Chapter 56
Clouds rumbled ominously overhead, and occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the darkened sky.
In the underground alley, the atmosphere was heavy and unsettling.
A family of three walked together, still talking and laughing about the plot of Zorro. They were already planning their next outing, their voices warm and full of joy.
Bardi walked some distance behind them, neither following them too closely nor attempting to walk together. He was simply going his own way, though, for now, their paths aligned.
It wasn't until a disheveled homeless man appeared out of the shadows, raising a pistol and shooting the father of the family, that Bardi realized the kind of scene he had stumbled into.
"Bruce, run! Run!" the mother screamed, shielding her child behind her with trembling arms, her expression frozen in disbelief and fear.
Bang!*
The gun fired again, and the mother fell to the ground, her body crumpling lifelessly, her final moments slow and agonizing.
The young boy, Bruce, collapsed onto the corpses of his parents, crying out in despair as tears streamed down his face.
The homeless man, clearly panicked, didn't linger. He ran off, stumbling over their bodies in his desperate escape. His erratic movements carried him directly past Bardi, who continued walking down the alley.
The difference between the two was stark: one was frantic and terrified, while the other was calm and indifferent.
"Bruce Wayne," Bardi murmured to himself, his eyes flickering with a faint glimmer of recognition. His right thumb absently rubbed against the palm of his left hand as he observed the tragic scene, his expression composed.
Two people had just died in front of him, but Bardi remained unmoved.
It had nothing to do with him. He was just passing through.
His steps remained steady, echoing against the walls of the alley as the only sound besides Bruce's heart-wrenching sobs.
Bardi's cold, calculating nature had no room for sentimentality. He had no interest in taking Batman for his own use. In fact, he found himself disliking Batman entirely, the way he endlessly captured criminals, only for them to escape Arkham, perpetuating the same cycle of crime and so-called justice.
"What's so hard about killing someone?" Bardi thought. "Afraid of becoming like the Joker? Afraid of tarnishing some idea of morality? Overthinking it all."
To the vast world of 7 billion people, Batman wasn't worth mentioning. The earth didn't revolve around his ideals.
Bardi glanced briefly at the lifeless bodies of Bruce's parents, their features already etched with the cold finality of death.
"Dad… Mom…" Bruce choked out, his voice trembling with despair. His small hands clutched at their still forms, desperate and helpless. Through his tears, he noticed Bardi passing by.
"Please! Help me!" Bruce's voice cracked as he cried out to the only living soul in the alley. His pleas were raw, desperate, and childlike in their simplicity.
Bardi's cold gaze flicked toward him, pausing for only a moment before replying with chilling indifference.
"No."
His words were blunt, emotionless.
He continued walking, his steps neither hurried nor slow, his demeanor detached.
There was no malice in his response, no cruel laughter or mockery. It was just a simple truth: he would not help.
The simplicity of his rejection was brutal in its honesty.
It was the pure, unadulterated indifference of humanity at its coldest.
Why should he help?
Bruce, overwhelmed with grief and pain, could only hold onto his parents' bodies and cry. At ten years old, he didn't know how to handle such despair. The indifference of the world around him only deepened his anguish.
The alley echoed with his heart-wrenching cries, a sound of utter despair.
Bardi walked to the end of the alley. Just as he was about to turn the corner, he suddenly stopped.
Something in the darkness caught his attention.
Activating his enhanced vision, he peered into a narrow, shadowed alleyway. There, a figure stood cloaked in black.
The figure wore a tight, sealed suit with lenses over the eyes that resembled magnifying glasses, giving the appearance of an owl's gaze. Knives and daggers were strapped across his chest and waist, and his posture was tense, like a predator ready to strike.
"The Court of Owls?" Bardi muttered, his tone low and contemplative. The outfit was unmistakably similar to that of the Talons—the assassins of the Court of Owls.
If this figure truly belonged to the Court of Owls, then Bardi could infer the cause of the Waynes' deaths. It would explain the presence of the assassin here, and why the head of the Wayne family had been targeted.
The figure's posture stiffened the moment Bardi spoke, his body tensing as his breath quickened. His composure wavered under the weight of being identified so easily.
The Talon's instincts flared. His owl-like lenses focused intently on Bardi, his murderous intent palpable.
If Bardi knew his identity, there was only one solution: eliminate the witness.
There was no time to dwell on how a man in white had managed to detect him so easily, nor why Bardi seemed unfazed by his presence. All that mattered was completing the mission.
The Talon lunged forward like a leopard, his movements swift and deadly.
The Court of Owls.
A secret society shrouded in Gotham's nursery rhymes, composed of Gotham's oldest and most influential families. Their power ran deeper than that of Carmine Falcone or any other criminal boss, woven into the very fabric of Gotham's history.
The nursery rhyme about the Court of Owls had persisted for over 400 years:
"Beware the Court of Owls that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime.
They watch you at your hearth. They watch you in your bed.
Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the talon for your head."
The Wayne family, as one of Gotham's most prominent names, had long been on the Court's radar.
To ensure the death of Bruce's parents, the Court had orchestrated a foolproof plan. They had bribed a homeless man to act as the killer and positioned a Talon in the shadows to ensure the job was done.
The plan succeeded. The Wayne family's bright legacy had been extinguished.
Bardi's presence was merely coincidental, his indifference mocking the so-called light of Gotham.
Perhaps if the Talon had chosen to retreat earlier, he might have survived. But the moment he subconsciously released his murderous aura, like a predator poised to strike, his fate was sealed.
As soon as the Talon's intent to kill manifested, Bardi moved.
With a single step, the ground beneath him fractured into a pit, and a deafening sonic boom erupted at the end of Crime Alley.
Boom!
The hem of his white trench coat flared upward as he launched forward like a cannonball. The sheer force of his movement created a circular white fog sound barrier, which he pierced through in an instant.
Bardi's fist connected with the Talon's body mid-air.
The impact detonated with a massive sonic boom, propelling the Talon's figure backward like a ragdoll. He crashed into the wall more than ten meters behind him, smashing a deep crater into the bricks and mortar.
The Talon hadn't even had the chance to react.
The force of Bardi's punch completely caved in his sternum. The shockwave spread through his body, shattering every bone. His head drooped lifelessly, his internal organs obliterated by the impact, and his brain scrambled from the violent vibrations.
His body hung limply in the wall's crater, reduced to a grotesque mess of crushed flesh, a smear of meat and blood embedded into the brickwork.
The resounding boom of the impact reverberated through the alley, kicking up clouds of dust and debris. The explosion echoed like thunder across Gotham, startling the city into panic.
Even Bruce, who was over 100 meters away, felt the shockwave. His ears rang painfully, and his mind went blank from the sheer force of the sound. Overwhelmed by grief and disoriented by the noise, he collapsed unconscious next to his parents' bodies.
Bardi, his expression indifferent, lightly dusted off his fist.
Before the Talon could even make a move, he had been reduced to nothing more than a stain on the wall.
Not just anyone, let alone a mere assassin was qualified to challenge him.
Chapter 57
Carmine Hotel, seventh floor.
The Victorian-style hall was filled with vibrant colors and clearly defined decor. It was luxurious yet artistic, blending opulence with refined taste.
On the dining table were premium delicacies: top-grade caviar from Caviar House Prunier in the UK, Italian black truffles, French foie gras, and the world-renowned Polmard beef steak. A single steak alone, priced at $3,600. There were also an array of fine seafood, lobster, and cheese pasta.
The meal was extravagantly indulgent, costing over $50,000. While such decadence wasn't entirely unheard of in this era, it was far from ordinary.
The enticing aroma of the food filled the air, making one's mouth water involuntarily.
At the dining table sat Bardi and Carmine, only a few steps apart.
Behind them stood a butler holding a white napkin and a wine bottle, ready to pour as needed.
However, the scene was marred slightly by Mike, the burly Russian man, who knelt nearby with a pitiful expression, somewhat spoiling the elegance of the banquet.
"Cheers," Bardi said, lifting his glass slightly and clinking it with Carmine's. The sound of crystal meeting crystal rang out, crisp and clear.
"For friendship," Carmine said with a smile, raising his glass.
Bardi returned the smile and downed the brandy in his goblet.
It was his first time meeting Carmine Falcone, the head of the Falcone family, the man who controlled most of Gotham's underworld. Carmine's demeanor exuded charm, ambition, and capability.
Knowing his own power, Bardi wasn't afraid. For Carmine to invite him to a meal despite being aware of Bardi's strength was intriguing and earned him some respect in Bardi's eyes.
Bardi tasted the brandy and foie gras. The elegant flavors filled his mouth, leaving a lingering fragrance. He nodded slightly in approval; good food always had a way of lifting one's spirits.
The two exchanged polite conversation, with Carmine occasionally bringing up past events to probe Bardi. However, Bardi responded lightly, revealing little.
After some time, having enjoyed a round of the meal, Bardi set down his knife and fork. Leaning forward with his arms resting lightly on the table, he maintained an air of effortless composure. His posture was straight and refined, and his table manners exuded a natural ease.
Carmine studied him closely, observing his demeanor and words.
A flicker of doubt crossed Carmine's mind.
Bardi's confidence and poise, his relaxed yet commanding presence, were remarkable. He didn't fit the mold of the typical nouveau riche or upstart.
Instead, Bardi had an aura about him, a natural authority that seemed to envelop the space. Every smile and movement carried an unshakable dominance, making others feel inexplicably inferior.
This sense of being overshadowed unsettled Carmine. He found himself unnerved, feeling as though his own presence was being subdued by Bardi's quiet yet overwhelming confidence.
From the moment he first laid eyes on Bardi, Carmine knew it was impossible to recruit him. Bardi was not someone who would ever willingly serve under another. If anything, he could only be an adversary.
"Carmine, I need to deal with something first. After that, I'd like to discuss a matter with you," Bardi said casually.
Carmine gestured for him to proceed, simultaneously signaling his butler to leave.
"Mike."
Bardi dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, wiping away a faint sauce stain. With swift, silent movements, he picked up his knife and fork again, cutting his steak elegantly.
Mike, still kneeling on the floor, shuddered and replied, "Here, boss."
"Do you know where you went wrong?"
"I do," Mike answered, his voice trembling.
"Then tell me."
"I shouldn't have let those seven lowlifes take the money. It's your money, boss. I should've destroyed them on the spot."
"Good awareness. But if there's a mistake, there must also be punishment."
"I understand! I'll strip down and run a hundred laps around Gotham's streets right now!" Mike declared firmly, his body trembling.
For a moment, the room seemed frozen. Mike's words hung in the air, puzzling everyone.
Why…why would he suggest running naked around Gotham as punishment?
Clink…
The sound of bending metal broke the silence.
The sterling silver knife and fork in Bardi's hands had bent under the subtle force of his fingers, contorting into unnatural shapes.
Bardi's expression remained indifferent as he stared at Mike, his gaze cold enough to make the man's hair stand on end.
Carmine's brow twitched slightly, the faintest sign of unease betraying his otherwise composed demeanor.
The room grew eerily quiet, heavy with the weight of tension.
Bardi's quiet pressure filled the space, suffocating and undeniable. Mike began to sweat, his unease growing with every passing second, while Carmine instinctively found his breathing slowing, as though the air itself had grown denser.
After a long moment of silence.
Bardi simply smiled and apologized to Carmine. Carmine waved it off, saying it was fine, and asked the butler to bring in a new set of cutlery. Quietly, he squeezed the bent handles of the ruined sterling silver knife and fork, feeling the lingering tension.
"Mike, you're a smart guy. That's the only reason I kept you around," Bardi said calmly. "If you want to live, there's a way."
He leaned back slightly, his tone indifferent and detached. "How much money do you have left? Three hundred thousand dollars? Then in three days, give me ten times that amount. Pay me three million dollars, and you can live."
Bardi didn't even look at Mike as he spoke, his tone devoid of concern, as if he were merely reciting numbers. Mike's life meant little to him.
However, Bardi saw value in keeping Mike around. Mike was a despicable, unscrupulous man, capable of handling tasks others would shy away from. He was a tool, useful for dirty work that even Bardi found beneath him.
True to his character, Mike immediately reacted with exaggerated theatrics. His face contorted, tears streaming down as he wailed loudly, resembling a professional actor giving a performance worthy of an award.
"Boss, no! Please, no! It costs at least a million dollars for a single trip to Thailand. How could I come up with three million dollars in Gotham in just three days?" Mike cried, his voice trembling with feigned desperation.
Even Carmine, a seasoned underworld boss, couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at Mike's performance. The thought crossed his mind that Mike might've been better suited for Hollywood than the mercenary world.
Bardi's expression remained cold, unamused. The sterling silver knife in his hand glinted under the light, and the subtle pressure of his fingers bending the metal again silenced Mike's cries.
"I don't care about your excuses, Mike," Bardi said, his voice eerily calm, yet the weight of his words pressed down like an iron hand. "I don't care what you want from me. I only care about what you can do for me. That's how this works."
He tilted his head slightly, giving Mike a thin smile that carried the menace of a devil's grin. "Now, stop crying. Get out."
Mike's theatrical tears abruptly stopped, his face pale as he realized his act had failed. He gritted his teeth, clenching his fists as he stood up.
"Fine! I'll rob a bank if I have to," he declared. "If I die, boss, make sure they bury me under Brokeback Mountain!"
Bardi didn't respond with words. His cold glare said it all.
"Get out," he finally said, his voice sharp as a blade.
Mike scurried out, his footsteps hurried as though trying to escape the suffocating pressure Bardi exuded.
…
After Mike left, silence lingered in the room. The atmosphere, once tense, began to ease slightly.
"I'm sorry, Carmine," Bardi said, putting down his knife and fork with deliberate care. "It seems I ruined the mood."
Carmine, ever composed, waved his hand dismissively. "It's understandable. Mike's reputation precedes him. Everyone knows he's unreliable, but his skills make up for it. Here's hoping he actually gets you your three million."
Bardi gave a faint smile, though his expression remained distant. "Money isn't the issue, Carmine. It never has been."
He paused, swirling the brandy in his glass before continuing. "In three days, I'll be leaving for Metropolis. But before that happens, I want Gotham to remain under my control through you."
His words, though calmly spoken, carried a weight of authority that left no room for negotiation.
Carmine's hand, which had been lifting his brandy glass, froze midair.
This was... too arrogant.
Chapter 58
"Your Excellency, this joke is not funny," Carmine said, setting down his sterling silver knife and fork with deliberate calm. His face remained neutral, but the subtle tension in his jaw betrayed the anger simmering beneath his composed exterior. He picked up a napkin, lightly dabbing at the corners of his mouth, a display of cultured restraint that masked the insult he felt.
Bardi's words had been beyond arrogant. The young man, barely in his twenties, had implied that Carmine, the ruler of Gotham's underworld, should one day bow to him. It was an insult Carmine couldn't easily ignore.
Who was Carmine Falcone? He wasn't just anyone. He was the godfather of Gotham's underworld, a man whose calculated moves had brought the fractured criminal networks of the city under his control. In less than half a year, Carmine had not only seized power but had the confidence and vision to consolidate it further, cementing his reign as unshakable.
He was not on par with Gotham's founding families—the Waynes, Elliotts, Kanes, or Cobblepots—who owned industries spanning every facet of the city. But the Falcone family had carved out its legacy in blood and shadow, and they were well on their way to becoming Gotham's fifth great house, one built on the gritty foundation of organized crime.
And yet, here sat Bardi, a young man with barely any footing in Gotham, daring to suggest that Carmine might one day serve under him. It was preposterous.
Carmine felt his anger spike, an unfamiliar heat flaring within him. But just as quickly as it came, it passed. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, and exhaled slowly. The rage melted away as quickly as it had risen, leaving only the sharp clarity of a seasoned mind.
Carmine laughed softly, more at himself than at Bardi. How absurd it was that he, a man of his stature, had let the arrogant musings of a youth unsettle him, even if only for a moment.
Bardi, meanwhile, remained completely focused on his meal. More than 60% of the luxurious spread had already found its way onto his plate, and despite his pace, his movements remained elegant, his demeanor calm and composed.
For Bardi, two things in life were sacred: food and his convictions. Everything else was negotiable.
When he heard Carmine's self-deprecating laugh, Bardi's gaze flicked toward him briefly before returning to his steak. He smiled faintly, set down his knife and fork with measured care, and picked up his glass of brandy. After taking a small sip, he swirled the amber liquid in the glass, its rich color glinting in the light.
"I'm merely speaking about the future," Bardi said, his tone calm and assured. "One day, you'll be driven out of Gotham."
He paused, letting his words settle before continuing. "When that day comes, seek me out in Metropolis. I'll help you reclaim Gotham."
He raised his glass, smiling faintly as he drank.
The meaning behind his words was clear. When Carmine inevitably failed, he should turn to Bardi for guidance and servitude.
Carmine's face remained stoic, his expression betraying no emotion. He picked up his own glass, matching Bardi's gaze. A thin smile played at the corners of his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"If that day comes," Carmine said, his voice smooth but laced with subtle disdain, "then likewise, when you fail to hold your ground in Metropolis, you can come to me."
He raised his glass in a mocking toast, drinking deeply with a bold, almost defiant air.
Carmine's response was both a retort and a declaration of his confidence. In his mind, failure was not an option. He had money, power, influence, and an unshakable will. The thought of being driven out of Gotham was laughable.
His ambitions stretched far beyond merely controlling the underworld. Once unified, Gotham would become his kingdom, untouchable and eternal. The notion of someone forcing him out of power was a fantasy he refused to entertain.
He dismissed Bardi's words as the musings of an arrogant dreamer, though part of him remained cautious. If anything, he welcomed the day Bardi might crawl back to Gotham, seeking to serve under him. Having someone as formidable as Bardi on his side could only strengthen his hand.
Bardi, however, chuckled softly, the sound low and knowing. His confidence was unshaken.
"Gotham is a breeding ground for chaos," Bardi said after a moment. "The city will one day be teeming with... remarkable figures."
His gaze drifted for a moment as if envisioning the future. Penguin, Joker, Bane, Two-Face, Scarecrow, Riddler, Poison Ivy... Gotham will birth a legion of criminal geniuses. And yet, none of them will remain undefeated. Not one.
He leaned back slightly, his smile deepening. "Falcone, you'll be the first to fall. Driven out of Gotham, your empire will crumble. After that, the city will become nothing more than a chessboard for those who follow."
Bardi's words carried the weight of foreknowledge, though he spoke as though speculating.
"Forgive me," Bardi said, noticing Carmine's steady expression. "I don't mean to mock you. Let time reveal the truth."
He raised his glass once more. "If I fail to hold Metropolis, I'll come to you. And if you're driven out of Gotham, come to me."
Bardi stood, pouring another glass of brandy for himself and one for Carmine. Holding the glass aloft, he waited.
"Deal," Carmine finally said, standing to meet the toast. His voice was smooth, his confidence unwavering.
The two men clinked glasses, smiling faintly as they drank.
Bardi felt a deep sense of satisfaction. His time in Gotham had been productive. Not only had he gathered insights into the city's future, including the rise of villains like Poison Ivy and the eventual arrival of Batman.
Of course, if Bardi decided to deal with Bruce Wayne now, there would likely be no Batman in the future.
But he had no desire to wade into the messy waters of Gotham at this time. Even if Batman became his enemy down the line, Bardi wouldn't be bothered. By the time Bruce donned the cape and cowl, Bardi's plans would already be firmly in place.
Stopping him would require far more than defeating one or two of his subordinates. The scale of the system Bardi intended to build would be so massive that anyone standing in its way, hero or otherwise would be crushed under its weight. It wouldn't even require Bardi to intervene directly; the system itself would ensure resistance was snuffed out.
He had come early—earlier than anyone else. Gotham's iconic heroes and villains had yet to emerge in force, and the stage of "a hundred flowers blooming" was still a distant future. This gave him ample time to arrange everything to his advantage, ensuring he had all the pieces in place for when the chaos inevitably began.
Bardi placed his empty wine glass down on the table and walked over to the small balcony. He opened the floor-to-ceiling windows, letting in the cool autumn breeze that swirled through the room like a mischievous spirit, creating subtle ripples in the atmosphere.
Outside, the night was cloaked in darkness, with the city's countless lights flickering like distant flames. Gotham stretched out before him, its jagged skyline illuminated by the artificial glow. Standing on the balcony, Bardi seemed to tower over the city itself, his gaze sweeping across it as though he could see every shadow and secret it concealed.
A subtle glint passed through his eyes, and a faint, meaningful smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He spoke softly, as though musing to himself, "Do you really want me to help you unify Gotham?"
Behind him, Carmine's voice answered firmly, cutting through the night air. "Gotham is already in my pocket."
…
Meanwhile, in a hidden lair beneath Alan Wayne's foundation, a different kind of meeting was taking place.
The room was brightly lit, with a long, dark red rosewood rectangular table occupying its center. Spread across the table were documents and photographs, including a portrait of Bardi that bore an uncanny resemblance to the man himself.
Seated around the table were individuals who exuded an air of aristocratic sophistication. The men wore tailored suits and polished shoes, their manners refined and deliberate. The women, draped in elegant evening gowns, carried themselves with the grace of nobility, the scents of expensive perfumes wafting faintly through the air.
But what made this gathering truly peculiar were the masks—white, owl-shaped masks that obscured their faces, giving the scene an eerie, surreal quality.
"Thomas Wayne is dead," one of them said, breaking the silence.
"Indeed. The plan went well," another replied, though a note of dissatisfaction crept into their voice. "But one of our Talons was killed. By a passerby, no less."
"The power he displayed was frightening," someone else murmured.
"Daring to provoke the Court of Owls in Gotham? Who does he think he is?"
"I'll admit, he doesn't look bad," a woman chimed in with a smirk. "I wonder if his strength matches his appearance."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," another voice snapped coldly. "Focus."
"Should we deal with him?" someone finally asked.
"No," came a measured reply. "Not right now."
"The death of Thomas Wayne is enough for now. We should stay hidden. Gotham is about to experience a period of great unrest, and it's best to remain in the shadows."
"Then let him live… for now."
…
Three days later, outside the Carmine Hotel.
Bardi and Mike emerged, the latter struggling under the weight of two large suitcases as they made their way toward their next destination: Metropolis.
"Boss, how did you know Falcone would give me three million dollars?" Mike asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and confusion.
"It's an investment, a leash, and a show of mutual interest," Bardi replied casually. "Carmine is a smart man."
Mike nodded solemnly, though the intricacies of Bardi's relationship with Falcone were lost on him. All he knew was that his boss had somehow managed to walk away from a meal with Falcone, the head of Gotham's underworld, with three million dollars in hand. That, in Mike's eyes, was impressive.
"Boss, what are you going to do with three million dollars?" Mike asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Take care of women," Bardi said matter-of-factly, his expression unchanging.
Mike froze mid-step, his face contorting in disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words. A moment later, he groaned, exasperated.
"That's my money!" he shouted internally, his frustration bubbling over silently.
Chapter 59
Laboratory.
An old World War II-era biogas laboratory in Colorado, now abandoned.
After the complete destruction of the Nevada military base and underground laboratory by Bardi, General Vic relocated Jenny and Slade to this facility to continue secret biological experiments.
Nearly four months had passed. Using several human cadavers obtained by General Vic for research, Jenny not only succeeded in rescuing Slade but also managed to create a genetic serum capable of enhancing the human body.
However, the serum came with a steep cost: lifespan. Those injected with the serum risked collapse and death if their bodies couldn't withstand it. Even those who survived faced a 50% chance of mutating into grotesque monsters.
Jenny derived her inspiration from Bardi's genetic makeup, combining it with her own improved catalyst and tailoring the serum to match Slade's genes. The serum slowed cellular aging, enhanced cellular strength, granted immense physical power, and elevated the body's capabilities far beyond human limits.
Life traded for power.
The laboratory was old, its walls worn and rusted with time, but it was outfitted with modern equipment: heart rate monitors, brainwave detectors, and blood analysis devices.
Dim lighting created long shadows across the space, while the temperature was maintained at a consistent fifteen degrees cool, but not uncomfortably cold.
On the center experimental bench, Slade lay restrained. His wrists and ankles were tightly bound by steel clamps, his skin raw and bleeding from his struggles.
As his eye fluttered open, the bright incandescent light above blinded him momentarily. Slowly, the light became clearer, revealing his surroundings.
This was not the first time Slade had awakened in this lab. Each time, he was consumed by anger at his current predicament.
General Vic had turned him into a living experiment.
Slade had been chosen because of his extraordinary willpower and ability to endure excruciating pain. He was the ideal subject for the final stages of genetic serum testing.
While Slade did not fear the idea of gaining immense power, he would even willingly accept the serum if it worked, he knew the risks of failure. Having already faced death once, he now valued his life more than ever and understood the terror of losing it.
Every day since his capture, he had been haunted by the sounds of others failing the experiment. From the darkness of the lab, he heard the wet splatter of flesh and the gruesome deaths of those whose bodies couldn't endure the serum.
Jenny emerged from the shadows, stepping into the cold, focused beam of light. She wore a white lab coat over a vibrant red evening dress, the contrast making her appear both demonic and alluring. The light caught her figure, emphasizing her graceful yet unsettling presence.
She glanced down at Slade and let out a mocking snort. "Oh, look who's awake!"
Her lips curled into a sneer as she stared at him, her tone dripping with contempt. She relished the sight of Slade restrained, helpless, and furious.
Once, Slade had been a thorn in her side, obstructing her and Bardi at every turn. Now, seeing him confined and vulnerable on the experiment table filled her with a perverse sense of satisfaction.
Slade glared at her coldly. The overhead light cast eerie shadows across Jenny's face, making her smile appear sinister and twisted.
"If Bardi knew what you've become," Slade said, his voice low and cutting, "he'd kill you himself rather than save you."
Jenny's expression faltered, her smile thinning as her eyes narrowed slightly. "Save me? You're delusional."
Slade turned his head away, the harsh light stinging his eyes and making them water. He closed them tightly, his voice chillingly calm.
"In that underground facility, only you and thirty-one crippled soldiers survived the first floor. Everyone else died wherever he passed."
Slade's words were like a blade, cutting into Jenny's composure. "He didn't save you. Those thirty-one soldiers weren't spared to live; they were spared to die crippled."
Jenny's pupils constricted, and for a moment, her expression betrayed a flicker of pain. Her face twisted with barely suppressed rage. "You don't understand him," she said harshly.
"You don't understand him," Slade countered, his voice icy.
Between the two of them, it was Slade who understood Bardi better—better than anyone, perhaps.
Slade had seen the full extent of Bardi's brilliance and ruthlessness. Whether it was his unparalleled intellect or his unmatched strength, Bardi had used every resource at his disposal to manipulate those around him. Even as a prisoner, he had turned psychological advantages into weapons, playing everyone perfectly to achieve his goals.
In the end, even in death, Slade had been forced to admit Bardi's dominance. He had lost, completely and utterly.
Yet even in his acknowledgment, Slade's hatred for Bardi burned fiercely.
"Why do you think he wasted so much time explaining things to me back then?" Slade asked, his tone sharp.
"He did it all for you," he continued coldly. "To keep you alive. To get you out of that place. He even fired two fake shots at you, pretending you were unimportant."
Slade let out a bitter laugh. "Even I fell for it. I became his voice, his pawn, feeding the lies he wanted General Vic to believe, that he was just a mindless, brutal beast."
His piercing gaze shifted back to Jenny. "You're naive. You've let General Vic manipulate you to this point. If Bardi saw what you've become now, he wouldn't just be disappointed, he'd be disgusted."
Jenny's face darkened, the mocking amusement she had directed at Slade fading instantly. Her expression twisted into something wild and menacing as she glared at him. "Do you want me to let you out?" she snarled.
Slade narrowed his eyes slightly, his tone calm but firm. "Bardi would not want—"
"Shut up!" Jenny shrieked, her voice shrill and unhinged. "As if you have any real connection to my dear Bardi! You were the one who stood in his way the most! You're the reason Bardi ended up paralyzed! Have you forgotten what you did to us? Do you remember how you treated me and Bardi back then?"
Slade's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together. His cold, piercing glare was locked on her, but he remained silent.
"You'll never measure up to Bardi!" Jenny spat, her face flushed with rage.
From the pocket of her lab coat, Jenny retrieved a syringe filled with a yellowish-green liquid. Holding it up, she narrowed her fierce eyes and sneered. "Do you know what this is?"
Slade's gaze shifted to the syringe, his expression hardening.
"This is the creation inspired by Bardi's brilliance, a serum for human enhancement," Jenny said, her voice dripping with malice.
Slade's face turned grim. He knew all too well what this serum was. It was the cause of the horrifying screams and violent deaths he'd heard daily in the lab the serum that had killed every other test subject in gruesome ways.
Jenny smirked, her voice taking on a sing-song quality. "You have a 50% chance of surviving. Endure the pain, and you'll either become a superhuman… or a monster. Of course, there's also a good chance you'll just explode and die."
She laughed mockingly as she jabbed the syringe directly into Slade's chest, piercing his heart. Without hesitation, she pressed the plunger down, injecting the serum into his body.
"And let me tell you something else," Jenny added with a malicious grin. "I only made two doses of this serum. This one is exclusively for you. The other one? It's mine. But unlike yours, mine has a 70% success rate."
Pulling the needle out with a flourish, she added coldly, "Good luck, Slade. I really hope you succeed."
Slade's body tensed immediately, his eyes widening in shock and pain. Blood vessels bulged across his skin, his veins standing out like blue cords. His face twisted in agony as he let out an animalistic howl, his throat straining with the force of his screams.
His chest heaved violently, as though it were about to explode, and his wrists and ankles thrashed against the restraints, reopening his already raw wounds. Veins pulsed grotesquely across his body, giving the impression of writhing worms beneath his skin. The sight was horrifying.
Jenny watched with cruel satisfaction as Slade writhed in unbearable torment, his body convulsing and drenched in sweat.
On the first day, Slade nearly died from dehydration, his body rejecting the serum so violently that it required more than a dozen injections of fluids to keep him alive.
On the second day, blood seeped from every pore of his body, leaving him on the brink of death. His seven orifices bled profusely, and by the end of the day, only a faint, almost undetectable pulse remained.
By the third day, something had changed. Slade's heart thundered like a drum, each beat reverberating with power. With a single burst of strength, he shattered the steel restraints that had held him captive for months.
Jenny's eyes lit up as she realized the serum had succeeded. Slade had survived. He was no longer an ordinary man, he had become something far more powerful.
Without hesitation, Jenny grabbed the remaining syringe, filled with the serum meant for her. If Slade had succeeded, she was confident she would too.
But the truth was far from what she had imagined.
The moment the serum entered her body, it felt as though a bomb had detonated within her. Agonizing waves of heat and pressure wracked her frame, threatening to tear her apart from the inside out.
Her muscles swelled uncontrollably, stretching her skin taut. Tumors sprouted across her body like grotesque balloons, expanding and bursting in a horrifying cycle. Her bones grew unevenly, splintering and twisting into unnatural shapes, while her skin thickened and hardened, resembling keratinized armor.
Jenny screamed as her body was caught in an endless cycle of growth and destruction. Her once-graceful figure mutated beyond recognition, her human form obliterated.
In the end, what remained was a towering, monstrous figure—over four meters tall, grotesque and horrifying.
Chapter 60
The Suicide Slum was located in the southern part of Metropolis, a place defined by poverty, rampant crime, unchecked gun violence, and an overwhelming atmosphere of desperation.
Though its official name was Hob's Bay, the bleak reality of life there had earned it the nickname Suicide Slum. The name reflected the harsh truth: living there was like committing a slow, agonizing suicide. Only those with nowhere else to go, the truly destitute, considered it a viable option for survival. Over time, the real name of the area was forgotten, replaced by the grim moniker.
Bardi stepped into this grim environment, his pristine white Martin boots instantly stained as he stepped into a murky black puddle. The air was thick with an unbearable mixture of stenches: rot, the musty odor of unwashed socks, and the unmistakable reek of human waste. It was a nauseating assault on the senses.
Fortunately, Bardi could control his Kryptonian-enhanced senses, dulling his sense of smell. Otherwise, the overpowering odor alone might have been enough to bring even a Kryptonian to their knees.
Trailing behind him was Mike, carrying a box. When he saw the dirt clinging to Bardi's boots, he cursed furiously in his heart:
"Dirty! Filthy! Just look at this place! Shit everywhere, piss dripping down from above. What's so great about prancing around in a white trench coat, huh? Think you're special? Think you're invincible because bullets don't touch you?"
The venom in Mike's thoughts didn't stop there. He couldn't let go of the fact that Bardi had commandeered his "money" support a woman.
Bardi's pristine white attire stood out like a beacon in the filthy darkness of the Suicide Slum.
A hunched old man squatting by a corner wall glanced at him curiously. His skeletal frame, bloated stomach, and wide, hollow eyes made him look almost inhuman. Nearby, dirty children watched with wide eyes, their faces streaked with grime. A woman gathering clothes on a balcony paused to observe him. Even burly passersby, their faces etched with suspicion, quickened their pace, their expressions like those of predators sizing up unfamiliar prey.
The sight was strange, unnatural.
Bardi was too clean, too white, too pristine for a place like this. He didn't belong. His immaculate appearance clashed with the filth of the Suicide Slum, drawing every eye.
The tailored clothes he wore, costing thousands of dollars at a minimum, were a testament to luxury. Everyone who saw him could tell his outfit was expensive, far beyond what anyone in this slum could afford. Combined with his indifferent demeanor and extraordinary presence, he stood out like a piece of fine art displayed in a garbage heap.
Bardi stopped walking.
Not far ahead, a group of people were chasing and beating a disheveled drunk.
The drunkard stumbled, clutching a half-empty blue beer bottle, beer spilling onto the ground as he fled. The air around him carried the sour stench of alcohol.
"Stop! Don't hit me! Please, stop!" the man slurred, his voice thick with panic and desperation.
He tripped and fell at Bardi's feet, curling into a ball to protect himself.
The group chasing him—a gang led by a young, muscular white man—paused momentarily to glance at Bardi. But seeing no reaction from him, they resumed their assault.
The young leader barked an order, and the group began kicking and punching the drunkard mercilessly. Mud splattered as they struck him, covering their shoes and the surrounding ground. When the drunkard was barely conscious, the leader motioned for the others to stop.
Breathing heavily, the young man leaned down, grabbed the drunkard's hair, and yanked him upright. His face was red with rage. "You took my money! Where's my stuff?"
His furious voice echoed in the alley.
The drunkard, his face swollen and bruised, clung desperately to the beer bottle in his hand as if it were his only anchor to reality.
The young man's rage deepened as he shouted, "I gave you $300, you piece of shit! You promised me a deal, told me I'd get product. I believed you! I thought you'd connect me to something big, something that would finally get me out of this dump!"
His anger boiled over as he delivered another brutal kick to the drunkard's ribs, leaving him gasping for air.
The drunkard knelt down suddenly, wrapping his arms around the young man's leg in a desperate plea. Tears streamed down his battered face as he cried, "Leon, please, I'm sorry! Don't kill me! I didn't mean to lose the money!"
"Liar!" Leon roared, clenching his fist and punching the drunkard in the head with all his strength. The man's head snapped back, and his vision blurred as dizziness overtook him.
Just as Leon raised his fist for another blow, the drunkard shouted, "Don't hit me! Leon, listen! I can introduce you to international gangs, real criminal organizations! They're way bigger than anything in the Suicide Slum! I've got connections! I know people, you just have to trust me!"
Leon hesitated, his fist pausing mid-swing. The mention of international gangs and criminal organizations caught his attention. Compared to the petty crimes of the Suicide Slum, working with larger syndicates could offer him real power and opportunity.
But those standing around him were less convinced.
"Don't listen to him, Leon," one of the onlookers said dismissively. "He's just an old drunk. Everyone knows his story. He was kicked out of those organizations years ago and came crawling back here. He's nothing now."
The group murmured in agreement.
The drunkard, once a gang leader who had clawed his way out of the Suicide Slum, had been chewed up and spat out by the criminal underworld of Metropolis. Humiliated and broken, he had returned to the slums he had once escaped from, where he now lived in disgrace, drowning his failures in alcohol.
For a brief moment, he had known the glory of leaving the Suicide Slum. But in the end, he had been reduced to nothing more than a desperate, pitiful shadow of his former self.
Leon's anger flared up again as he began to beat and kick the drunkard relentlessly. The man's screams echoed through the alley.
"Don't! Stop! Don't hit me! I know people, I know the Hell's Angels! I can introduce you to them—ah! No, please!"
The drunkard coughed up blood, curling up even tighter in a futile attempt to protect himself from the blows raining down on him.
As the drunkard started to ramble, Bardi rubbed his right thumb gently against the palm of his left hand—a subtle, habitual motion that betrayed his deep thought. It was a movement he rarely allowed himself in the underground research facility, where even small gestures could reveal too much. Out here, however, it didn't matter.
This was the real world, a place far more complex than the simplified narratives often seen in stories. It wasn't just a stage with a few protagonists and supporting characters. A city as massive as Metropolis wasn't that simple. Its intricate web of relationships, power struggles, and hidden agendas made it far more than a backdrop for a select few.
Bardi understood that if he wanted to dominate this city, he needed to start at its roots, exploring its dark underbelly and using both light and shadow, interest and violence, to assert his rule.
"Stop. Do you want to kill him?" Bardi asked, his tone calm but commanding as he glanced at the crumpled figure of the drunkard on the ground.
The men surrounding the drunkard froze mid-kick, turning their attention to Bardi. Their eyes swept him up and down, sizing him up.
Bardi's appearance immediately set him apart. His tailored clothes and confident demeanor screamed wealth and status. To them, he was rich, and in their experience, rich people often enjoyed flaunting their superiority by tossing a bit of money at situations like this. Saving someone as pitiful as a drunkard and receiving their gratitude was just another way for the wealthy to feel powerful and charitable.
Leon hesitated, eyeing Bardi with a glimmer of hope. Maybe this stranger would part with some cash to "save" the drunkard, giving him a chance to recoup the $300 he'd lost.
Feigning confusion, Leon said, "Why? He scammed us out of money. Killing him is what he deserves."
Bardi nodded as if in agreement. Without a word, he reached over and pulled a Colt Python revolver from Mike's waistband.
He handed the gun to Leon, his expression unreadable.
"Use a gun, It's faster."
...
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