DC: Rise of the Kryptonian Tyrant

by Junkdog786

A Kryptonian war criminal rises from a tragic past. Once a selfless man who gave everything for love and family, he was shattered by betrayal. Reborn ruthless and cunning, he casts aside his former self. Ambitious and cold, he builds a force to reshape the universe, leaving behind only the ashes of the man he used to be.

7. Chapter 41-50

Chapter 41

Boom...

The underground research institute trembled again, the vibrations rippling through every floor, even reaching the heavily reinforced fourth sublevel where the air felt thick with tension.

Bardi had directed the 70-ton Annihilator III missile straight at the white laboratory building aboveground, obliterating the soldiers encircling it. The addition of mass-launched vehicle-mounted missiles had turned the military base into a battlefield of carnage. Over 1,700 soldiers had been killed, with another 2,000 seriously injured. The survivors, gripped by fear, fled the base in droves.

No one wanted to be caught in the next round of bombardments, especially with 300-ton missiles looming in the arsenal. The destruction was too overwhelming, too absolute.

The explosion that reduced the laboratory building to rubble, along with the strategically placed C4 explosives, sent shockwaves strong enough to cause the underground research institute to shudder violently.

Fortunately, the facility's reinforced double-layer metal structure held firm against the external impact, though the exit above might now be completely sealed.

Bardi's expression remained calm, detached even, as he studied the map of Nevada on the screen in front of him. His eyes were steady, filled with calculation rather than emotion.

Nevada was a web of military infrastructure, home to nearly 132 military bases. The sheer number was staggering, overwhelming even. Just this one state alone housed so many facilities, all operating at high levels of security and readiness.

But it wasn't entirely surprising. The Cold War had yet to conclude, and the United States and the Soviet Union remained locked in a ruthless competition for global dominance. Against that backdrop, 132 bases in Nevada might even be considered a conservative estimate.

Many of these bases were undoubtedly stationed to protect the enigmatic Area 51, shrouded in secrecy and speculation.

The base Bardi was currently assaulting, however, was one of the smaller, outermost ones—situated near the borders of Utah and Idaho.

His calm gaze remained fixed on the map, his mind racing through possibilities as he planned his escape.

--

The sheer density of missile silos and military installations across Nevada presented an enormous obstacle. Some bases were legacies of Cold War preparedness, while others existed specifically to shield the United States' most guarded secrets, such as Area 51.

But for Bardi, these weren't just obstacles, they were immense threats.

Even with the destruction he had already caused, including the successful detonation of a missile with a 16,000-ton payload, the presence of other military installations nearby rendered it a mere drop in the bucket.

There was a much larger military base just 500 kilometers away. Unlike this one, which relied on helicopters, the larger base housed cutting-edge aircraft like F-15 Eagle fighter jets and F-16 Fighting Falcons.

If Bardi attempted to escape via helicopter, those fighter jets could be deployed within half an hour, missiles locked and ready to obliterate him mid-flight.

And while Bardi didn't mind the idea of improvising, like leaping onto a fighter jet in mid-air, tearing the cockpit open, and dragging the pilot out, it wasn't a scenario that offered much certainty. He couldn't fly, and engaging a jet in combat thousands of meters above ground left too many unpredictable factors.

Bardi narrowed his eyes at the map, contemplating his options.

He spoke decisively: "Hera, fire two cruise missiles with 10,000-ton and 6,000-ton payloads at the military base 500 kilometers away. Target their airstrip and destroy all the fighter jets."

Hera's elegant, measured voice responded immediately: "Master, the moment we launched the first missile, other military bases detected its trajectory. At a distance of 500 kilometers, there's a 90% probability that these missiles will be intercepted and detonated mid-air before reaching their target."

Bardi nodded. "That's fine. Time is short. Launch the 300-ton missile at this base immediately. Then fire the 10,000-ton and 6,000-ton missiles toward the base 500 kilometers away. Launch them in different directions to buy some time."

"Understood, Master. The 300-ton missile will detonate at the military base in one minute and twenty seconds. The 6,000-ton and 10,000-ton missiles will launch two minutes later, targeting the fighter depot of the base 500 kilometers away," Hera responded with her usual calm efficiency.

Bardi exhaled slowly, turning his attention back to the route he had carefully mapped out. Double-checking every detail, he ensured that everything was in place before switching the screen off. He stood, his expression unreadable, and walked away with quiet determination.

There was one final task to complete.

He needed to erase all traces of his presence.

Kryptonian genetics were too dangerous to fall into human hands, and Bardi would not allow his DNA to become a tool for experimentation or exploitation.

Before basking in the sun to recharge his strength, Jenny had successfully created a genetic serum using his cells. Though its effectiveness remained uncertain, Bardi had no intention of letting such a dangerous substance remain in circulation.

He had already ordered Hera to delete all experimental data from the lab's systems. Using Hera's calculations and his own deductions, he was confident he could locate where Bori had stored the serum.

The hallways of the underground research institute were bloodstained and eerily silent as Bardi made his way back to the white room where he had been imprisoned. His face remained cold and stoic as he passed the one-way mirror, his sharp gaze taking in the sterile, featureless space that had once held him captive.

The memories stirred faintly as he walked through the very room that had once rendered him powerless.

But in the end, he had won.

A faint, bitter smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Most of the researchers who had experimented on him were now dead. Jenny had been deliberately spared. Slade was gone. Dean Bori was gone. The middle-aged woman who had conducted tests with all the detached curiosity of someone dissecting a frog—dead.

Bardi remembered all their faces. He remembered every single researcher who had studied him on the fourth sublevel, their names etched into his memory. One by one, he had sent them to their graves.

And as for General Vic? Bardi was certain his time would come soon enough.

He continued toward Jenny's laboratory.

Jenny… perhaps the only person in this facility who had truly wanted to help him.

But even then, Bardi knew it was because he had captured her heart. Without that connection, he would have remained just another research subject to her.

Inside the laboratory, the genetic serum was gone. Bori had taken it and hidden it elsewhere.

What remained in the lab was… a grotesque sight.

Inside a reinforced glass enclosure was a half-caged, tumor-covered rat. Its body was grotesquely misshapen, the mutations turning it into a pitiful creature that slammed itself frantically against the tempered glass walls of its enclosure.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The relentless sound of the creature's desperate thrashing echoed in the silent lab.

Bardi frowned, his cold gaze studying the frantic animal. The confined space had clearly driven it mad.

"Was this rat injected with the genetic serum?" Bardi muttered to himself, shaking his head slightly.

From the looks of it, the serum was a complete failure.

Whatever genetic traits the researchers had attempted to extract or replicate were useless now. Nothing of Kryptonian value could be recovered from this grotesque experiment.

--

After a brief search, Bardi's deductions proved correct. Following Hera's monitoring of Bori's movements and accounting for his own observations, Bardi found the serum hidden under a black plastic bag in a discarded trash can within the lab.

Just as his fingers closed around the vial, the ground beneath him shuddered violently. The tremors were accompanied by a low, thunderous rumble as dust fell from the cracks in the steel-reinforced ceiling of the underground research institute.

The 300-ton missile had detonated.

Bardi felt the vibrations travel up through his feet, shaking the ground beneath him. Without hesitation, he turned and strode back to the evolution room.

"Master," Hera's voice greeted him as soon as he arrived, "the 6,000-ton and 10,000-ton missiles have been prepared. They will launch shortly."

"Good," Bardi replied curtly. "Rest now, Hera."

With that, he removed the key from its interface and hung it securely around his neck, the cold metal gleaming faintly under the dim lights.

His sharp gaze held a glimmer of anticipation as he straightened.

"It's time to get out of here."

Chapter 42

On the ground military base, the air was thick with smoke and despair. The remnants of destruction stretched as far as the eye could see. There was no longer the sound of battle, only the haunting cries of the wounded and dying.

Under the scorching sun, the ground shimmered with distorted heat waves. Black smoke spiraled into the sky, mingling with the stench of burnt vehicles, charred flesh, and blood. Shattered vehicles lay scattered amidst the ruins, broken bodies strewn across the scorched earth.

The aftermath of the missile's impact was hellish. The once orderly military base had been reduced to a scene of devastation, the wails of the injured the loudest sound left in this desolate wasteland.

Near the ruins of the white laboratory building—the exit of the underground research institute—there was now a massive, charred crater. The building had been obliterated by the impact of the 70-ton missile, and the debris had collapsed inward, sealing the underground exit with piles of jagged rubble.

Suddenly, the rubble began to tremble. At first, it was a faint shaking, but it grew stronger with each passing moment.

Then, with a loud *bang, the rubble exploded outward. Stones and dirt shot into the air as a tall, shadowy figure leaped free from the destruction, soaring more than ten meters into the sky.

The sun blazed behind him, casting his figure into sharp relief. The silhouette was both majestic and imposing, his form tall and powerful, radiating an almost otherworldly presence.

Bardi landed heavily on the blackened earth, his boots sinking several inches into the scorched ground. His knees bent slightly to absorb the impact before he straightened, his spine rigid, his demeanor calm and unyielding. He stood amidst the ruins like a detached observer, his cold eyes scanning the devastation with neither pity nor regret.

The sun beamed down on him, its light falling across his broad shoulders and illuminating him as though he were a figure from legend.

To Bardi, the sun was everything.

His Kryptonian genes, now fully awakened, drank in the sunlight like an empty vessel being filled to the brim. The radiant energy coursed through him, bringing warmth and vitality to every cell in his body.

He lifted his head slightly, facing the sun directly. A faint sensation of euphoria washed over him, his body reveling in the solar energy. It felt like a soothing hot spring embracing his entire being, like nourishment for a starved man.

He could feel the sun's rays penetrating his skin, sinking into the very depths of his cells. The energy seeped into his cytoplasm, strengthening and transforming him at a microscopic level. Every photon brought with it a surge of comfort and power, every cell becoming sturdier, more resilient.

Bardi's sharp gaze narrowed slightly against the blinding sunlight. He could already sense the potential that lay ahead. With enough exposure, his abilities would grow exponentially—microscopic vision, x-ray vision, and, eventually, heat vision. Each new power felt inevitable, a matter of time and accumulation.

A faint glow appeared on his face, a subtle halo cast by the interplay of sunlight and dust. Standing amidst the ruins, surrounded by smoke and broken bodies, he seemed almost otherworldly, a figure of divine wrath—or salvation.

And then, he smiled faintly.

The smile was calm, almost serene, as if untouched by the chaos around him. For a brief moment, he looked less like a destroyer and more like a saint. But the military uniform he wore grounded him, anchoring him to the brutal reality of the world.

His moment of solace lasted only two seconds.

The anguished cries of the injured and dying reached his ears, snapping him out of his quiet reverie. The sound was harsh, cutting through his momentary tranquility like a jagged blade.

Bardi began walking toward the airstrip, his steps steady and deliberate.

--

The cries around him intensified.

"Help me… my leg is crushed under the car!"

"My hand… it's broken… someone… please help!"

"Don't leave me here… please!"

"No… come back! I'm ordering you as an officer—get back here!"

The voices came from soldiers left behind in the carnage. Most were too severely injured to flee, buried under rubble, pinned beneath vehicles, or missing limbs.

The ones who could still move had already fled the base minutes ago, commandeering jeeps or running on foot. Those who remained were the unlucky ones, left to scream and beg for help amidst the ruins.

Bardi ignored them all.

His face was as emotionless as stone as he walked past the desperate cries. The wounded clawed at the air, pleading for mercy, but he didn't so much as glance in their direction.

Suddenly, a bloody, dirt-streaked hand shot out from under an overturned car.

The hand was skeletal and gaunt, its fingers twisted and trembling with effort. Its nails were broken and jagged, its veins bulging against the taut skin.

It latched onto Bardi's boot.

The grip wasn't firm, but it was desperate, clinging with a monstrous determination born from rage and desperation. The fingers clutched at his ankle, unable to hold any higher.

Bardi didn't pause.

Without even looking down, he took another step forward, easily breaking the grip. The hand fell away, landing heavily on the charred ground.

Its fingers clawed into the dirt, digging deep as if trying to anchor themselves.

From beneath the car, Brigadier General Cagle slowly raised his head.

His face was a grotesque mess of blackened blood, dirt, and ash, his features barely recognizable. His eyes, however, burned with fury—bloodshot and filled with an almost animalistic rage.

His lips twisted into a snarl, his expression contorted with pure hatred. His five fingers clenched into a trembling fist, his entire body shaking with anger as he stared at Bardi's retreating back.

"You!"

"It's you…!!"

Cagle's voice was hoarse and filled with rage. His face was twisted in agony, covered in a mixture of blood and blackened dirt. A jeep rested heavily on his mangled lower body, crushing it completely. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking the earth, and the jagged edges of broken bones protruded grotesquely from his flesh.

The chaos had erupted after a 70-ton missile struck the white laboratory building, reducing it to rubble. The blast created massive craters and sent debris flying, blocking the exits of the underground research facility. Cagle had fought his way here, driven by fury, clutching a heavy rotary machine gun, ready to ambush Bardi the moment he emerged.

But things rarely go as planned.

Hera had launched another round of vehicle-mounted missiles, one of which had exploded directly beside Cagle's vehicle. The force of the blast overturned his jeep, crushing him beneath its weight. The missile's shockwave had obliterated his body, exposing his spine and leaving him clinging to life.

He'd calculated correctly. After the initial missile strike that destroyed the white laboratory building, it was clear the remaining missiles were being controlled. Their flight paths had been deliberately redirected. Cagle had deduced that the missiles were no longer targeting the building, as further strikes were unnecessary. Bardi's escape route had already been determined.

Convinced of this, Cagle had positioned himself here to ambush Bardi.

But Hera had her own priorities. She had been clearing waves of opposition to pave the way for her master, and Cagle had arrived just in time to meet the second wave of missiles.

The sheer number of missiles proved to be his undoing.

One of the vehicle-mounted missiles landed too close, flipping his jeep and crushing him beneath it. His ambush had turned into his grave.

By the time Bardi emerged from the underground research facility, Brigadier General Cagle was already in a state of near death. His vision was fading, and his breaths were shallow. But when he saw Bardi leap out of the wreckage, a burst of adrenaline gave him one final moment of clarity.

"Help... me..."

Cagle croaked weakly, his voice filled with desperation.

Bardi, however, didn't even spare him a second glance. He saw the outstretched hand and assumed it belonged to a dying soldier pleading for aid. With an indifferent motion, Bardi kicked the hand aside and continued walking, his gaze fixed on the path ahead.

The world was cruel like that.

To Bardi, Brigadier General Cagle was nothing more than an obstacle—a small stone in his path that could be kicked away without a second thought. No matter how furious or defiant Cagle was, it didn't matter. He lacked the power to stop Bardi's advance.

Cagle's final moments were filled with anguish. He struggled to focus through his blurred vision, taking in the figure of the man who had brought ruin to the military base. His rage burned as brightly as the fires consuming the wreckage around him. Yet, as the heat twisted the air and black smoke coiled into the sky, Bardi's silhouette began to fade from sight.

Cagle's vision darkened. His breathing slowed. His broken body, crushed beyond repair, finally gave out.

His twisted face froze in a grimace of fury, his bulging eyes reflecting his helplessness.

And then, he was gone.

...

Meanwhile, Bardi's steady footsteps echoed in the aftermath of destruction. He paused for a moment, surveying his surroundings.

To his left was the tarmac.

To his right, the medical building.

Chapter 43

Bardi's footsteps came to a halt.

The acrid stench of burning flesh and debris carried by the wind reached his nose.

Among the ruins, he stood alone, the sole figure remaining upright.

His usually cold, indifferent gaze softened, as though a faint light of reflection flickered in his eyes.

Reaching behind his waist with his left hand, Bardi touched the genetic serum tucked into the band of his pants. The test tube's cold glass pressed against his fingertips. In the sunlight, the blood-red liquid inside swirled faintly, glinting like a precious ruby.

This was the serum Jenny had created to help him stand again.

Calling it a "genetic serum" was an overstatement.

Bardi had read through Jenny's experimental notes and understood her intentions. This serum wasn't designed to grant superhuman strength or extraordinary abilities. Instead, it was meant to stimulate nerve action potentials and restore his ability to move.

For a brief moment, it was as if time had stopped, leaving only him and the ruins of the battlefield.

Then—

BOOM!

A sudden burst of light erupted in the distance, breaking the stillness. A massive fireball bloomed in the sky, trailing thick black smoke. The explosion sent waves of heat rolling outward, and the white clouds above were blasted apart, leaving concentric rings that carved a hole in the sky to reveal a vivid blue expanse.

The deafening roar of the blast echoed across the landscape, shaking the ground beneath it. Shockwaves rippled through the air, sending rolling tsunamis of dust and debris across the earth.

The sound traveled for miles, reverberating across the desolate military base. The intensity of the explosion left even the soldiers who were already severely injured screaming in agony. Their ears rang with the thunderous noise, blood seeped from ruptured eardrums, and some succumbed to the internal injuries caused by the sheer force of the blast.

Bardi stood unmoved in the midst of the chaos, the wind roaring around him like a tempest. The violent gusts blew his clothes tight against his body, framing his imposing figure against the backdrop of destruction.

To an observer, he might have looked like a lone figure standing atop a mountain, resolute and unshaken, his silent conviction cutting through the storm.

The explosion had been caused by a six-kiloton cruise missile detonated in midair. A military base 500 kilometers away had detected the missile's flight path, realized the threat, and intercepted it before it could land.

But that wasn't all.

From another direction, a second missile—a ten-kiloton cruise missile loomed in the sky.

Its arrival was punctuated by an even louder explosion.

BOOM!

The missile detonated several kilometers above ground, releasing a searing white flash. The flash was so intense it burned at a temperature exceeding 6,000 degrees Celsius. Any unshielded person who dared to look directly at it would have been blinded instantly. At the epicenter of the blast, the heat and force would have torn matter apart at an atomic level.

Even though the explosion occurred high in the sky, the resulting shockwaves were more ferocious than the first. They rolled across the land like an unstoppable tsunami, kicking up massive clouds of dust and sand. The very earth seemed to ripple beneath the waves of force, and the air grew thick with chaos.

Amid this apocalyptic scene, Bardi moved.

He stepped forward, his body pressing against the gale-force winds, his face unwavering despite the stinging sand cutting into his skin.

His expression turned cold and resolute, his eyes narrowing as he pushed through the storm. His figure, framed against the backdrop of rolling dust and fire, seemed both indomitable and solitary.

By the time he reached the tarmac, the sandstorm had mostly subsided.

A single helicopter remained.

During the initial missile strikes on the military base, several soldiers had tried to escape by air. One helicopter had managed to take off, but it had been quickly destroyed by a vehicle-mounted missile. The fiery explosion had left the remaining soldiers too paralyzed with fear to attempt another escape.

When another helicopter was shot down and exploded in midair, it became clear to everyone that survival wasn't a matter of luck. Whoever tried to escape by air was doomed. With that grim reality sinking in, the remaining soldiers abandoned the idea of using the helicopter and fled on foot.

It was the correct choice. Those who ran were among the few survivors of the chaos.

The only helicopter left on the tarmac was a Boeing AH-63 Apache gunship.

Bardi had a plan. He needed to fly the gunship to the border of Nevada, Utah, and Idaho.

If everything went smoothly, he could pilot the Apache to a hidden location, dispose of it discreetly, and begin his next steps.

If things went poorly, he had a backup plan. He could dive into the Snake River, using its long and winding expanse to evade detection. The Snake River spanned multiple regions, and its sheer size would make it nearly impossible for anyone to track him. From there, he could cross into Utah, move through Colorado, and eventually reach Kansas.

Kansas.

The thought of it stirred something in Bardi's mind. He wondered if Kal-El, the heir of the House of El, had already been sent to Earth by his father. Bardi clenched his jaw at the thought. There was a long-standing debt to settle with the El family.

His eyes remained fixed on the helicopter for a moment, his body rigid. He stood straight, motionless, but there was a subtle hesitation in his stance—a faint struggle, as if he were weighing something deep within.

Whatever the conflict was, it didn't slow his actions.

Without further delay, Bardi moved toward the helicopter, his steps swift and deliberate.

He opened the cabin door with practiced ease and climbed inside, settling into the captain's seat on the right. His movements were precise, calm, and efficient, though his demeanor carried the urgency of someone escaping pursuit not from external enemies, but from something internal.

Bardi gripped the collective pitch control stick with his left hand, increasing the blade pitch to its maximum angle. As the rotor's lift reached full strength, he used his right hand to steady the joystick and powered up the engine.

The sequence of actions was seamless, performed with mechanical precision. The blades began to turn, slowly at first, then rapidly, stirring up a storm of yellow sand that spiraled into the air, forming a towering sand column.

The loud roar of the propellers filled the air as the heavy Apache gunship lifted off the ground. The turbulence below created whirlwinds of sand and dust, churning the ground into chaos.

As the helicopter stabilized, Bardi adjusted the controls, steering it toward the open skies. For a fleeting moment, his cold eyes softened as he glanced toward the medical building in the distance. A faint, almost imperceptible gentleness flickered in his gaze.

Then, without hesitation, he increased the helicopter's speed, tilting it forward like a dragonfly skimming the water, and rushed southward, leaving behind a cloud of dust and ruin.

The military base lay in ruins. The medical building stood amid the black smoke and drifting sand, isolated and desolate, like a monument to abandonment.

Nevada's arid terrain stretched endlessly below. The state, known for its dry desert climate, was a vast expanse of barren hills and rocky plains. Even after twenty-seven minutes of flying south, the scenery remained unchanged—hills, Gobi terrain, and dry earth as far as the eye could see.

Finally, in the distance, a faint touch of green appeared on the horizon. A forest. The sight of it meant water wasn't far.

As Bardi approached the forest, a sharp screech cut through the air.

An F-15 Eagle fighter jet streaked across the sky from behind, its engines howling as it locked onto the helicopter.

Bardi's eyes narrowed as he glanced at the jet.

"It seems I made the right choice leaving her behind."

Chapter 44

"AH-63 Apache gunship, soldier, cease your flight immediately, descend, and prepare for inspection."

The communication channel buzzed with the stern voice of the F-15 Eagle fighter pilot.

Bardi remained silent. The dense green of the forest was now in sight, but he ignored the warning and continued flying toward the Snake River.

The helicopter was currently cruising at an altitude of about 1,500 meters, with approximately 18 kilometers left to the river.

The AH-63 Apache gunship was armed with a 30mm M230 chain gun mounted under the nose and two anti-armor missiles attached to its short wing pylons. However, this wasn't the more advanced AH-64 Apache that would later dominate the world's ranking of gunships. It was an earlier version, far less equipped and not nearly as versatile.

The weaponry on board was not designed to engage a jet fighter. The chain gun would be useless against the speed and altitude of the Eagle, and firing it was more likely to scatter rounds harmlessly into the air than deal any damage.

The two anti-armor missiles, however, offered a glimmer of possibility.

Bardi ran calculations in his head, weighing the odds.

The Apache's maximum flight speed was 265 kilometers per hour, while the F-15 Eagle fighter had a top speed of 1,482 kilometers per hour—a difference of over sevenfold. The Eagle could circle the Apache dozens of times in the span of a few minutes, all while unleashing devastating firepower. Its M61A1 Vulcan cannon could fire more than 5,000 rounds per minute, and its payload included AIM-7 Sparrow, AIM-120 AMRAAM, and AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, making it overwhelmingly superior in combat.

Bardi frowned as he watched the radar display showing the Eagle approaching at over 1,000 kilometers per hour. His eyes flickered with determination as he considered his options.

The piercing screech of the F-15's engines roared through the air like a blade cutting the atmosphere. Within seconds, the jet streaked past the Apache, leaving a white contrail in its wake.

In a flash, the fighter banked into a wide arc and circled back, lining itself up with the Apache's trajectory. Over the communication system, the voice barked out another warning, this time sharper, more commanding.

"Warning! AH-63 Apache helicopter gunship, report your identification number and land immediately for inspection, or I will open fire!"

The tone left no room for negotiation. Whoever was in the Apache was clearly suspected of foul play.

Bardi glanced at the forest below, then shifted his gaze to the approaching fighter. His expression hardened.

In one decisive motion, Bardi pulled the control stick sharply, tilting the Apache upward. Adjusting the collective-pitch joystick, he brought the blades to a higher angle and locked the nose-mounted chain gun onto the fighter.

The Apache helicopter tilted like a dragonfly poised in midair. The 30mm M230 chain gun roared to life, its barrel spinning furiously as it unleashed a hail of rounds into the sky. Tongues of fire erupted from the nose of the gunship, accompanied by a deafening mechanical roar.

But the fighter pilot was skilled and experienced. He anticipated the Apache's angle of attack and climbed upward at the exact moment Bardi raised the gunship's nose. The 30mm chain gun rounds screamed harmlessly past the underside of the Eagle, missing their target entirely.

The fighter pilot didn't hesitate. Banking sharply, he brought his jet into an aggressive position, angling the nose of the Eagle downward to fire. The M61A1 Vulcan cannon mounted on the jet spun to life, its muzzle glowing as it spat out a stream of bullets at an astonishing rate.

Tracer rounds streaked through the air, blazing just past the Apache's cockpit. The first few rounds narrowly missed, but the continued volley tore into the ground below, carving a path of destruction through the forest.

Earth exploded upward in bursts of dirt and foliage, trees toppled over, and leaves flew into the air like confetti. The power of the Vulcan cannon was absolute, its destructive force cutting a straight line of devastation across the landscape.

The forest below erupted into chaos as a path of destruction carved its way through the trees.

Bardi felt the helicopter shudder slightly under him. The nose of the Apache gunship was grazed by the fighter jet's cannon fire, leaving several scorched and deep iron grooves along its surface. The damage was minimal, but only because Bardi had anticipated the fighter's trajectory. He'd adjusted his position just enough to avoid a direct hit. A second later, and the Apache would have been reduced to a fireball.

The near miss didn't bother Bardi. If anything, it confirmed what he already knew. There was no use trying to hide now, the fighter pilot had identified him as an enemy. But Bardi had no intention of playing defensively. The forest was within reach, and he was confident his plan would unfold before he was shot down.

The F-15 Eagle climbed higher into the sky, disappearing momentarily before banking into a wide arc. Bardi's sharp gaze followed the jet, his expression unreadable but focused.

With a calculated motion, he opened the helicopter's cockpit door. The rush of wind howled as it burst inside, threatening to destabilize the helicopter. But Bardi held firm, his control over the Apache unwavering as he corrected for the turbulent airflow.

The roar of the Eagle's jet engines grew louder, cutting through the wind's noise. The sound wasn't just audible—it was directional. Bardi's superhuman hearing tracked the fighter's movement with clarity sharper than sight.

The Eagle flipped gracefully through the sky, its sleek body twisting like a swallow mid-flight. It positioned itself directly behind the Apache, its M61A1 Vulcan cannon spinning to life. Flames erupted from the barrel as a barrage of bullets rained down, scarring the earth below. Dirt, leaves, and splintered trees exploded upward as the rounds carved another path of destruction through the forest.

But when the fighter pilot adjusted for a direct hit, Bardi had already anticipated the move. He tilted the Apache to one side, narrowly avoiding the rain of cannon fire.

This back-and-forth continued several times. The Eagle unleashed its cannon in sweeping arcs, but the Apache evaded every volley. Each missed strike tore apart the landscape below, sending shards of green and brown scattering into the air.

The fighter pilot's frustration became apparent as the Eagle broke away, flying higher and farther to reassess its strategy.

Bardi didn't hesitate. He pushed the Apache to its limits, pulling the cyclic pitch control lever as far as it would go to increase altitude. The helicopter ascended at its maximum climb rate of 16 meters per second, though it was still incomparable to the speed and height of the fighter jet.

Despite the stark disadvantage, Bardi's ability to maneuver the Apache and evade direct hits had already left the fighter pilot stunned.

Helicopters and fighter jets were worlds apart in design and purpose.

Fighter jets were built to dominate the skies. High speed, agility, advanced detection systems, and devastating firepower made them the kings of aerial combat. Armed helicopters, on the other hand, were designed for ground strikes and armored targets. Their slower speeds, limited altitude, and lower maneuverability meant they were ill-suited for dogfights against jets.

But Bardi had no intention of engaging in a traditional air battle.

The Eagle fighter completed a wide arc in the sky, circling back behind the Apache. At high altitude, the jet released two air-to-air missiles, their tails blazing as they sped toward the helicopter.

Bardi's eyes sharpened, and his hands moved instinctively, controlling the collective pitch lever, the cyclic stick, and the rudder pedals simultaneously. His movements were swift and precise, the controls responding as if the Apache were an extension of his body.

In a split second, the helicopter seemed to defy gravity. Bardi pulled it into a steep backward climb, the Apache tilting as its belly faced upward.

The M230 chain gun under the nose of the Apache roared to life, firing in rapid succession. The rounds struck the incoming missiles with pinpoint accuracy, detonating them mid-air in a fiery explosion.

The sudden turn of events left the Eagle fighter pilot in shock.

"Impossible!" the pilot muttered, his voice trembling.

Bardi followed up immediately. The Apache fired two anti-armor missiles from its short wings. Though not meant for air combat, the missiles streaked toward the Eagle, forcing the jet to dive lower to avoid a collision.

The chain gun continued its barrage, spitting rounds toward the fighter. The Eagle, with its superior speed and agility, easily avoided the gunfire and the incoming missiles.

But the fighter pilot was no less shaken.

The precision with which Bardi had maneuvered the Apache and intercepted the missiles was unlike anything the pilot had ever seen. The Apache's performance, combined with Bardi's uncanny accuracy, made it feel like he was fighting a completely different kind of enemy.

"Who are you?!" the pilot shouted over the communication channel. "Who the hell are you?!"

The Eagle fighter banked sharply, descending toward the ground to escape the chain gun's range. The pilot twisted the jet into a controlled dive, avoiding the Apache's retaliatory fire as he prepared to regain the upper hand.

But just as he was recovering, something extraordinary happened.

A dark shadow descended onto the nose of the Eagle fighter, the impact shaking the entire aircraft.

"What the—?!"

The pilot yanked the joystick to steady the jet, his eyes wide in disbelief.

Through the transparent canopy of the cockpit, he saw a tall, imposing figure standing on the nose of the fighter.

The sunlight framed the figure, casting it in sharp relief against the sky. The man's stance was unwavering, his silhouette like that of a demon descending from the heavens.

"This is impossible!" the pilot gasped, his voice trembling with terror.

Chapter 45

The wind howled like a thousand blades, slicing against Bardi's face. His hair whipped wildly in the air, and his clothes snapped and rippled violently as if they might tear apart. The currents of wind roared around him, but he stood unmoving, unwavering.

Bardi's posture was rigid, his spine straight, and his cold, emotionless eyes bored into the pilot's very soul. The sheer intensity of his gaze sent a primal fear racing through the pilot's chest, trembling down to the very core of his being.

"This is impossible!!!"

The pilot's voice was shrill, his breathing labored. His heart raced as though it might explode. His mind reeled, grasping for any explanation, but there was none.

Who could leap from a helicopter to a fighter jet in midair, almost 2,000 meters above the ground?

The two aircraft had been separated by at least 30 meters. And even if someone could make the jump, the violent air currents alone would have thrown them off course or torn them apart. Not to mention the fighter's immense speed, enough to pulverize anyone who dared to come near it.

Yet here he was, standing impossibly still on the jet's nose.

Bardi's breath was deep and controlled, a low exhale rumbling from his throat. Even for him, the leap had been extraordinary. The collision of forces—gravity, the fighter's forward velocity, and the sheer power of his own jump had pushed his body to its absolute limit. Every pore on his body felt as though it had been pricked with needles, and his veins burned as if they might burst.

Despite the pain, Bardi's face betrayed nothing. He stood firm, his boots planted securely on the jet's nose, his muscles coiled like steel cables to resist the fierce wind and the impact of the jet's speed. The sunlight reflected off his figure, and already, the warmth of the rays seemed to restore him.

His gaze locked onto the pilot, cold and unyielding.

The fighter pilot, his pupils dilating in terror, instinctively reached for the joystick to dive the jet and shake Bardi off. But before he could act, Bardi's right hand clenched into a fist.

With deliberate precision, Bardi channeled the full force of his body into a single punch. His muscles, already capable of immense strength, amplified the blow, layering movement and force into a strike that was almost incomprehensible. Even standing on the fragile nose of the jet, he managed to deliver nearly 100 tons of impact force.

Bang!

The fist struck the cockpit's glass canopy with earth-shattering power. The reinforced glass cracked instantly, a spiderweb of fractures radiating from the point of impact. A gaping hole appeared where his fist had connected, shards of glass flying inward and peppering the pilot's face.

The pilot screamed, his hands instinctively flying to shield his eyes. Terror gripped his chest as he stared at the hole in the cockpit.

"This... this isn't human!" he gasped. His mind raced in disbelief. A punch—just a punch—had shattered the canopy.

Bardi showed no reaction to the pilot's panic. His movements were calculated, calm. The fighter pilot, still blinded by fear, yanked the joystick hard to the right, throwing the jet into a steep climb. The Eagle roared to life as its engines flared, blue flames erupting from its exhaust.

The jet shot upward at a sharp 90-degree angle, accelerating with explosive force.

Bardi, unfazed, adjusted instantly. His fist unfurled into a claw-like grip, his fingers digging into the edge of the shattered canopy.

The wind was unrelenting, tearing at Bardi's face like countless blades. Yet, his eyes remained firm, unflinching, and fearless.

At an altitude of approximately 2,500 meters, the stakes were deadly. A fall from this height would almost certainly mean death, even for someone like him.

Slowly but steadily, Bardi's weight sank lower on the nose of the Eagle fighter. His steel-like fingers, unyielding against the force of the wind and the jet's blistering speed, dug into the glass of the cockpit canopy. Under the combined pressure of the fighter's velocity and his inhuman strength, his fingers tore through the glass, peeling it away piece by piece.

It was like watching a beast claw through the bark of a tree. The fighter's canopy didn't stand a chance.

Shards of shattered glass broke free, glinting like diamonds as they fell into the endless sky, scattering in the sunlight. The remaining cockpit glass on the left side gave way entirely, collapsing in a spray of glittering fragments. Bardi's fingers gripped the jagged edge until his hand latched onto the steel guard beneath.

Inside the cockpit, the fighter pilot was pale as death, his face beaten by the furious winds that rushed in through the breach. His heart raced, blood pounding in his ears, and his lungs felt like they were being squeezed. At this altitude, without the canopy's protection, the sheer force of gravity and airflow was enough to crush his arteries and strain his heart.

Bardi's assault had turned the cockpit into a death trap.

Panicked, the pilot grabbed the joystick and threw the jet into a sharp dive, trying to shake Bardi loose. His movements were frantic, and he pressed himself against the intact side of the canopy, desperately trying to avoid the terrifying figure above him.

But Bardi anticipated the maneuver. As the jet dove downward, Bardi's hands gripped the steel guard tighter, his fingers digging in like iron claws.

The jet's downward thrust wasn't as aggressive as it could have been, the damage to the canopy limited how much strain the pilot's body could endure. Still, the dive was forceful enough to send the jet rolling in tight, sharp arcs as it descended, attempting to dislodge the invader clinging to its surface.

The Eagle fighter twisted and turned like a swallow in mid-flight, each roll a calculated attempt to throw Bardi off balance.

But he didn't budge.

The violent wind howled against his body, but Bardi's iron grip held firm. His muscles bulged with strength, his fingers refusing to yield even an inch. The thrill of the moment coursed through him like fire.

Despite the chaos, a grin spread across his face.

Adrenaline surged through his veins, his blood boiling with exhilaration. This wild, dangerous dance through the skies filled him with a sense of freedom he had never felt before. The endless expanse of blue sky and the earth far below, it was as if the world was his to command.

For the first time, Bardi felt truly alive.

His excitement swelled as he thought about the future, about the possibility of soaring freely through the heavens, looking down on everything below. This was power. This was freedom.

In a brief moment of calm amid the jet's rapid maneuvers, Bardi seized his opportunity.

With practiced precision, he shifted his weight and flipped himself over, landing firmly back on the jet's nose. His hands gripped the steel guard once more, and he tore away the remaining shards of the cockpit glass with a single powerful motion.

His hand plunged into the cockpit, grabbing the pilot by his flight suit.

The pilot's face was a mask of pure terror. The freezing wind battered him, adding to the panic already gripping his heart. He thrashed against Bardi's grip, screaming incoherent pleas for mercy.

Bardi's expression didn't change.

Without a word, he yanked the pilot from the cockpit and let him go.

The man's screams were swallowed by the wind as his body was flung into the open sky, falling freely toward the earth far below.

Standing on the nose of the fighter, Bardi turned his gaze forward. His imposing figure stood tall against the rushing wind, his back straight and his chest proud. The jet streaked through the sky, its forward momentum carrying him toward the horizon.

Below him, the forest stretched endlessly, the sunlight casting patches of green and gold across the land. Above him, the white clouds drifted lazily through the vibrant blue sky.

The light bathed his face, and for a moment, Bardi closed his eyes.

Memories flickered through his mind, the endless manipulations and betrayals on Krypton, the failures, the countless individuals who had used him for their gain. His imprisonment on Earth, enduring the cold steel walls and endless tests for over a year.

All of it led to this moment.

This, here and now, was freedom. True freedom.

He opened his eyes, and a fire burned within them.

With this power, he could conquer anything.

His blood felt like it was ablaze, surging hot through his veins, fueling his resolve.

Standing atop the jet, Bardi raised his hands to his chest. In a single motion, he tore his military uniform apart, ripping the fabric as the raging wind caught the shreds and carried them away.

With his face flushed and his voice raw, he threw his head back and let out a primal roar, his voice booming over the roar of the wind and the engines.

The cry wasn't just rage—it was release. It was the culmination of everything he had endured, a sound that carried his fury, his pain, and his triumph.

A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye.

It glinted in the sunlight before the wind carried it away.

Chapter 46

General Vic walked through the shattered remains of the military base, his heavy boots crunching against debris. The wrecked jeep, the scorched earth, and the acrid stench of burning oil hung in the air, its dull heat pressing against his skin. His face was grim, and the simmering anger beneath his expression made it burn even hotter.

Around him, soldiers worked tirelessly, carrying charred or broken bodies on stretchers. Some of the injured still groaned in agony, their cries adding to the cacophony of the post-battle disaster. It was a scene of utter devastation.

Yet as much as the destruction weighed on him, General Vic knew something far more personal: his career, his future, had been reduced to the same ruin as this base.

He paused as two soldiers passed him, carrying a stretcher bearing the broken remains of Brigadier General Cagle.

Cagle's body had been severed in two, his spine and waistbones exposed grotesquely. His face, twisted in rage and agony, bore the look of a man who couldn't rest even in death.

General Vic's expression darkened further as the stretcher passed. Behind him, Colonel Willife, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, stood stiffly like a porcelain doll, her face utterly blank.

The anger in Vic's chest surged, a firestorm of rage directed not only at Bardi but also at his own men's incompetence. His fists clenched.

This wasn't just about the death of soldiers. Sacrifices were expected for the nation, after all. No, it was something deeper. It was fury at how Bardi, the alien they had captured and controlled for so long, had slipped through their fingers. Their first tangible victory, their first real step toward leveraging extraterrestrial power was now in ashes.

Suddenly, a communications soldier jogged up to him, saluted sharply, and spoke, "General, we have news on Bardi's whereabouts."

Vic turned, his gaze like a storm cloud, his voice sharp. "Report."

The soldier didn't falter. "Sir, Bardi engaged in a battle near the Snake River. He flew the stolen Apache helicopter and managed to shoot down the Eagle fighter jet pursuing him."

The soldier hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing. "When our teams arrived at the site, all they found were the wreckage of the helicopter and the jet. Preliminary assessment suggests Bardi may have fled upstream along the Snake River. Search efforts are underway."

General Vic's voice was a growl as he snapped, "Full search. I want every inch of that river combed."

The soldier saluted again and hurried off.

Vic's gaze swept over the smoldering ruins of the base. The charred, shattered buildings. The dying and maimed soldiers whose groans filled the air. The blackened rubble, once the pride of their operation.

A surge of fury roared within him.

This base was finished. Worse, his career as a general might not survive the fallout.

Almost 8,000 soldiers had perished here. If they had died fighting the Soviets, it could have been written off as noble sacrifice. But this? Death at the hands of an alien, one whose existence had been carefully concealed, would bring nothing but trouble.

Vic already saw the inevitable fallout. Questions. Investigations. He would have to spin this disaster, framing it as the unfortunate result of "experimental research" on enhanced soldiers. The alien angle could never come to light.

If he played it carefully, perhaps he could shift the narrative and salvage his position. Of course, it would mean giving up some of the technological advances they'd gained, trading them as bargaining chips to appease the higher-ups.

His thoughts shifted as his gaze landed on the only building left standing amidst the wreckage: the medical building.

Something clicked in his mind.

Straightening his uniform, he marched toward it, the sound of his boots heavy against the broken ground.

The sharp smell of formalin, disinfectant, and saline hit his nose as he entered. The chemical sting was so strong that his nostrils itched uncomfortably.

Wounded soldiers filled every corner of the building. Those too injured to move were laid out on stretchers. Others with minor injuries were draped in white cloth on either side of the entrance, receiving basic treatment.

Additional soldiers and medics had arrived from nearby bases, bringing supplies and assistance. Despite their efforts, the medical staff were overwhelmed by the sheer number of casualties.

The sound of bustling medics and the groans of the wounded created a chaotic symphony that would make anyone feel like they were in the heart of a battlefield hospital.

General Vic's expression grew darker as he took it all in, the chaos reflecting the failure of his operation.

Willife followed silently, her porcelain-doll face as blank as ever.

The medical building was small, only three stories high.

On the third floor, Jenny sat in a daze. Her eyes were bloodshot, the veins creeping across the whites, her pupils dry and burning. Her face looked hollow, devoid of hope. She had cried herself out, her tears long gone, leaving only despair in their place.

In her lap, she clutched a small red box. Her hands gripped it so tightly that her knuckles were pale and the veins beneath her skin bulged. Even after undergoing surgery to remove the bullet that had nearly ended her life, she had refused to let go of the box.

The box remained unopened.

Was it a ring inside? Or Bardi's heart? Or perhaps her own desperate hope—or despair?

When General Vic stepped into the room and saw her, his anger boiled over. It was almost unbearable.

Jenny's actions had directly allowed Bardi to escape. Her foolish infatuation with the alien, her willingness to help him bask in the sun, had undone everything.

She had been used, manipulated and in doing so, had brought ruin to the entire operation.

To Vic, Jenny bore 90% of the blame for this disaster.

The rest of the blame, of course, he would never assign to himself. He refused to consider how Bardi's year and three months of quiet observation, during which he studied every soldier's behavior, habits, and psychology, had been the real key to his escape.

It wasn't just Jenny's love that had facilitated Bardi's escape.

Each of them—the soldiers, the scientists, even General Vic himself—had their own flaws and limitations, and Bardi had exploited every one of them.

But General Vic didn't care to see it that way. As the one in command, he had every reason to push the blame onto his subordinates. If he declared someone wrong, then they were wrong.

The anger inside him surged like a volcanic eruption. His fingers twitched as he resisted the urge to draw his sidearm and shoot Jenny on the spot.

But he couldn't afford such a loss, not now.

Jenny's biological expertise was too valuable, more so than his anger or his need for vengeance. She had contributed immeasurably to the military's research, and there was still more she could do. That alone was enough to make him bury his fury, no matter how deep it ran.

Bardi had known this too. That was why he had left Jenny behind. Taking her during his escape would have risked her life in the chaotic air battle. But more importantly, he had calculated that Jenny's value to General Vic would protect her from retribution.

For General Vic, Jenny was irreplaceable a resource far more critical than even Slade or Bori. Losing her would be too great a blow, and so, no matter how enraged he was, he had no choice but to suppress his emotions.

Vic's cold gaze landed on Jenny, who sat clutching the red box as if her life depended on it. His voice, low and edged with barely restrained fury, rumbled from his throat: "Bardi deceived you. He deceived all of us."

At the mention of Bardi's name, Jenny's bloodshot eyes flickered with the faintest glimmer of recognition. Her lips pressed together tightly, trembling in pain, and her fingers clenched the box so hard that her knuckles were white.

"He's been using you," Vic said, his voice steeped in bitterness.

Jenny's eyes welled with fresh agony, the red veins in her sclera seeming to throb as her breath hitched.

"Using your love for him," Vic pressed, his tone harsh and merciless.

Her hands shook, her grip on the box faltering for a moment before tightening again.

"Using you to escape from here," he continued, each word delivered like a blade.

Jenny's entire body trembled uncontrollably now.

"To him, you're nothing more than a tool," Vic said, his voice cold and cutting. "Something to throw away once it's no longer useful."

Those words stabbed into Jenny like daggers, tearing at the fragile walls she had built around her heart. Images of Bardi flashed in her mind—the cold, emotionless look in his eyes as he aimed the gun at her and pulled the trigger.

Her body convulsed with the memory, and her mind screamed in anguish.

"Shut up!" she suddenly shrieked, her voice raw and broken. She shot up from the bed, glaring at Vic with furious, tearless eyes. Her teeth clenched so hard that her jaw ached.

But Vic's gaze remained fixed and unflinching, like ice. "Isn't it true?" he asked, his voice void of sympathy.

"He's destroyed everything about you," Vic went on. "Destroyed your love. And yet you still cling to him?"

Jenny froze, his words striking deep.

Do I still want him? she thought bitterly. How could I not?

Her love for Bardi was undeniable, no matter how much it hurt her.

Vic's words lingered in the air, twisting like black ink spilling into water. Her love, so pure and consuming, now felt tainted, its edges distorted by doubt and despair.

"We'll catch him," Vic continued, his tone shifting to calculated manipulation. "But we need your help."

Jenny stared at him, her lips parting slightly, as though caught between denial and reluctant agreement.

"He's your greatest biological specimen, isn't he?" Vic said, leaning in closer. "How could you let him escape? He belongs in a cage, where you can study him, where he'll be yours. Don't you want him back?"

Her bloodshot eyes widened, and her breath grew heavier. Her face twisted into something between rage and madness.

Her trembling hand moved to the wound beneath her collarbone. She pressed her fingers into the bullet scar, driving them deep into the tender flesh. Blood seeped out, staining the white bandages wrapped around her shoulder, but she didn't stop. The searing pain cut through the fog of her emotions, bringing a cruel, twisted clarity.

"Bardi..." she muttered, her voice low and venomous. Her face contorted with anger, her bloodshot eyes burning cold with hatred and longing.

Vic watched her with a carefully controlled expression, his cold gaze narrowing slightly.

"Get up," he ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. "You need to see him for what he truly is—a ruthless alien beast."

Jenny's crazed eyes snapped to him. "Shut up!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the room.

Without hesitation, she swung her legs off the bed and planted her bare feet on the cold floor.

She stormed out of the room, the small red box still clutched tightly in her hands.

Chapter 47

Jenny followed Vic out of the medical building.

Her face was pale and cold, her wide, bloodshot eyes giving her an almost feral appearance. Every step she took seemed to radiate an eerie detachment from the world around her.

The wounded crowded the hallways, some leaning against the walls for support, others being wheeled out on stretchers, too injured to move on their own. Each time they encountered a group of injured soldiers, Jenny, Vic, and Willife stepped aside, pressing themselves against the walls to let them pass.

The air was thick with the sharp, acrid stench of formalin, disinfectant, and the charred remains of war. It clung to their nostrils, mingling with the distant wails of the injured and the frantic calls of medics. It was the soundscape of a battlefield's aftermath, a grim reminder of humanity's fragility.

Stepping out of the medical building, they were met with an even heavier atmosphere. The air outside reeked of burning oil, gunpowder, and a faint chemical tang. It was oppressive, thick enough to claw at the back of the throat.

Vic stopped just outside the entrance, his voice deep and hard. "Look at this," he growled, gesturing to the scene of devastation. "This is what that beast did."

Hearing Bardi referred to as a "beast" sent a jolt of fury through Jenny. Her expression, already wild, twisted further into anger.

"Shut up!" she snapped, her voice sharp and raw. "I won't allow you to insult my Bardi!"

Vic stiffened, his suppressed rage bubbling to the surface. His eyes narrowed, and his hand twitched toward his sidearm, but he stopped himself.

Few people dared to speak to him that way, and fewer still lived to see the consequences.

He turned to face her, his glare icy and unrelenting, but before he could speak, Jenny raised her left hand and pressed her middle finger into the bullet wound beneath her collarbone.

The sudden pressure made fresh blood seep through the gauze wrapped around her shoulder. Her lips curled into a crazed grin as she felt the sharp pain.

"I don't care what you say," Jenny said, her voice trembling with emotion, her tone chilling. "Those soldiers out there don't matter. None of them do. Not when compared to him."

Every mention of Bardi's name was like a dagger twisting deeper into her heart.

And yet, when she pressed her fingers into the wound left by Bardi's bullet, a vivid image of him aiming the gun at her flashed through her mind. The memory stabbed deeper than any physical wound, dragging her into a spiral of despair and anguish.

Her body trembled uncontrollably. The agony wasn't just physical—it was emotional, psychological. It consumed her.

Vic's stern expression faltered as he looked at her. The rage that had been boiling inside him suddenly cooled.

She wasn't just angry. She was broken.

No—she was mad.

There was no reasoning with her, no point in arguing. She had descended into a state of madness that bordered on dangerous.

"She's insane," Vic muttered under his breath, averting his gaze.

But as long as she could still provide value, whether in her research or her role in bringing Bardi back, her madness was a secondary concern.

Jenny wiped her bloodstained finger across her lips, leaving a dark crimson streak that stood out starkly against her pale skin. Her lips curved into a macabre smile, both haunting and unhinged.

"It doesn't matter if all the soldiers here die," she said, her voice soft but chilling, her grin widening.

Vic suppressed a shiver of discomfort, his face tightening as he turned away from her and continued walking.

"Go to the underground research institute," he said curtly. "Bring all your research materials. We're leaving this place."

There was no future for this base. It had been compromised too thoroughly, and even if it weren't, it would soon fall under someone else's control. It was no longer suitable for their work.

Jenny followed him silently, her gaze flitting from one wounded soldier to another as they passed. Her head tilted slightly at odd angles, and her lips twitched into faint, cold smiles. Occasionally, she pressed her middle finger against her wound again, her bloodshot eyes growing darker with each step.

The stench of blood and smoke grew thicker as they descended into the underground research institute. By the time they reached the lower levels, the air was suffocating, heavy with the metallic tang of death and decay.

Vic covered his nose with his hand, grimacing as they passed soldiers carrying bodies on stretchers.

One of the stretchers bore the body of Slade. His chest was collapsed, his right eye a hollow, gaping socket. The once-formidable man now lay broken and lifeless, a grim reminder of Bardi's raw power.

Vic's lips tightened as he glanced at the corpse. Slade had been loyal, skilled, and dependable—a dog that had served him well for years. His death was a waste, a blow not just to the base but to Vic's personal plans.

"Wait," Jenny said abruptly, stretching out her right hand to stop the soldiers carrying Slade's body.

Her bloodshot eyes fixated on him.

Slade's chest cavity was caved in, his injuries grotesque. The saber that had once been lodged in his eye was gone, leaving the empty socket even more haunting to look at.

Vic frowned. "What? He hasn't had a heartbeat for thirty minutes."

Jenny placed her finger on Slade's aorta, stared into his bloodshot eyes for a while, and said, "Even if breathing stops and the heart isn't beating, it doesn't necessarily mean a person is truly dead." (T/N: Yes, you all saw this coming XD)

She grinned, her expression turning wild and manic. "Give him to me, and I'll turn him into the deadliest weapon on Earth."

Vic looked startled. "He's not dead yet?"

Jenny stood up, her expression suddenly turning cold again. "I don't know, but I feel like he still has brain activity. Let's test his willpower. Go retrieve the data."

Her temperament shifted so quickly it was dizzying. She operated entirely on her own whim, with no concern for others, as if life and death were just inconveniences to her.

Vic hesitated before speaking. "Save him. Do whatever it takes to keep him alive!"

Slade was his most trusted subordinate. His competence and loyalty were unparalleled, and if there was any chance to save him, Vic would take it.

However, Jenny showed no intention of following his orders. She replied coldly, "If he's alive, he'll hold on a little longer. If he's dead, toss him out."

Her words were as casual as deciding whether to throw away a stale piece of bread.

Vic's face tightened, his frustration evident. A wave of anger surged through him, and he briefly considered ending Jenny's madness with a bullet to her head. But he held himself back. She was too valuable, her work on enhanced soldiers was irreplaceable. And looking at her now, her bloodshot eyes and increasingly unhinged demeanor showed she had completely spiraled into insanity. She wasn't afraid of death at all.

Suppressing his fury, Vic clenched his fists and turned toward the inner laboratory.

Inside Jenny's lab, a mouse covered in tumors lay dead.

Jenny inspected the data and smiled, almost joyfully. "He erased all his genetic information and destroyed the blood samples. Truly remarkable, your expertise in biological genetics is extraordinary. Looking back, I can see now that you've been misleading me all along."

Her smile deepened, but it carried a twisted, bitter edge. Blood welled up in her dry, bloodshot eyes, staining her face with streaks of red tears.

Vic stood silently, his expression grim and displeased.

Jenny, her face streaked with bloody tears, stared at Vic with a chilling intensity. She tapped her head with her fingers. "It's all in here!"

Vic glanced at the tumor-covered mouse, his expression softening slightly. "What about this creature?"

Jenny sneered. "Throw it away. He'd never leave something so obvious behind."

She understood exactly what had happened with the tumor-ridden mouse. It wasn't some breakthrough mutation caused by her genetic serum, it was a grotesque side effect. The serum was far too potent, overstimulating the nervous system and brain, triggering uncontrolled cellular growth. The result was this mass of malignant tumors, a mouse riddled with muscle-like growths that rendered it a grotesque abomination.

In truth, the mouse had no potential for evolution or genetic mutation. Its erratic movements were the result of nerve overstimulation, and when the drug's effects wore off, the tumors proliferated uncontrollably, crushing it to death.

Simply put, it was nothing more than a tumor-filled corpse. It had nothing to do with creating Kryptonian genes or unlocking new possibilities in genetic engineering.

Yet to Jenny, the experiment wasn't a failure. She had already achieved her goal. Using the serum, she had successfully connected nervous system impulses, enabling even a crippled body to move its limbs.

The old man, Bori, had misunderstood the mouse's erratic movements, thinking they indicated enhanced physical strength. But Jenny had never intended to create a genetic serum for physical augmentation in the first place.

What she developed was a specialized catalyst that could absorb heat energy. Using infrared radiation overnight, the serum caused Bardi's unique cytoplasm to absorb sufficient thermal energy. This dissolved his cellular genes, preserving the heat energy within.

This wasn't a genetic serum in the traditional sense. The serum's genetic components had been completely dissolved by the catalyst, turning it into a liquid capable of retaining thermal energy.

Even if someone analyzed this serum now, they wouldn't find traces of Kryptonian genetic material. And drinking it wouldn't grant anyone Kryptonian powers or superhuman strength. At most, it would cause wild, uncontrollable muscle spasms, like a severe case of hyperactivity. The more someone consumed, the more tumors they would grow, leading to a painful death.

This serum was tailored specifically for Bardi's physiology. No one else could use it.

Jenny's true objective had been to give Bardi the ability to stand up again. The serum was designed solely to stimulate his nervous system and reawaken the motor potential in his limbs.

Of course, in theory, the serum could be diluted hundreds of times and mixed with normal human genes to create a variant usable by ordinary people. This might enhance reaction times and nerve responses, but that wasn't Jenny's priority.

Bardi, however, had understood the serum's true nature at a glance. That's why he had taken it with him.

Vic furrowed his brow, eyeing the tumor-ridden mouse skeptically. For something so grotesque, it certainly seemed... lively.

"No, biological research requires precision," Jenny suddenly said. Grabbing the tumor-covered mouse with one hand, she began dissecting it.

Moments later, she finished her tests. With a disgusted expression, she hurled the mouse against the wall. The corpse burst apart, splattering black blood everywhere. Jenny wiped her hands with a white towel, her voice icy. "Did you really think he'd be stupid enough to leave behind a sample? How naive of me."

Jenny stepped out of the lab, the corners of her mouth lifting into a humorless smile. Her bloodshot eyes gleamed as she spoke. "Let's go. It's time to create the most powerful weapon on Earth."

Chapter 48

Why is Gotham so dark, so oppressive?

It always feels like the city is trapped under a perpetual shroud of darkness, with cloudy skies and a suffocating atmosphere that weighs on everyone. The streets are a cesspool of crime and corruption, and the tension in the air gnaws at people's nerves, pushing them to their breaking points.

Some say the city itself is cursed, that a demon named Barbatos lies at the heart of Gotham's decay.

This demon was summoned long ago, allegedly by Thomas Jefferson—a distant ancestor of Bruce Wayne. Before the end of the Revolutionary War, many demons were imprisoned in Gotham. Among them, Barbatos remains a sinister presence, its long-standing influence shaping the city's development and its people in mysterious, often malevolent ways.

It's hard to say whether Barbatos' presence birthed Batman, or if Batman's emergence was inevitable in a place as twisted as Gotham, a city destined to be the capital of sin.

--

It was late at night.

As always, Gotham's nights were bleak and shadowed.

By the edge of Gotham Harbor, the dim glow of a flickering chandelier light swayed above the docks. The salty breeze blew across the darkened harbor, the sound of waves crashing against the shore mixing with the rustle of shifting clothing.

Two groups stood facing each other.

The first group consisted of seven or eight rough-looking men. Their leader was a broad, burly man with a thick jacket, cheap cigarette clamped between his lips. He exuded disdain, his stocky frame unyielding against the whipping sea breeze. The cigarette bobbed up and down as he smirked, his squinting eyes fixed on the opposing group.

"What's this? Falcone couldn't send anyone better?" he sneered, his voice thick with a Russian accent. "A kid who still smells like his mother's milk?"

The Russian's remark drew mocking laughter from his men.

"Go back to your crib, kid!"

"Better off hiding in your mother's arms!"

"Did you even grow a beard yet, boy?"

Their crude taunts made the other group tense.

The second group, far more composed, was led by a young man, a teenager really, standing at the forefront. He wore a suit, as did the men behind him; their sharp attire was in stark contrast to the rugged appearance of the Russians. Despite their neat appearance, they radiated an aura of quiet authority, their gazes cold and unflinching.

The young man's lips tightened as he glared at the Russian leader, his eyes burning with anger. The Russian's mocking laughter only grew louder at the boy's defiant expression.

Standing beside the teenager, a middle-aged butler in a tailored suit leaned in slightly and spoke in a low, steady tone. "Master, don't let him rile you. Everyone knows Hank's just an ignorant brute. He's not worth your time."

The butler's calm words seemed to defuse the tension, at least on their side. The Russian leader, Hank, remained unfazed by the comment, letting out a bark of laughter.

The boy gave the butler a faint, nervous smile, nodding slightly as he took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Shut it, all of you!" Hank barked, flicking his cigarette to the ground. The glowing embers were quickly snuffed out by the wind.

At his command, the jeering men behind him immediately fell silent. One of them, thinking quickly, grabbed an old, oily barrel and rolled it to the center of the two groups.

The barrel wobbled as the wind battered it, the metallic thud of its movements echoing through the still night.

The atmosphere grew heavier, the sound of crashing waves and howling wind only amplifying the tension. The sky seemed to grow darker, and the flickering yellow light from the nearby streetlamp cast eerie shadows over the two groups.

"Let's get this over with," Hank said, his voice dripping with disdain. "The Gotham sea breeze isn't something I care to linger in."

He turned slightly, and one of his men stepped forward, handing him a suitcase.

On the other side, the butler handed the boy a sleek black case. The weight of it made the boy's arm dip slightly before he adjusted his grip, his lips pressing into a firm line.

"Go ahead, sir," the butler said quietly. "You're doing fine."

The boy nodded, swallowing hard. Despite the butler's reassurances, his hand trembled slightly as he stepped forward.

At the same time, Hank moved toward the barrel, his imposing frame making the teenager seem even smaller.

The two met in the middle, their respective groups watching intently from behind, every muscle tensed as if waiting for the slightest excuse to erupt into violence.

Hank placed his suitcase on one side of the barrel and pulled out another cigarette. Lighting it with a casual flick, he took a long drag, then smirked. "You've got guts, kid. What's your name?"

The boy straightened, standing as tall as he could manage. Staring up at the towering Russian, he swallowed again but didn't falter. His voice was steady as he answered with pride:

"Mario. Mario Falcone."

When Mario stated his surname, he stood straighter, his chest puffed out with pride. The name "Falcone" carried weight, and he fully embodied the confidence that came with it.

Hank froze for a moment, clearly caught off guard. He hadn't expected the boy to be an actual Falcone. He'd assumed the kid was just a protégé, perhaps one of Falcone's trusted aides being groomed for a minor role in the organization.

But no—this boy was being shaped into the next leader of Gotham's criminal underworld.

The two stepped forward, each placing their cases on the greasy oil drum. Both turned their backs to the cases as they opened them.

Hank flipped open his case to reveal stacks of crisp dollar bills. He slid his thumb between the notes, lifting the top few to inspect them. A satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked up.

On the other side, Mario had already opened his case. His expression was serious as he reached into a bag of white powder. With practiced precision, he dipped his fingers into the substance, brought a bit to his nose to sniff, and then touched it to his tongue to test its purity.

Hank, watching Mario's meticulous process, chuckled dryly. "This is the third time we've traded. Hank's reputation is solid, you don't have to check so carefully, kid."

Mario didn't respond. He simply nodded in acknowledgment and continued his checks.

Finally, he looked up, giving Hank a subtle nod to confirm that everything was in order. Hank laughed again, amused by the boy's seriousness.

If nothing unexpected happened, this deal would be wrapped up smoothly, another successful transaction for Hank.

But Gotham was a city where nothing ever went as planned.

--

The sound of crashing waves suddenly grew louder, echoing ominously across the harbor.

On the edge of the concrete pier, where the sea lapped against the shore, a pair of hands emerged from the water. The fingers gripped the edge tightly, pulling upward with surprising strength.

A figure appeared, rising out of the abyss like a phantom. Water splashed as he hoisted himself onto the dock, his presence startling in the dark, stormy night.

He was naked, his hair plastered to his face, seawater dripping from his muscular frame. His body bore the scars of countless battles, each mark a testament to the struggles he had endured. Around his neck hung a small test tube filled with a glowing red liquid, encased in a metallic cylinder no larger than a pinky finger.

This man was Bardi.

His journey had been one of survival, endurance, and sheer will. After escaping from Vic's relentless pursuit, Bardi had swum up the Snake River in Nevada, making his way to Idaho. From Idaho, he traveled through Utah, crossed into Colorado, and then into Kansas.

His destination had been Smallville, the quiet town nestled in Kansas' rural expanse. There, he had found the Kent farm, home to the kind and hospitable Jonathan and Martha Kent. They welcomed him, offering food and shelter for a day.

However, there was no sign of Superman.

Bardi quickly realized that Kal-El had not yet arrived on Earth. After calculating the timeline, he concluded that it would be another six months to a year before Superman's arrival.

Knowing he couldn't simply wait around, Bardi left Smallville. There was too much to prepare, too many things to arrange.

From Kansas, his journey took him through Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and finally to Delaware.

By the time he reached Delaware Bay, he was close to Metropolis. Without any identification documents and wary of drawing attention to himself, he decided to swim the remaining distance.

What he didn't expect, however, was to veer off course. Instead of reaching Metropolis, he ended up in Gotham City, its ominous skyline rising before him as he emerged from the waters of the bay.

Chapter 49

The sea breeze howled through the dark night, carrying the sound of crashing waves as they slammed against the shore.

Bardi stepped onto the harbor, his body shuddering briefly. With a subtle movement, the water droplets clinging to his skin were shaken off in an instant. He ran his hands through his wet hair, slicking it back, revealing a chiseled, resolute face.

The mist that formed from the water droplets dispersed into the sea breeze, drifting toward Hank and his men. The sensation brought Hank back to his senses, snapping him out of his stunned stupor.

And stunned he was. Just moments after completing a transaction with the Falcone family, a man had suddenly emerged from the sea—completely naked.

No clothes, no shoes, not even underwear.

What stood before them was a figure straight out of a sculptor's dream—a tall, lean, and muscular man whose body seemed carved from stone. The scars etched across his skin were like battle-worn decorations, as if he were a living relic from a battlefield. He exuded an undeniable presence, a mixture of strength and mystery.

Hank wiped his face with the back of his hand, clearing away the mist blown his way. Then he glanced across to the middle-aged butler standing behind Mario Falcone.

Hank was no fool. He knew that Mario, for all his confidence, wasn't the one truly in charge here. The kid had been brought out tonight for experience, likely to test his mettle in the criminal world. While Mario's youthful boldness had some charm, it would've gotten him killed long ago if not for his family name and the reputation of the Sopranos like Falcone.

But the butler? That man had the air of someone who truly called the shots. And when Hank turned to look at him, he noticed the butler wore the same confused expression.

For a moment, Hank felt relieved. Whatever this was, it wasn't some double-cross orchestrated by the Falcones. If it had been, it wouldn't have involved a naked man crawling out of the sea. If things were that simple, they'd just pull a gun and start shooting.

The two groups—Hank's rough crew and the well-dressed men behind Mario—stared silently at Bardi.

Bardi, for his part, stood completely unbothered by the attention. His posture was straight, his spine perfectly aligned, giving off an air of absolute composure despite his exposed state.

To him, there was no shame in this situation. Clothing was irrelevant. What was the big deal?

His gaze swept over Hank and his men, then moved to Mario and his entourage. His eyes lingered on the butler for a moment before finally settling on the greasy oil drum and the two cases sitting atop it.

His attention fixated on the case containing the money.

Bardi's expression remained unreadable, but inwardly he noted that the cash would be useful to him. Whether it was for establishing his own foothold or funding the early stages of his plans, having money was a necessity.

His vision sharpened as he examined the contents of the case. He could see through it clearly, calculating that it held roughly one million dollars. It wasn't an astronomical amount, but it would suffice for now as a foundation.

Hank noticed Bardi's gaze lingering on the money and felt a flare of irritation. The audacity of this stranger—a naked man, no less—eyeing his money as if it already belonged to him was infuriating.

With a scowl, Hank reached for the Colt Python revolver holstered at his waist. He pulled it out, pointing the barrel directly at Bardi. A sneer spread across his face.

"What the hell are you staring at, you freak?" Hank growled.

The atmosphere shifted immediately. Hank's men reacted almost instinctively, drawing their weapons—pistols, AK rifles, whatever they had on hand. All were aimed squarely at Bardi.

Mario's group tensed as well. Guns were drawn, with some aimed at Bardi and others at Hank and his men.

The butler, standing close to Mario, was alarmed but not visibly shaken. He quickly assessed the situation. The fact that Hank's group had brought rifles was concerning, but he knew the Falcones weren't without their own firepower. After all, they had rocket launchers and grenades waiting nearby if things escalated.

But his priority wasn't the potential for an all-out firefight, it was protecting his young master. Even a stray bullet grazing Mario's skin would be considered a disaster.

Stepping forward calmly, the butler addressed Hank in a measured tone before Bardi could speak.

"Hank," he said, his voice carrying a subtle weight of authority, "our transaction has already concluded. Let's not complicate things further."

The deal was done. As far as the butler was concerned, anything that happened after, whether Hank robbed someone, got robbed himself, or started killing people was no longer their business. All he cared about was ensuring nothing happened to his young master.

After addressing Hank, the butler turned to Mario and stooped slightly, speaking in a calm, respectful tone. "Master, it's time to head home."

Mario Falcone, clearly inexperienced in situations like this, froze for a moment. His gaze lingered on the naked figure of Bardi, conflicted and hesitant. Still, he trusted the butler's judgment, took the case containing the money, and retreated to the butler's side without protest.

Hank didn't stop them. The butler was right, the transaction was over, and what came next was none of their concern.

Spitting onto the ground, Hank sneered disdainfully. "When did Gotham's Falcone family get so soft?"

The butler responded with a composed, gentlemanly smile. "There's a troublesome officer in the Gotham Police Department lately. The master believes it's best to avoid unnecessary entanglements for now. If it can be avoided, it will be."

Hank snorted, unimpressed, and cocked the hammer of his Colt Python revolver with his thumb. A grin spread across his face as he raised the gun toward Bardi. "Well then, before you go, stick around and witness a murder."

The butler blinked, momentarily stunned. He had hoped to leave quickly, sparing Mario the sight of any unnecessary violence. He hadn't expected Hank to act so decisively, let alone resort to shooting right away.

Still, murder was hardly a shocking event for the Falcone family. Hank's impulsiveness wasn't enough to provoke any outrage from them, it was just an annoyance.

Bang!

The gunshot shattered the tense quiet of the harbor, the sound cutting through the howling wind and crashing waves.

Bardi, who had been silently watching the unfolding events, remained as composed as ever. He wasn't one to meddle in the affairs of others, nor did he appreciate others meddling in his.

From their brief conversation, he'd gleaned enough to realize where he was: Gotham. He had swum here, likely veering off course from his original destination.

His indifferent eyes tracked the bullet as it tore through the air, spinning with deadly precision. The glowing red-hot round streaked toward his chest.

In one smooth motion, Bardi lifted his right hand, extending his middle finger slightly. The bullet grazed the edge of his fingernail.

The impact caused sparks to fly as the bullet's trajectory was disrupted. The round veered off course, scraping against his fingernail before being deflected entirely. It spun away from Bardi, narrowly missing his left side, before falling into the sea with a faint splash.

The nail itself, which had been slightly too long for Bardi's liking, was shaved down by the bullet's rotation. Though the edge was a bit rough, it could easily be smoothed out later. With a few more strikes, it might even look well-manicured.

Bardi nodded to himself, satisfied. He had once considered using a chainsaw to trim his nails, but it hadn't occurred to him that bullets could be an equally effective tool.

The harbor fell into stunned silence.

Hank, Mario, the butler, and all their men stared at Bardi, their faces frozen in disbelief.

Scraping a bullet with his fingernail?

They had all seen Hank fire the shot. The sound of the revolver's discharge had been deafening, loud enough to cut through the sea breeze. But what followed…

Bardi had calmly raised his hand and allowed the bullet to spark against his fingernail, redirecting it as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Hank's eyes widened, his mouth hanging open in a mixture of shock and confusion. Slowly, he looked down at his Colt Python revolver. The gun was a masterpiece of craftsmanship—a .357 Magnum with a brushed stainless steel finish, polished to perfection. It was one of the most reliable and powerful revolvers in the world.

And yet, against this man, its deadly force had amounted to nothing.

"What the hell is this…?"

Chapter 50

The salty sea breeze blew across their faces, ruffling clothes and making them flap noisily in the eerie silence. The dim, swaying light cast distorted shadows over the scene, heightening the surreal atmosphere.

"What the hell is this?" Hank muttered, staring at the Colt Python revolver in his hand, his disbelief palpable.

The situation was absurd, impossible even. Since the invention of firearms, no one had ever heard of a person deflecting a bullet with their fingernail, let alone creating sparks in the process.

"I must be seeing things," Hank said to himself, his voice tinged with desperation.

His men, equally confused, began to question him.

"Hank, you sure you're not cross-eyed?"

"Maybe you've been spending too much time at the Red Light District."

"Or maybe your aim's gone to hell!"

The mocking jeers continued, each one a desperate attempt to rationalize what they had just witnessed. To them, it had to be Hank's fault. Perhaps he'd missed, or perhaps exhaustion and indulgence had weakened him. As far as they were concerned, their eyes were simply playing tricks on them.

When faced with the incomprehensible, people often cling to mundane explanations.

"Shut up, you idiots!" Hank roared, his frustration boiling over. "I know how to shoot, damn it! Even if I was drunk or dead tired, I wouldn't miss at this range!"

He glanced at Bardi, his unease growing. Something about this man defied logic. Even the howling sea breeze seemed heavier now, carrying with it an unnatural chill.

On the other side of the standoff, the butler stepped back protectively, shielding Mario. His sharp, experienced eyes remained locked on Bardi, but a flicker of disbelief crossed his normally composed face. Could this truly have happened, or was he hallucinating?

Hank clenched his jaw and squinted at Bardi, masking his unease with a veneer of bravado. "What the hell are you?" he demanded, his voice rough with suppressed fear.

Bardi didn't answer. He simply stood there, silent and unbothered, as if the situation was beneath his notice.

Hank's fingers tightened around the revolver. He stretched his arm out further, aiming squarely at Bardi's chest.

Bang!

The gunshot rang out again, the sound slicing through the night like a blade. Smoke curled from the barrel as the bullet spun through the air. Time seemed to slow as all eyes locked on the scene.

Bardi extended his hand, just as he had before. The bullet's red-hot trail collided with the nail of his extended middle finger.

Sparks flew as the bullet rotated against his nail, shaving off tiny fragments. The fiery collision resembled the sparks of a chainsaw grinding against steel. The bullet veered off course, deflected by the subtle movement of Bardi's fingers. It spiraled away, cutting through the air before disappearing into the dark waters with a faint plunk.

Meanwhile, Bardi examined his nail. The impact had left it with a sharp, uneven edge. He nodded to himself, satisfied. If four bullets were enough to trim one nail, shaping the sides, shortening the tip, and smoothing out the edges, it wasn't a bad method.

This time, everyone saw it clearly.

Both groups stared in unison, their faces etched with pure disbelief.

The tension in the air was palpable as murmurs broke out among the men.

"No way… Did he just catch a bullet again?"

"I'm not imagining things this time, right?"

"He didn't just block it—he redirected it with his nail!"

"This is impossible. It's not human. It's… It's a monster!"

Terrified whispers spread like wildfire as each man processed what they had witnessed. Their disbelief slowly gave way to fear as their eyes darted between one another and Bardi.

Mario's butler, who had been steadily retreating with his young master, now looked on in horror. His heart raced, and sweat beaded on his brow. He'd seen countless brutalities in his time with the Falcone family, but this? This was something beyond comprehension.

The sheer ease with which Bardi had deflected bullets with his fingernails chilled the butler to the core. "This isn't human," he muttered under his breath.

Mario, still shielded by the butler, looked pale and shaken. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Bardi's calm, unbothered demeanor.

On the other side, Hank's hands trembled as he took a step back. The confident bravado he had displayed earlier was gone, replaced by raw, visceral fear.

He glanced at the revolver in his hand, then back at Bardi. Could this really be happening? Could this… thing truly deflect bullets like they were nothing?

Hank's burly frame quivered slightly, goosebumps rising on his skin as the sea breeze swept over him. He suddenly felt the full weight of the Gotham night, the cold settling deep into his bones.

But Hank was no coward. He was a hardened criminal, someone who'd survived countless battles. He refused to let fear take hold of him.

"You can't scare me!" he barked, though the quiver in his voice betrayed him. "I've seen worse than you!"

He gritted his teeth, forcing the fear out of his mind. There was no turning back now. He had already provoked this monster, waiting passively would only seal his fate.

"Kill or be killed," he muttered to himself, trying to summon the ferocity that had earned him his reputation.

Hank's grip tightened, and his eyes hardened. Slowly, his gun hand steadied. With a sudden burst of rage, he raised the revolver and pulled the trigger repeatedly.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The night exploded with the sound of gunfire as Hank emptied his revolver, and his men, spurred by his command, followed suit.

"Fire!"

Hank roared furiously, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. As a gang leader, he had a natural authority that came alive in moments of crisis.

Though his men often teased and mocked one another during quieter moments, this was merely the camaraderie of street soldiers. When push came to shove, their loyalty and discipline shone through.

For just a brief moment, his subordinates hesitated, their faces frozen in shock. Then their expressions hardened, and they opened fire without further hesitation.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Gunfire erupted, a deafening cacophony in the cold night. The salty sea breeze carried the acrid smell of gunpowder as a barrage of bullets poured down on Bardi.

Bardi's lips curled into a faint smile as his right hand moved like a blur, faster than the human eye could track. His fingers danced through the air, intercepting every bullet with the nails of his outstretched hand.

The sharp, metallic screech of bullets scraping against nails rang out, mingling with the constant roar of gunfire. Each bullet that struck his nails sent a shower of sparks cascading around him, the light illuminating his unflinching form.

To his attackers, the sight was nightmarish. The sparks formed a shield-like barrier around Bardi, and not a single bullet made it past.

"What the hell are you?!" one of Hank's men screamed, his voice cracking as panic overtook him.

The furious, unrelenting sound of an AK-47 echoed through the night, but it was no use. With every shot, the men's hearts sank further.

Bardi remained unfazed. Once the nails on his right hand were trimmed to his satisfaction, he paused, flexing his fingers. Glancing at them briefly, he nodded in approval. Then he calmly extended his left hand, ready to repeat the process.

The sound of bullets scraping against steel-like nails was sharper and more unnerving than the gunfire itself. Sparks exploded outward with every deflection, a futile spectacle of destruction that only deepened the attackers' despair.

When his left hand's nails were also neatly shaped, Bardi finally stilled. He let his arms fall to his sides, allowing the remaining bullets to strike him directly.

Each bullet that hit him flattened or ricocheted off harmlessly, unable to pierce his invulnerable flesh. Even the test tube hanging from his neck, containing the red liquid, remained intact despite the relentless gunfire.

By the time the barrage ended, Bardi had endured nearly 200 bullets. He stood completely unharmed, his expression calm and composed.

The gunfire ceased, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Smoke from the discharged weapons hung in the air, swirling in the sea breeze.

The men exchanged glances, their faces pale and drenched in sweat. Fear had overtaken them completely.

Bardi bent down and picked up a bullet that had fallen at his feet. It was still warm to the touch. Without a word, he flicked it with his fingers.

The bullet shot forward with a sharp whistle, striking the metal oil drum with immense force.

Boom!

The drum crumpled inward, its surface dented grotesquely by the impact. The sheer force sent the drum flying over ten meters before it finally crashed to the ground.

The briefcase containing the money teetered precariously on the oil drum's edge but didn't fall. With another precise flick, Bardi sent another bullet zipping forward. It struck the briefcase's lid, snapping it shut just before the case tumbled to the ground with a resounding thud.

The display of power left everyone frozen in place. Bardi straightened, his gaze sweeping over the group like a predator surveying its prey. His cold, piercing eyes seemed to strip them of any remaining courage.

"I need some dogs to run errands for me."