There is no Batman in Gotham City comics.

Chapter 97 The So-Called Glory Between Acts

"Gentlemen, am I not welcome here?"

A wakizashi slammed onto the bar, and Deathstroke removed his mask.

The man swept his wet, gray-black hair back and turned his head to the side.

He laughed, revealing the wrinkles etched by time to Freud.

He looked to be in his fifties, older than Freud thought.

"You're not going to make a move in the Black Forest, are you?"

Deathstroke didn't answer; he ordered a stout.

"It's been many years since I sat here. This familiar spot reminds me of Edmund and the days we drank together."

"Hmm! A true Paulaner dark beer, I recommend everyone try it."

Before Freud could refuse, Slade ordered him a drink.

"What exactly do you want to do?"

"Relax, Floyd. I'll settle this score with you sooner or later, but not now." Deathstroke placed the blood-stained bullet head on the bar.

"Mercenaries never reveal their real names, so you shouldn't stuff a sketchbook in your weapon bag, and you certainly shouldn't sign your name on every single sketch."

"Floyd Lawton JR, that's a good name. I found your address through it and found a flyer in the trash can."

Every word Slade said was like a bullet hitting Freud's heart.

"so……"

"So in a bit I'll walk out of the bar, find them, and kill them one by one. Of course, you'll do the same, but I like to save the best for last, so you'll be the last one."

"No, that's not what I wanted to ask... Ouch!" Because he hadn't been given anesthesia, Freud winced in pain as the waitress stitched him up.

"I wanted to ask what you thought of my drawing, I mean the sketchbook."

"Honestly, it's terrible."

"Fuck!"

Slade was amused by Freud's dejected expression. He suddenly realized that he actually liked this junior quite a bit. The other man deserved this honor, a medal forged from his own blood.

"Gentlemen, please hear me out."

Slade stood up, walked over to Floyd, and put his hand on Floyd's shoulder.

"I caused his injuries! This young mercenary fought me on the rooftop for a full eighteen minutes."

The tavern erupted in uproar.

The patrons were all seasoned mercenaries, some of whom had witnessed Slade's glorious days on the battlefield. No one knew better than them how heavy the weight of these words was.

"Not only that! He almost killed me; if that bullet had been just a few centimeters off target."

Slade picked up the bullet and held it high.

As if facing a victorious monarch, the crowd rose excitedly and gave Freud the warmest applause.

Suddenly thrust into the spotlight, Freud frowned, unsure of the deeper meaning behind Slade's words. For a respected and revered senior like himself, such remarks undoubtedly diminished his own stature.

Floyd received praise and applause, but he felt uncomfortable all over.

"Come on, say your name out loud!"

Slade cast a sincere glance at Freud, but the latter only sensed arrogance and haughtiness.

Freud finally understood where that intense discomfort came from.

Tell me your name?

Mercenaries never reveal their names unless they become corpses.

"You awarded me a medal and then sentenced me to death, who do you think you are! A high and mighty monarch?" Freud brushed the hand off his shoulder and glared at the other man.

Slade showed no displeasure at the offense; he picked up the mask and put it on his face.

"I'm truly surprised that you actually dared to think you could defeat me twice."

"This is not wishful thinking; in fact, I feel a little regretful. Because when my bullet pierces your skull, you may not have the chance to say your name."

"I admire your courage. The Black Forest provides each mercenary with 24 hours of protection. Use that time to prepare! Whether you're cleaning your weapons or digging your own grave, it's all good."

Deathstroke pushed open the door, bringing some fresh air and a lively atmosphere back to the tavern.

In the corner, an elderly mercenary waved to Floyd.

"Shooting boy, are you really going to face Deathstroke?"

"Um...actually, I recently came up with a new nickname, or rather, it wasn't my own idea. My employer gave me the inspiration. I'm now called Death Shooter."

"Alright, Deathscream, if you really want a different nickname, you'll at least have to survive. So tell me now, are you really prepared to face Death's Bell?"

The mercenary who was talking to Floyd was probably the most senior guy you could find in the whole tavern. His hair was already gray and his legs were not very nimble. He probably earned tens of thousands of dollars a year by shooting snipers from the shadows.

As a living fossil who witnessed the glorious era of the death knell, he is absolutely qualified to make a prediction about this clash of titans.

"Yes, as you can see, do I have any other choice but to fight to the death or submit to slaughter?"

"There is indeed a third option."

……

When Oswald discovered he was the first to return to the outpost, a sense of foreboding washed over him.

They've run into trouble. Wei hasn't called me yet, so I guess it's something serious.

According to the original plan, everyone should meet at the warehouse first, but now the situation has changed, and Oswald has decided to implement Plan B.

But as soon as I unscrewed the cap of the gasoline can and poured out the first sip, my phone in my pocket started vibrating.

"Are you all alright?"

Upon seeing that familiar number, the little penguin breathed a sigh of relief and spoke first.

"A minor setback, but it's still under control. I'm on my way back, about ten minutes away." Qin Wei's voice sounded very tired.

Oswald screwed on the bottle cap and fetched the mop.

"But there's bad news, it seems we've been targeted by Deathstroke."

Who is Deathstroke?

"A troublesome guy who could wipe us all out with a flick of his finger."

Oswald put down the mop and then unscrewed the gasoline bottle cap.

"But given his abilities, running away is pointless. Once one of them is caught, it's only a matter of time before they all get caught."

Oswald put down the gasoline can: "Please, just finish what you have to say."

"To be honest, I'm a bit confused too, so I wanted to ask you for some advice."

You want me to come up with some ideas?

Oswald touched his nose. It was rare to hear such words from Qin Wei. Ever since meeting Falcone, the relationship between the two, that of "big brother" and "little brother," had quietly changed.

Oswald wasn't opposed to it, after all, the other party was indeed smarter than him.

But Qin Wei's words have made the little penguin reclaim its responsibility as the eldest brother.

"First of all, there's the information gap, which is very important. I need to know whether Deathstroke knows that he has been exposed." By being around Qin Wei, Oswald has also subtly learned the former's way of thinking.

"Yes, the source is based on deduction, and he most likely doesn't know that he has already been exposed."

Oswald pondered for a moment: "Then I think it's better to hide in the shadows and ambush him than to run away and wait for him to catch up and defeat us one by one."

"There's still a lot of weaponry in the factory, like Claymore mines and fragmentation grenades, which should come in handy. If you agree, I can start setting them up now."

"Go! Don't ask for my opinion, just do as you plan, the great Mr. Oswald, the future godfather of Gotham."