"Huff… damn it…"
After two steps, Downton doubled over, clutching his knees as he gasped for air.
"It hurts—indescribably—but I feel… powerful."
A dry chuckle escaped him. "Adrenaline, huh? Thanks to you, I didn't die again. Instead, I got stronger. I'm so damn grateful."
He straightened slowly, then tore off the tattered rags clinging to his body. The fabric pulled at raw, exposed flesh, and each strip he ripped away dragged out a low groan. When he reached the waistband, the pain was so sharp it nearly made him laugh.
At last bare, Downton turned—and advanced on the last surviving soldier like a demon risen from hell.
The soldier stared at the thing before him: a near-skeletal figure, most of his skin flayed away, yet muscles and tendons still twitching beneath the gore. His will shattered.
"Aaaaaah!"
He screamed, firing wildly on instinct.
Ding!
A bullet lodged itself between Downton's teeth.
Thud!
Another buried into his bicep.
Bullets rained down, yet Downton never flinched. He simply stood before the soldier, expressionless, as the man emptied his magazine.
Then, with eerie calm, Downton reached out and placed his right hand atop the soldier's head.
Crack!
Thud!
First came the crisp snap of bone—then the wet, muffled burst of a skull exploding inward. White and yellow matter splattered across Downton's face, blurring his vision. He raised a hand to wipe it away.
The blood slicked his skin like oil—but instead of cooling, it burned. Not just heat, but the searing agony of knives, hammers, and needles driving into his nerves all at once. He jerked his hand back with a hiss.
Gritting his teeth, he inhaled sharply and looked up.
Above, a parachute grew steadily larger in the sky.
Two hundred meters up—and still falling fast—the Master hadn't opened his chute. Instead, he plummeted headfirst, locking eyes with Downton even as gravity pulled him down.
Most of Downton's scalp was gone. Only a patch of skin remained around his left eye, revealing the tense architecture of muscle and sinew beneath.
The Master swallowed hard. Then, slowly, he nodded—satisfied.
An immortal should have the will to stare down a nightmare like this.
In Downton's ravaged form, he saw his younger self: fearless, relentless, carving a path through blood and bone to stand before his prey. Just as he once had—alone, outnumbered, storming a tyrant's bedchamber in the dead of night.
Yesterday, Jonathan's message had filled him with doubt. Worry. Fear of disappointment.
But now?
This—this broken, burning, laughing ruin of a man—was everything he'd hoped for. Maybe even more.
With a subtle shift of his body midair, the Master altered his descent. From between his arms, a membrane unfurled—thin, aerodynamic, like a flying squirrel's patagium—and he glided over Downton's head in a silent, swallow-like arc.
Downton paused, watching him pass overhead.
"Huh. That outfit… Third Party? Assassin's Guild?" He rubbed his scalp absently—then yelped. "Ouch!"
He stared at the bloody clump of skin and hair stuck to his fingers, blinked, then burst into laughter.
"Ah—fuck it! Walking hurts too much. This body's a prison!"
He tossed the scalp aside. Then, leaning back, he let go.
Whoosh—
Flames erupted from his core, engulfing him in a pillar of white-hot fire. In an instant, Downton vanished—along with the discarded scalp, the hair, even the lingering stench of blood. All turned to ash, scattering on the wind.
Only a few deformed bullets remained, clinking softly as they hit the ground.
Meanwhile, near the Smallville Café—General Ryan clutched his face in pain, blood seeping between his fingers.
"The more this guy dies, the stronger he gets! Which black-site lab did he escape from?!"
Another squad had gone dark. In just forty minutes, Downton had hunted down and slaughtered thirty-five of his best operatives.
Am I really unfit for ops involving metahumans? Ryan thought bitterly. Every time I step into this world, I lose everything—even my daughter.
His jaw tightened. If I could turn back time… damn it, I should've dumped this disaster on Amanda Waller the second it landed on my desk.
His eyes burned crimson—not literally, unless you're hinting at a supernatural or meta effect (which needs setup)—but his rage was palpable.
Before he could catch his breath, his adjutant's voice crackled over the comms:
"General! Unknown third party inbound—dozens of hostiles parachuting from high altitude!"
Ryan's head snapped upward. His expression was stone, but his knuckles whitened around his sidearm.
His soldiers scrambled for cover, but the descending figures—clad in dark tactical gear, not stereotypical "ninjas"—were already engaging. From 150 meters out, they launched precision projectile darts.
Metal clattered against pavement. Gunfire ripped through the air, met with muffled cries and red mist blooming in the twilight.
And then—movement in the alleys.
Dozens more operatives emerged from the shadows of Smallville's quiet streets—silent, coordinated, lethal. Before Ryan could issue an order, they'd breached his command vehicle.
The LexCorp tech! Ryan realized with dawning horror. All the prototype gear—energy dampeners, neural trackers, experimental armor—was inside. That's what they were after.
"Listen up!" Ryan barked into the comms, voice raw but steady. "National Guard ETA: under ten minutes. Hold that vehicle at all costs! Forget Downton for now—we can't afford to chase ghosts. Focus on repelling these infiltrators!"
A collective exhale passed through his remaining troops.
For the past forty minutes, Downton had been a nightmare made flesh—an enemy who grew stronger with every death, who laughed as bullets tore through him, only to rise again. No soldier wants to fight something that can't stay dead.
But these operatives?
They bled. They could be killed.
That, the soldiers could handle.
Within minutes, Ryan's forces consolidated near the café, forming a tight defensive perimeter against the encroaching hostiles.
High above, the Ninja Master—glided silently on a compact wingsuit before deploying a micro-parachute.
As drag slowed his descent, he snapped a grapple line from his wrist gauntlet, latching onto a lamppost. With a practiced yank, he swung upward, landing in a crouch atop the fixture.
He shed his descent gear in one fluid motion, then launched himself into a double front flip—landing without a sound on the rooftop below.
Hand resting on the hilt of his straight-bladed jian, he listened as a calm voice filtered through his earpiece:
"Master. Your target has regenerated. He's at the intersection four hundred meters east—currently… shopping."
A slow, predatory smile crossed the man's lips. "Excellent."
In under thirty seconds, he covered the distance—moving faster than most speedsters could manage in urban terrain, though not faster than Bolt. He found Downton in a thrift store, yanking on a pair of jeans. The sales clerk lay slumped unconscious behind the counter.
Downton glanced up, zipping his fly with one hand while flashing a grin. "Hey, slick. Nice threads. Name's Downton. You?"
The assassin's eyes narrowed. "Ra's al Ghul."
Downton blinked. "…As in, the Ra's al Ghul? Leader of the Assassins?"
"The Demon King," Ra's
corrected, voice like ground glass. "And you, boy, are already dead."
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL for more chapters.