Chapter 195: Deathstroke vs. Deathstroke

Deathstroke raised his gun barrel toward the exit of that narrow alley.

He was a top-tier marksman — a single glance was enough for him to calculate the target's speed and the exact moment they would appear. Even if the target was hiding inside for now, they could never escape his sniper fire in the end.

However, the next instant, a bicycle moving at an absurdly ridiculous speed flew straight out of a ninth-floor window and shot into the ninth floor of the neighboring building.

"?"

Deathstroke watched the bicycle that had taken flight, but his aiming and shooting had already reached the level of pure instinct. Even though his brain was still processing, his body had already pulled the trigger on its own.

Bang!

A muffled boom rang out across the rooftop. His bullet pierced through the black-robed figure on the bicycle in midair, leaving a black bullet hole in the building's outer wall.

Hit?

Hit.

Trusting a gunman's intuition, Deathstroke could be certain that shot had landed.

But the next second, that figure flashed across the street again — speed undiminished, movements just as agile, showing no sign of injury at all.

Missed?

Deathstroke had originally assumed this guy on the bicycle was just some harmless nobody, and that once he dealt with him he could focus on Deathstroke. But now, he realized that plan wasn't going to be so easy to pull off.

He made a slight adjustment to the electronic eye on his mask, then raised his gun again.

Bang! Bang!

Meanwhile, seeing Ma Ma Zhaodi's solo baiting succeed, the lone Deathstroke began to sprint at full speed, closing in on his position from Deathstroke's blind spot at a pace comparable to a high-speed car.

"Deathstroke's pressure is really intense."

Ma Ma Zhaodi's head was no longer wearing a ghost mask now — it was covered with a pumpkin. Deathstroke's shooting ability was simply too outrageous. Whether he poked his head out or not, almost inevitably a bullet would find his vital point at some intersection. By now, two pumpkins on his head had already been shattered.

Although he tried his best to pick routes that would hide him from Deathstroke's field of view, keeping his body out of the scope as much as possible, Deathstroke's way of shooting simply wasn't human. He only needed to lock down Ma Ma Zhaodi's position, and he could fire a bullet that would hit.

At the same time, Ma Ma Zhaodi actually had to keep moving toward Deathstroke's direction, so he would inevitably expose his position. Even though his route choices were extremely flexible and his speed very fast, Deathstroke had nearly riddled him with bullets — he even used different high-powered rounds, trying to inflict real, substantive damage on Ma Ma Zhaodi.

"Sigh, is it really worth it though"

Bang!

Another gunshot rang out. Flame carrying the smell of gunpowder and a massive shockwave bloomed from the muzzle. A searing-hot metal bullet spun out of the chamber, pierced through air and sound, grazed a rebar sticking out of a damaged wall, then ricocheted, hit an abandoned car on the roadside, ricocheted a second time off the car, and finally struck Ma Ma Zhaodi behind his cover.

"Shit!"

Ma Ma Zhaodi cursed inwardly at the strong push from the impact, then dropped to the ground on cue. His body convulsed; bright red blood gushed out from under the black robe, flooding the ground.

This was why he got shot even without poking his head out — and more than once. As long as a bullet could theoretically hit him, Deathstroke would use his gun to turn that theory into reality.

From Deathstroke's perspective, he could now see the target fallen on the ground, with part of the body exposed beyond the cover. He had originally wanted to aim at the vital points for a finishing shot, but the target had already fully dropped to the ground, which ironically left him with no angle to fire.

So he just casually fired five or six more shots at the parts sticking out from behind the cover.

During the first three shots, the body wrapped in the black robe still twitched a couple of times. After the next few shots, it stopped responding entirely.

Is he dead.

Deathstroke finally breathed a sigh of relief. This guy had taken several of his shots — every bullet had pierced through the black robe, yet every time there wasn't a trace of blood. He'd almost started to suspect that there really was a ghost, or a specter, under that cloak.

After all, if the bullets had been stopped by body armor, there wouldn't be any bullet holes left on the ground.

In reality, the pumpkin's protection mechanic for Ma Ma Zhaodi was damage absorption, not attack blocking — so the bullets wouldn't be intercepted. This was the pumpkin's "mechanism adaptation" to the real world.

At this moment, Ma Ma Zhaodi lay on the ground in a sulk, a Pocky stick dangling from his mouth, sighing. For him, as long as he went through the motions on the Riddler's assignment, that was enough. No matter how much pay the man offered, he wasn't going to risk his life for him.

But now, the baiting plan had actually worked a little too well. Deathstroke seemed to feel that Ma Ma Zhaodi was challenging his professional skill level, and kept focusing fire on him — forcing him to drop to the ground and play dead.

"Sigh, lying flat is still easier — if only I could be a salted fish for the rest of my life."

When Deathstroke closed in on Deathstroke and the two began to slaughter each other, the rapid gunfire grew dense. Short bursts and single shots wove together. Batman raced at full speed toward the site of their battle, and Ma Ma Zhaodi immediately scrambled up from the ground nimbly, hopped on his bicycle, and sped off.

If it weren't for needing to attach the "I didn't kill anyone" buff to Deathstroke, he would have just played dead until the fight was over, or slipped away immediately. But those two mercenaries seemed to have fought their way from the street all the way to the central station — and there were still plenty of people there, so Ma Ma Zhaodi had no choice but to go.

When Ma Ma Zhaodi arrived at the station entrance, the sounds of Deathstroke and Deathstroke clashing, along with the crowd's screams, were already pouring out from inside. Clearly, the two of them had fought to a stalemate at mid-range, and the battle had now been pulled into the close-combat phase.

What was worse, the station was still operating as usual, because as this war dragged on, a considerable number of Gotham City's citizens had begun trying to flee outside the city.

Inside the station, Deathstroke had already drawn two combat blades from his back. He was originally a military-modified superhuman, and his way of moving now looked even more bizarre and swift. A normal person could barely track his movement trajectory or body motion with the naked eye — they could only see a blurry black-and-yellow shadow.

Deathstroke raised both hands, pouring fire at Deathstroke, who had flipped out from behind the counter, with two micro submachine guns. Two streams of bullets locked firmly onto Deathstroke's body — this level of shooting was nothing more than child's play to him.

Deathstroke gripped his long blades tightly. With his enhanced vision and reaction speed, the bullets' trajectories were almost clearly visible to his eyes.

Ting-ting-ting—

The twin blades turned into two streams of light in his hands. Relying on his terrifying physical conditioning and his hard alloy long blades, Slade sliced away most of the incoming bullets. Only a few low-damage rounds he let pass, letting them strike his armor — yet their impact could only slow his steps by a tiny bit.

By now, the crowd inside the station had already fled in terror toward the exits.

(End of chapter)