Multiverse: Deathstroke-Chapter 445: Frenzy

Is Superman dumb? Not at all—whatever Deathstroke was planning, he had to stop it.

He immediately hooked his arm around Deathstroke's neck in return.

Alright, now neither of them could move, and those people were running away. Time was on his side.

As long as he held out for a few dozen seconds, it'd be enough for those people to escape.

From what he knew of Deathstroke, the mercenary wouldn't scour the whole town to hunt down and kill every single one of them unless there was a payoff.

But Su Ming's tactics weren't something he could predict with common sense.

The two locked in their grapple stood there, only to see countless fireballs suddenly materialize behind the fleeing people—one shot each. Every protester was reduced to ash.

The signs insulting the Justice League fell to the ground, slowly burning in the flames.

Clark's eyes nearly popped out—he couldn't comprehend what was happening.

Superman's knowledge of magic was practically zero, and Su Ming naturally wouldn't explain it to him. The deal he'd made with Mister Mxyzptlk was something even Batman didn't know about.

Were the massive fireballs Su Ming got from Mister Mxyzptlk just for show?

Not at all. After integrating the "Eye of Ra" into his helmet's visor, he could see tons of things in the sunlight. His superhuman brain let him process hundreds of targets at once.

Asking Mister Mxyzptlk for fireball spells—and having them cast around him onto targets—wasn't that just to set up a combo move?

With this setup, even if Su Ming spotted Lex Luthor sipping coffee with his crew at the North Pole right now, he could tag them, and Mister Mxyzptlk's barrage of space-warping fireballs would send them sky-high.

Su Ming could get any spell from Mister Mxyzptlk—even ones that didn't exist, the imp could whip up. He was magic itself.

Ma Yinglong's Acid Arrow, Goodbye Knockback Palm—anything was possible. But Su Ming went with fireballs.

Kill enemies, destroy the bodies, fake an accident—all in an instant. The fireball was a powerhouse of the evocation school.

What? You say Deathstroke killed someone? Nonsense. Clearly, their house had a gas line explosion, and they just "happened" to be Deathstroke's targets.

Sometimes killing needed evidence left behind to claim a bounty.

But other times, it had to be done quietly, making everything look like an accident.

This was one of those times.

"Look at that—it's divine retribution! God's on my side, raining down his wrathful flames!"

Su Ming instantly went full theater mode, raving to Superman with wild fervor, spit flying everywhere like he'd caught rabies.

As frenzied as it gets—like if you said one bad word about God, he'd wipe out your whole family.

In the West, you could pin anything on God. You didn't have to believe it, but you couldn't say it out loud or question someone else's faith.

Superman felt a toothache for the first time. He was convinced this was all tied to Deathstroke.

But, just as he'd said earlier, there was no proof.

Deathstroke was locked in a tight grapple with him—he hadn't uttered a single incantation or made any gestures, yet those people were burned to death.

And fire and floods had always symbolized God's wrath—practically biblical common knowledge.

Superman fell into confusion.

This was the first time he'd tried to save someone and failed. He didn't quite know what to do.

"Let go of me quick! I need to go to church and pray to God!"

Su Ming released Superman, even patting his arm to get him to remove the beefy limb still resting on Su Ming's neck.

Go hug your own wife if you want to cuddle.

Superman let out a slow sigh, his expression full of pain, his voice trembling. "You killed them."

"Don't talk nonsense. I didn't. I've got witnesses." Su Ming turned his head to point behind him.

"Harley and Poison Ivy both saw it. I've been standing here with you the whole time. I'm not the one who killed those people."

Harley skipped down the ramp, nodding her head nonstop. "Yep, Supes, you can't frame him, haha—unless you give me something nice, then I could fake some testimony for ya."

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Superman let go. He'd heard what Harley said. He didn't need fake testimony, and he sure wasn't bribing witnesses.

What was happening in front of him was beyond comprehension, but he didn't have time to tangle with Deathstroke. There were still more people out there in the world who needed saving.

It's just that lately, the world felt alien even to him.

Superman sighed and flew off.

Su Ming snapped his helmet back on, letting out a soft chuckle.

He'd achieved his goal without leaving a shred of evidence, and he'd sent a warning to everyone else.

If Lex Luthor had any more spies, they'd think twice before acting now.

As for whether those people were actually spies—who cared? With Earth in its current state, better to kill the wrong ones than let any slip by. Su Ming trusted his own reasoning over some investigation's results.

He walked toward Bobo at the edge of the playground. The gorilla had been watching for a while.

"Off to church to pray, huh?"

Bobo tossed his cigarette butt away, giving Su Ming a weird look as he asked.

Others might not know what was up, but how could Bobo not get it? He'd long suspected Deathstroke was acting as Mister Mxyzptlk's proxy.

But he just didn't say it. After today, he was even more determined to keep it buried.

He was a bar owner, his clients all sorcerers, and now Deathstroke was the proxy for the concept of magic itself. That kind of power made all the black fur on his body stand on end just thinking about it.

If Batman knew what "magic" really meant, he'd never sleep again.

Su Ming shook his hand, letting out a creepy laugh. "Yeah, every devout believer needs their church. So, Bishop, got any God's Blood left in your cathedral? The kind that makes you woozy when you drink it?"

Bobo shook his head with a wry smile. Deathstroke even cracked jokes about God—he was completely unrestrained now.

But God really wasn't around anymore.

"Alright, a yellow-and-black lost lamb's pretty rare, but 'God's Blood'—anyone can drink it if they've got the cash. Follow me."

He led the trio through twists and turns, weaving into an alleyway. After pushing open an unassuming door, they stepped back into the Oblivion Bar.

They'd been coming here so often lately that Su Ming was half-tempted to just make it his base.

But considering Circe was in Lex Luthor's camp, it wasn't exactly the safest bet. That woman had lived for millennia—she knew plenty of ways to get into the Oblivion Bar.

If it was just about dodging the floods, any magical plane would do.

But now that they knew Lex Luthor and his crew were behind this mess, the Oblivion Bar, Mayhem, Limbo, the Dreamlands, and even Hell weren't safe.

Only "Death"'s realm of the dead was secure.

But the task Death had entrusted to Su Ming hadn't seen an ounce of progress. He had no way to report to her, so he naturally wouldn't go to her turf.

Couldn't face her.

"Oh! It's Harley Quinn! The real Harley!"

The moment they walked in, Zatanna let out a squeal and bolted back to the room behind the bar counter.

Su Ming glanced at Harley with some confusion, while Harley looked equally baffled.

She'd never had any ties to the magical world. This was absolutely her first time here, and she didn't know this kid.

But it was possible Harley had killed her parents at some point, who knows?

So Harley just grinned, draping herself over Poison Ivy like she had no bones.

But soon Zatanna came rushing back out, lugging a big box from the room. Inside were giant photos of Harley, plus all sorts of merch.

Harley Quinn bobbleheads, Harley Quinn dress-up dolls, Dr. Quinzel snow globes, even a 1:1 scale wooden mallet, and several sets of Harley's outfits and bodysuits from different eras.

Su Ming's mouth twitched. Turns out the goth girl Zatanna was a Harley fangirl?

Though Harley did have that teen idol vibe—

Independent, reckless, loving and hating with passion. It made sense rebellious girls would idolize her.

But who was making Harley merch?

Her current red-and-white tee with sequined shorts did look pretty cute, but not everyone could pull it off.

Deadpool had his share of fans too. He'd sold his own merch before—even his "original flavor" uniforms when cash was tight.

One time, he found out a hardcore fan had bought one of his suits online. Turns out that fan had snagged 300 of his old costumes, so Deadpool tracked him down to make a buddy.

Only to discover the fan was a 300-plus-kilo guy who claimed he hadn't bathed in 30 years—outdoing even Deadpool's aversion to washing.

The guy welcomed Deadpool warmly, hugging him and calling him his idol.

The fat spilled out of the suit's old bullet holes like sausage, covered in black fuzz, with fleas and bedbugs instantly crawling all over Deadpool's face.

Then Deadpool puked.

"Harley, can I get your autograph? I've always been a huge fan!"

Zatanna plopped the big box down in front of Harley.

Harley glanced at Poison Ivy, lifting her chin like she was showing off.

She pulled a photo of herself from the box—one from her old Gotham days, wearing the classic red-and-black outfit, looking real young.

Of course, it was posed. She remembered this was after a job—while fleeing the scene, she'd spotted a reporter, so she stuck around, struck a pose, and let him snap it.

That photoshoot got her nabbed by Batman.

But Harley was pleased with Zatanna's collection. It was all her stuff—no Joker in sight.

Zatanna was a true Harley stan, not one of those so-called shipper fans.

"Of course, cutie! I'll sign for ya, but can you give me that hammer? I need a handy weapon to save the world."

Harley grabbed a marker with flair, signing the photo and leaving a lip print, grinning as she pointed at the mallet.

A wooden hammer, blood-stained and weathered, but way better than her current rebar-and-concrete chunk.

"Ah, of course! It's yours anyway."

Zatanna handed the hammer right over, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of meeting her idol.

Forget Harley just wanting a hammer—if she asked for Zatanna's life, she'd give it. That's how frenzied she was.

Harley was visibly thrown off by the intensity. Even her Harley Gang didn't have fans this wild. She gave an awkward laugh and took the hammer.

"For real, this is my 'Dorothy'! Oh my gosh, I can't believe I'm seeing her again—muah muah muah!"

Harley hugged the hammer, inspecting it, then gleefully kissed it a few times.

"Wait, you named your hammer 'Dorothy'?" Su Ming quipped from the side. Giving a weapon a human name—wasn't that a sign of insanity?

If Su Ming called his Nightfall sword "Tom" or his Godslayer "Jerry," Batman would definitely think he'd lost it.