There is no Batman in Gotham City comics.

Chapter 89 Interlude: The Battle of Mercenaries

Even though he has been retired for many years, the legend of Deathstroke Slade still circulates in the industry.

His career missions have never failed, and his commissions are so high they break the hearts of his clients. When Death Knell strikes, it's always accompanied by a huge commotion.

Prime Minister of the Republic of Venezuela.

Brazilian drug lords.

The Italian Mafia Godfather.

Vietnamese local warlords.

Whether they are powerful figures who control a region or leaders of a country, no matter how noble or illustrious their status, once they are targeted by Death Knell, it is only a matter of time before they become warm corpses.

"According to the law of conservation of energy, their souls did not disappear, but instead turned into rolling numbers in a bank account."

Whether this quote originated from the death knell is impossible to verify.

But this doesn't stop industry insiders from tolling it as a death knell. In their eyes, industry leaders always need such a famous quote to broaden their reputation. Only then will more people be drawn to join the mercenary group's family.

It can be said that after the group's hype, Deathstroke has become an idol for almost every young mercenary.

Freud was an exception; his idol was Rembrandt Rhine.

So when he saw Deathstroke's iconic one-eyed mask, he mercilessly gave the man a bullet.

Although it didn't work, it was enough to pique Deathstroke's interest.

Otherwise, the wakizashi would have cut his trachea along with the bullet. At this distance, Slade had at least nine ways to kill the inexperienced Floyd.

Of course, Freud was unaware of this, and even if he had, he might not have appreciated his senior's kindness.

Bang bang bang bang bang! ! ! ! !

After a brief delay, Floyd fired five shots in quick succession, using the recoil to quickly pull away.

Taking advantage of the moment when the opponent swung his knife to block, he flicked his wrist to fling away the spent cartridges in the cylinder, then grabbed a handful of bullets and shoved them in. The whole process was as swift as a magic trick.

Unlike his complicated and fancy maneuvers, Deathstroke's response was very simple. He didn't even sway his body much, but simply cut the incoming bullets by swinging his elbows and rotating his wrists.

Like a dazzling flash of a swift, the blade fell, scattering metal shards at Deathstroke's feet.

If anyone were lucky enough to witness what happened, they would be utterly astonished by this effortless maneuver.

However, this elegance became naked terror in Freud's eyes.

My God, what kind of monster is this?!

Deathstroke touched the ground with his toes, swung his knife and pressed forward, while Floyd swung his revolver and raised his gun to aim.

As the wedge was placed against his neck, a gun was also pressed against his forehead. The two mercenaries, in the instant of close combat, simultaneously chose to withdraw, achieving a delicate balance.

All that's missing is a sandstorm from the West, and of course, the indispensable tumbleweeds, before the two "cowboys" can recreate the glory of American Westerns.

"To be honest, your marksmanship is better than mine. I'm even ashamed to draw my gun in front of you."

The tolling of the death knell echoed in the empty stairwell. His tone had a unique charm, unlike the hoarse voice of an old man; it was deep and resonant, like a weathered bronze statue.

"You deserve to live, just tell me who your servant is."

"Stop dreaming, Death Knell," Freud's reply was forceful and resounding.

"I'm not surprised; people in our line of work have a basic level of loyalty to their employers. But I'm really not sure if you'll still uphold that loyalty when I'm cutting off your fingers one by one."

Although he couldn't see the other person's expression, Freud was certain that a wicked smile was hidden beneath the mask.

Floyd got angry.

The first trigger pull broke the balance.

Deathstroke responded almost simultaneously, dodging the bullet by sidestepping. The wakizashi slashed down along the neck, but this time he still chose to hold back, turning the blade to the back.

Freud was slammed against the wall, and the next instant a large hand grabbed his head and hurled him forward like a shot put.

boom!

The lime plaster was peeling off. A mangled mass of Freud slid down the uneven cement, leaving a horrifying trail of blood with his "brush".

His head was struck repeatedly, temporarily disrupting his balance.

With difficulty, he opened his eyes, blood flowing into the corners of his eyes. In the crimson light, the death knell, with its triple afterimages, was approaching step by step.

If he had been given a rifle and a few steps away, Freud believed he wouldn't have lost so badly. But in order to escape, he hid the gun on the rooftop, and the only weapon he had to fight alongside was the "Mongoose" revolver with its extremely low initial velocity.

"Young man, do you remember what I said?"

The death knell stepped on Freud's wrist, while the wakizashi pressed against his left index finger like a sharp paper cutter.

"I'll start cutting from the knuckles; one finger will experience triple pain. No one can endure that. Don't let foolish loyalty ruin you."

"Hey... Deathstroke... are you always this long-winded, like a woman?"

Click!

The guillotine that swung down severed the knuckles; that's the price of trash talk.

Tormented by excruciating pain, Floyd's face flushed red and he trembled, uttering gasps and whimpers.

"Grit your teeth, take a deep breath; this pain is just the beginning."

Deathstroke slowly pulled out the wakizashi by twisting the hilt, but as he prepared to cut again, Floyd grabbed the pistol beside him.

Didn't Slade notice?

No, he could have kicked the gun away then, but he chose to leave it with Floyd, leaving a blank frame in this mediocre drama.

Bang! Sparks and gunpowder debris shot out of the gun barrel.

Yes, that's it! Prey that doesn't fight back is too boring.

Deathstroke's eyes gleamed with excitement as he held his dagger to the side, ready to slice through the incoming bullets.

But this time, the bullets weren't aimed at him.

It flew under the armpit, brushing against the railing and changing its flight path.

Did it miss?

No, it's a ricochet!

The bullet, having changed its trajectory, bounced twice more before heading for the back of Deathstroke's neck at an extremely tricky angle.

clang!

The bullet was stopped by the scabbard behind Deathstroke.

Missed!

It's inevitable to make mistakes with newly practiced techniques, and Freud wasn't surprised. The instant he fired, he rolled to his feet, clutching his injured hand, and ran upstairs.

However, the attack was not entirely fruitless. The ricochets successfully distracted Deathstroke, and even the most experienced mercenaries found it difficult to predict the bullets' landing points based on experience.

After a brief moment of panic, Deathstroke's breathing became rapid.

This little surprise was completely unexpected!

"Slade, Slade! Cheer up, isn't this what you wanted?"

He reached behind his back and gripped the knife handle.

The blade rubbed against the metal scabbard, the pleasant metallic sound like an opera reaching its climax.

The hunt has begun.