intersection did he slowly release the brakes.