DC: Rise of the Kryptonian Tyrant

Mike stepped onto the stage as soon as he saw Miley draw his dagger and charge at Bardi. Anticipating the attack, Mike moved swiftly. He grabbed the bloodied green saber dagger, still sticky from Leon's earlier use, and stepped in front of Bardi, deflecting Miley's blade with practiced ease.

"Calm down. Pick up your brother's head and put it back—maybe there's still a heartbeat," Mike sneered coldly, his voice laced with mockery.

Miley's rage only deepened. His bloodshot eyes were locked on Bardi, filled with unrelenting hatred and fury.

Bardi, however, stood motionless, his expression indifferent, as if Miley's attack didn't concern him in the slightest.

There was no real threat to Bardi; a dagger wouldn't even come close to harming him. But to Mike, this was a matter of attitude. Mike understood his role well, Bardi needed someone to handle situations that didn't require his direct involvement, and Mike saw it as his duty to step in. This wasn't about showing off but about knowing his place and proving his value.

Mike knew he couldn't catch bullets with his bare hands like Bardi, such a feat was beyond human capability. But stopping an enraged gangster armed with a dagger? That was well within his skill set.

With a sharp clang, the two blades collided, the sound echoing through the room as the white light above illuminated the struggle. Sparks flew as the weapons clashed, and when the blades parted, a small notch had been carved into Miley's dagger.

Miley's face twisted with fury, his skin glistening with sweat and bulging veins. He roared like a wild beast and lunged again, aiming to slash at Mike with all his strength.

Mike tightened his grip on the bloodstained green saber dagger, his eyes narrowing as he faced Miley's frenzied assault. When the daggers collided again, Mike used a deflecting technique, redirecting the force of Miley's attack to the side. With a fluid motion, Mike spun his own blade in his hand, returned it to his palm, and slashed downward in one decisive stroke.

The blade cut cleanly across Miley's wrist, severing the artery. Blood spurted out in a crimson arc, splattering across the stage.

Miley staggered, his knees buckling. Mike delivered a precise kick to the back of his legs, forcing him to kneel. Miley, still gripping his dagger despite the injury, was pulled forward. Mike grabbed Miley's other arm, twisted it behind his back, and locked it in place. The green saber dagger came to rest against Miley's throat, its sharp edge pressing against his skin.

Miley, though furious and reckless, was no match for Mike's experience. As a seasoned mercenary who had survived countless battles, Mike easily subdued the Brotherhood's second-in-command.

It had taken only a few seconds.

Blood continued to gush from Miley's severed artery, pooling around his knees and staining the stage red. Despite the pain, Miley stubbornly held onto his dagger, his grip weakening only when Mike delivered a final kick to his wrist. The weapon flew out of his hand, spinning off the stage before landing at Jetley's feet.

"Stop!" Jetley's voice thundered through the room, trembling with both rage and fear.

His eyes darted to the severed head of his eldest brother, still lying motionless on the stage. Now his second brother was kneeling, bleeding profusely, his lips pale from the rapid loss of blood.

The stench of blood filled the air, so thick it overwhelmed the senses.

The Brotherhood gang members surrounding the stage looked on in panic, gripping their weapons tightly. Their arsenal was impressive for a street gang, Thompson submachine guns, UZI 9mm submachine guns, pistols of every caliber. It was enough firepower to rival a small police force.

Even the police in the suicide slums wouldn't dare provoke them.

"Let him go! Are you trying to die? If Miley dies, I'll bury you all with him!" Jetley shouted furiously, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at his brother's pale, blood-covered face.

The Brotherhood members under the stage moved in unison, aiming their guns directly at the platform.

The three brothers were well known for their deep bond. They had risen together in the harsh environment of the suicide slums, enduring countless struggles. As triplets, their connection ran deep, and their loyalty to one another was unwavering.

There had been a time when someone tried to harm Jetley. In retaliation, his eldest and second brothers didn't hesitate to storm into their enemy's home and kill them outright.

Though they didn't care about anyone else, their devotion to each other was absolute, each brother willing to sacrifice themselves for the others.

"Fine. Kill him," Bardi's cold voice came from behind Mike.

Initially, Bardi had intended to approach the Brotherhood quietly, intending to convince their leader to submit and work under him.

But instead, the Brotherhood boss had greeted him with violence, firing at him like a madman.

With that, Bardi no longer saw the point in sparing him. Though dealing with the Brotherhood members without their leader would be slightly more troublesome, it wasn't beyond Bardi's capability. If it meant a bit more effort, he would simply kill all the leaders and claim the Brotherhood for himself.

Without hesitation, Mike swung the bloodstained green saber dagger in a horizontal slash, cutting deep into Miley's neck. With a sharp kick to Miley's back, Mike sent the bloodied man tumbling off the stage. Blood sprayed everywhere, leaving the scene shockingly gruesome.

After finishing the task, Mike didn't linger. With agile movements, he rolled across the stage and tucked himself into a corner, pulling Leon to the ground with him.

Bardi didn't reprimand Mike for his quick retreat; in fact, he silently approved. It showed that Mike understood his limits. He had done what was within his ability and avoided unnecessary risk. Staying on the stage amidst a hail of bullets would have been foolish.

"Miley!"

Gunfire erupted alongside Jetley's anguished scream. Jetley rushed to catch his second brother as he collapsed to the floor, blood soaking his hands and body.

Miley lay there, his throat gurgling with blood as it spilled from the gaping wound on his neck. His mouth opened and closed as if he were trying to speak, but his torn vocal cords rendered him silent. His lips trembled, desperate to convey something.

Jetley's tearful face pressed against his brother's, his voice breaking as he sobbed, "I know what you're trying to say, Miley. You always said it—I'm a smart kid! A smart kid!"

Hearing his brother's words, Miley's tense body relaxed. His eyes softened as he let out one last breath, his body convulsing before going still.

Jetley's cries echoed across the nightclub as his second brother died in his arms. His teeth clenched, and his grief twisted into raw, burning hatred.

Then the gunfire stopped.

The room fell into a deafening silence, the smoky stench of gunpowder lingering in the air.

The Brotherhood gang members exchanged nervous glances, their hearts pounding in their chests. Their hands tightened on their weapons—Thompson submachine guns, UZI 9mm submachine guns, pistols of all kinds. They had enough firepower to overwhelm most police forces.

Even the local precinct in the suicide slums wouldn't dare provoke them under normal circumstances.

But now, as the silence stretched, they felt an oppressive fear settle over them.

Bardi stood still on the stage. His right hand, now holding a fistful of brass bullets, moved slowly. With a flick of his fingers, he sent one of the bullets flying.

The bullet pierced the air with a sharp whine before striking one of the men, blowing his head apart in a grotesque spray.

"From today onward," Bardi's calm voice rang out, "I'm your boss. Any objections?"

He scanned the remaining Brotherhood members coldly.

One man, too frightened to think straight, tried to run. Bardi flicked another bullet, hitting him in the back with such force that his body flew seven or eight meters, his head reduced to a mangled mess.

Panic overtook the room.

Another gang member, unwilling to submit, raised his gun and fired at Bardi.

Before the shot could reach him, Bardi's hand moved again. Another bullet flew from his fingers, silencing the man for good.

The rest of the gang froze in terror. The bullets in Bardi's hand seemed endless, and the ease with which he dispatched their comrades left them trembling.

Finally, one by one, they began to surrender. Guns clattered to the ground as they knelt, raising their hands in submission.

"I surrender!"

"We surrender!"

"You're the boss now!"

"Boss!"

Bardi nodded in satisfaction, the bullets in his hand dropping onto the stage with a metallic clink. Only one bullet remained in his fingers as he turned his attention to Jetley.

Jetley, overcome with grief and fear, suddenly dropped to his knees. He kowtowed to Bardi, his head pressed firmly against the ground.

"Don't kill me!" Jetley pleaded, his voice trembling. "I'm the third boss of the Brotherhood. I can help you control the gang quickly. I'll do anything you ask, just spare me!"

Though his posture was one of submission, Jetley's face twisted with resentment and hatred as he bowed. His eyes burned with unresolved fury even as his head remained low.

Bardi looked down at him, his expression cold and unmoved.

With a flick of his fingers, the last bullet flew.

Jetley's head snapped back as the bullet tore through his skull, his lifeless body collapsing onto the blood-soaked floor.

Bardi's voice echoed through the room, cold and dismissive.

"I don't need a traitor."