DC: Rise of the Kryptonian Tyrant

The Suicide Slum.

In a dimly lit basement, a single bulb hung overhead, its weak light unable to reach the shadowy corners. Scattered across the room were broken radios, old discs, and various machinery, once collected by the owner but now damaged and completely worthless.

Slade Wilson calmly donned his iconic two-tone mask, half orange and half black.

He had discarded the name his and embraced his new identity.

In the suffocating gloom of the basement, a sudden flash of cold steel broke through the darkness.

The sharp sound of a blade being unsheathed echoed, sharp and metallic.

A pinky finger flew through the air, severed cleanly.

The young man tied to a chair grimaced, sweat pouring from his face as he clenched his teeth against the pain. He refused to cry out, his eyes burning with hatred as he glared at Deathstroke.

Deathstroke swung the katana casually, the motion so swift that the blood barely had time to catch up before the blade appeared clean, glinting coldly in the dim light.

Dressed in a dark mesh bodysuit, with combat gear strapped securely to his thighs and waist, Deathstroke loomed like a ghost in the darkness. His tall frame cast an imposing shadow over the restrained young man, enveloping him in an aura of dread.

"Only two months here, and he already has subordinates this loyal?"

Deathstroke's voice was cold, his tone laced with disdain. Ever since learning that Bardi was operating in the Suicide Slum, he had severed ties with General Vic, determined to face Bardi alone.

Humiliated by his failure in the underground research facility and his defeat at Bardi's hands, Deathstroke carried a seething anger. He was a soldier of the highest caliber, elite beyond compare, and the thought of being bested by Bardi was intolerable.

Now, having attained the same power Bardi once wielded, he hungered for revenge. He would defeat him, kill him, and reclaim his title as the most powerful.

But despite his meticulous preparation, Deathstroke had missed his mark. When he arrived in the Suicide Slum, Bardi had already left for Metropolis's industrial district.

Frustrated, Deathstroke captured a minor gang leader to extract Bardi's location. Yet even under the threat of death, the man refused to talk.

"Is he really worth dying for?" Deathstroke's voice was colder now, biting. "He's only been your leader for two months."

The restrained young man panted heavily, blood dripping from his hand, but his eyes remained steadfast, glowing with defiance.

"It's worth it," the young man rasped, his voice hoarse but unwavering. "It's worth it! He brought us hope, faith, survival. Someone like you, selfish and cruel, has no right to speak of him!"

The young man's words were filled with conviction. There was more he wanted to say. If it weren't for Bardi, his mother would have died. Bardi had forced a wealthy man to give up a spot for her bone marrow transplant, saving her life. If it weren't for Bardi's rules in the Suicide Slum, his younger brother would have been cut open and his organs sold.

To this young man, Bardi wasn't just a leader, he was a savior, a symbol of hope. His gratitude toward Bardi was boundless. Bardi had not only saved his family but also given him purpose, direction, and something to believe in.

Those who hadn't endured life in the Suicide Slum could never understand what it meant to live in such desperation, yearning for even the smallest glimpse of light.

Now, for the first time, there was someone who brought that light, a figure who stood tall like a mountain, a leader who gazed down from his tower with a smile that inspired reverence.

Bardi was a man worth following.

Deathstroke's eye narrowed, his gaze sharp. For a moment, he felt an unfamiliar, unsettling emotion stir within him. The young man's faith in Bardi shocked him, but it also provoked his rage.

Each time someone expressed admiration for Bardi, it was as if the world was mocking him, reminding him of his inferiority.

That feeling clawed at his pride, driving him to madness.

The world seemed to revolve around Bardi, a notion that made Deathstroke's blood boil.

"I'll kill him," Deathstroke growled, his voice like ice. "I'll drag him down from that pedestal and destroy him!"

He raised the katana, his resolve hardened. He no longer cared about extracting information. The young man's blind devotion disgusted him.

The restrained young man, despite his pain, roared at the top of his lungs, his face flushed with fanaticism.

"For Barmulodi!"

The shout echoed through the basement, shaking the walls and loosening dust from the ceiling.

The crazed look in the young man's eyes made Deathstroke falter for a moment. This level of fervor was beyond anything he had expected, it was terrifying.

"Damn monster," Deathstroke thought, his face darkening. "Barmulodi, what kind of spell have you cast on them?"

Just as the katana's tip was about to pierce the young man's chest, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from outside.

The basement door slammed open, the hinges tearing loose under the force of a heavy kick.

It was Leon.

Since the violent takeover of the Suicide Slum, Leon had grown into a man, standing tall, shoulders squared, and ready to take responsibility.

"Andy!" Leon's voice was filled with urgency as his eyes locked onto his bound comrade. His gaze then shifted to Deathstroke, sharp and unyielding. "Stop!"

Leon had been searching for Andy, and upon hearing his shout for Bardi, he had rushed to the scene without hesitation.

Leon sprinted forward, his heart pounding in his chest.

Deathstroke, however, reacted swiftly. Before Leon could reach him, the katana swiped through the air with lethal precision, stopping mere inches from Leon's neck.

Leon froze in place.

"What do you want?" Leon demanded, his voice steady but laced with tension.

He glanced at Andy, relieved to see he was still alive, before focusing his gaze back on Deathstroke.

Deathstroke's single eye gleamed coldly beneath his mask, his voice sharp as steel.

"Barmulodi," he said, his words slow and deliberate. "Where is he?"

Leon's breath hitched as he locked eyes with Deathstroke, his expression stern and unwavering. For a long moment, the two stared each other down, neither backing away. Finally, Leon spoke. "I'm telling you, you've got the wrong person. He doesn't know where the boss is."

After speaking, Leon boldly reached out his right hand to push the blade aside.

But to his shock, the sword didn't move an inch.

From a physical perspective, when someone points a blade at you, it should take only a small amount of force, even the pressure of a single finger to push it away.

Yet, despite using all the strength in his arm, Leon couldn't budge the blade at all.

What did this mean? It meant that the masked man standing before him possessed strength far beyond that of ordinary humans.

Leon's pupils contracted, and a chill ran down his spine. In an instant, he realized that this enemy wasn't someone they could handle. This was a boss-level opponent, a superhuman.

Though shocked, Leon didn't hesitate. Unable to move the blade, he shifted his own body instead, stepping to the side to avoid the tip of the sword.

Despite the disadvantage, he stood tall, his back straight, his demeanor unafraid. He carried himself with the resolve of a man facing an unstoppable force, a stance reminiscent of a general preparing for battle.

Deathstroke felt a flicker of respect. For a moment, Leon reminded him of General Vic, the man he once followed.

After a moment's pause, Deathstroke sheathed his sword, his single eye watching Leon carefully.

Leon stepped past him and approached Andy.

Andy glared at Leon furiously, his voice hoarse as he accused, "Leon, you betrayed Barmulodi!"

To Andy and others like him, Bardi was more than a man—he was a symbol, a figure leading them toward a utopia.

Leon didn't respond. Instead, without a word, he ignored Andy's injured hand and punched him square in the face with a right uppercut, causing Andy's angry expression to crumble.

Grabbing Andy by the chest of his shirt, Leon pulled him close and growled, his voice fierce and guttural: "Have you forgotten what the boss told us?"

"As much power as we have, that's how much work we do. What we need is knowledge. Degrees. Doctorates, master's—more knowledge! What we're trying to change isn't something small."

"Do you think a little bit of bravado is going to help the boss?"

"Do you think this suicidal, blind loyalty is useful?"

"Does the boss need this? Tell me! Does the boss need it?"

Leon's voice was filled with anger and frustration as he shook Andy, his grip tightening on the young man's shirt.

Andy gritted his teeth, unable to argue.

This kind of loyalty, this willingness to die to protect Bardi's location—was foolish. Bardi had given them hope for a better future, urging them to work harder, to study, to improve themselves so they could play a greater role in the future.

Throwing away one's life like this was meaningless. It was something Bardi himself had explicitly condemned. He had even said that if someone was actively seeking him, he would freely tell them his location.

But Andy had acted on impulse, driven by his overwhelming gratitude and the instinct to protect the man who had given him and his family everything.

Leon glared at Andy, his anger not fading.

After a long moment, he finally calmed himself, releasing Andy's shirt. His expression still stern, he turned to Deathstroke and said, "The boss is in the Metropolis Noah Industrial Zone, buying out Noy Biotechnology Co., Ltd."

Deathstroke sneered. Without another word, he turned and began to walk out of the basement.

"I look forward to seeing your faces when his head is hanging in the Suicide Slum," he said coldly.

Leon trembled, his fists clenching so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.

All of this stemmed from one truth: they weren't strong enough to protect Barmulodi.

---

Stone House.

A military helicopter descended outside the quiet settlement, surrounded by towering sequoia trees that reached into the sky. Lieutenant General Sam Lane stepped out of the helicopter, his boots crunching against the dirt as he headed into town.

Ahead of him, a young man,disheveled and wild, ran through the streets, shouting and laughing uncontrollably. His face was smeared with mud as he held up his hands, babbling with manic energy.

"I won a Pulitzer Prize!"

"I won a Pulitzer Prize!"

"I won a Pulitzer Prize!"

***

You guys didn't fulfill your part of the deal, I'm hurt.

For every 100 PS = 1 extra chapter. Support me on patreon to read 20+ advanced chapters: patreon.com/Blownleaves.