Chapter 4904

Deathstroke, crouched atop the lighthouse, lowered his binoculars, picked up the walkie-talkie, and said to those below: "Still no monsters in sight. I figure it's 'cause we live too far out in the boonies. Over."

Shiler down below had just put on his tactical gloves. He pressed the walkie-talkie button and replied: "If they really ran all the way from Falcone Manor, that's at least a two-hour sprint. We just sit here and wait?"

"Brainiac," Deathstroke shouted, "give us a hand. This gun's all prepped and ready, you won't let me go on a killing spree, I'm leaving you a bad review once I'm out."

"Monsters spawn randomly in the nearby fog," Brainiac said. "The assault timer hasn't hit yet; it won't start until the progress bar appears."

Deathstroke sighed. "Never in my life have I seen an AI this slow on the uptake."

Whether those words provoked Brainiac or not, monsters soon began spawning in the fog. The spawns were all ordinary mobsters, but with Gotham-tier firepower.

"Holy cow," Shiler exclaimed. "They've even got rocket launchers. Next thing you know a tank'll roll out."

Deathstroke dropped down with a thud, twirling his greatsword in a flourish before him. "Been waiting for you. Let's kill!"

Truth be told, ever since Deathstroke stopped wanting for money, the main universe's difficulty felt a bit low to him. After all, he couldn't exactly go carving up the Justice League — his meal ticket. With the Nth metal greatsword immune to wear and unlimited use, who could withstand a single exchange with him?

It was like you whale-spent on gear, bought a mountain of top-tier equipment, only to find the strongest mobs all get one-shot by you. All that power with nowhere to vent; if stronger monsters don't come attack you at that point, you're damn sure gonna attack the dev team.

So eyeing that huge horde of well-equipped Gotham mobsters, Deathstroke licked his lips and plunged into the crowd like a tornado in an instant, outright ignoring the hail of bullets, his greatsword's edge tearing everyone to shreds.

Shiler wasn't that crazy. He didn't have Deathstroke's regeneration. He took a sniper rifle and called targets from atop the lighthouse. Basically every vehicle driver got picked off by him.

Shiler's sniping was decent, but the main reason for such stellar results was that this rifle was Bat-gear. Caliber wasn't huge, but the propellant packed a serious punch, and the bullets were tweaked for extreme penetration. A single shot could punch through a tank's bulletproof glass, a human skull, and the tank's remaining chassis, burying the round straight into the ground.

It made Shiler feel like he held a Death Note — point at someone, they die. Not that no one tried to counter-snipe, but the lighthouse is a hell of a sniper nest. Not only bulletproof, RPGs couldn't even reach the top. A few hit the lower half and did jack shit for damage, just left some charred scorch marks on the walls.

Deathstroke wasn't mindlessly slaughtering either. He prioritized the RPG carriers first — lugging those things makes you slow, and Deathstroke moved like he owned the place, jumping in and spinning, blowing a whole field of gear drops in no time.

These waves were like wet paper against the two of them. The occasional few who neared the lighthouse got blown sky-high by mines. By the end Deathstroke's armor didn't even show its original color; he looked like a supersized Flash — red was blood, yellow was brain matter.

Good thing the sea was right there. After the killing, he jumped in, washed off, came back and let out a long breath — clearly killed his fill.

Shiler had already come down from the lighthouse. He was checking the mountain of gear scattered on the ground. Since these were humanoid monsters, the drops were all usable, but Deathstroke got sloppy when he was having fun; most armor was hacked to bits, only weapons remained intact.

But the real surprise was a tank that survived — only its windshield had a bullet hole. Deathstroke walked over carrying his sword: "I deliberately avoided hitting this baby when I was swinging. It's a treasure; we've got a vehicle now."

Shiler opened his personal terminal, glanced at the mission list. Several missions had spawned and were marked on the map, but maybe because their corner was too remote, the nearest was twenty miles out — no wheels, no way.

Shiler got in, checked it over — engine turned over fine, just low on fuel. He checked the map and marked a spot. "First, go get some gas."

Deathstroke got in the car. He took the driver's seat, shut the door, and the two tore toward the city interior. They were the first group to leave base and head into the city to scavenge.

Some handled it smoothly; naturally others were in a panic. Gotham Cathedral was currently surrounded by monsters.

Being dead center and massive in footprint, its contact area with the fog was huge; the moment all fog started spawning, the entire cathedral was completely encircled.

The monsters spawning outside the cathedral resembled Deep Ones, but far more terrifying. Because lore-wise, this should be an Outer God infecting Gothamites — their strength goes without saying.

Deep Ones at most look fishy; Gothamites instantly grasped the mutation's nature. Quite a few grew octopus heads, limbs turning to tentacles. Some were stretched thin and long, turning into floating hanged-ghost things. Others became pitch-black blobs. Anyway, every variety of monster, all crowded around the cathedral.

Right now, Constantine was barely holding on. The Jesus statue behind him radiated light, but far weaker than at the start. Shiler looked out the window; monsters were corroding the faith shield with dark power, and they had zero power to kill these things.

Constantine brought plenty of gear — that flamethrower gun, materials for magic circles. But the monster count was overwhelming; he couldn't spare a hand to set them up.

Constantine glanced back at Shiler. Shiler did nothing. That was the main reason he was struggling alone. Constantine didn't want to blame a teammate, but still asked: "You actually know magic?"

"Depends how you define magic," Shiler said. "You can view me as an undertaker. I bury the bodies and pray for them, so God guides them where they belong."

"But that requires bodies," Constantine said, a touch helpless. "We can't even kill a single monster right now."

Shiler shook his head. "Don't need you. Someone else manufactures the deaths."

Though Constantine was an occult master, he still wanted to say: cut the cryptic crap right now.

Then he saw Shiler walk to the pulpit, close his eyes, and trace a cross on his chest — seemingly starting to pray. But the faith power on the Jesus statue didn't increase.

After a long moment, Shiler opened his eyes. He scanned the surroundings, as if sizing things up. He looked back at Constantine; Constantine felt that gaze and met it. Upon seeing those slightly vacant gray eyes, his hand trembled — the seal bracing the door was instantly breached, and monsters began to roar.

Shiler, sitting in the passenger seat with eyes narrowed in a doze, suddenly snapped them open. Deathstroke happened to turn his head; Shiler sighed and said: "Change course. Head for Gotham Cathedral."

"What's up?" Deathstroke asked, but immediately wheeled the car around.

"Someone can't handle it. We gotta go help."

The car entered the fog, gradually approaching the cathedral's most prominent bell tower.

Shiler, sitting on the sofa, also opened his eyes. He looked toward the bell tower and asked: "You guys hear the bell?"

Gordon looked at him strangely: "Bell? What bell?"

Charles, though, stared at Shiler and said: "A peculiar mental link. Not psychic ability, more like a tether in the subconscious. What binds you together?"

"Death." Shiler stood. "We have to make a trip to Gotham Cathedral."

"Ugh..." Lilith, eating at the dining table, suddenly cried out in pain. She half-kneeled, gasping violently.

Pamela rushed to steady her; Ted blocked her: "Her prophecy triggered. Don't touch her."

Lilith jerked her head back, hair whipping behind her, eyes rolling completely up, let out another scream, then went limp, exhaled long, and said: "Go to Gotham Cathedral."

"What happened?" Ted asked.

Lilith parted her lips, as if to speak, but shook her head instead: "Death connects us all. That bond flows in the grave..."

"Let's go," Ted said. "She's always like this — not too lucid after a prophecy triggers, but the prophecy's never wrong. Better hurry."

"Wait, not all of you," Pamela said. "Ted, you stay and hold the fort. Tim, grab the gun; the two of us are going."

They all knew Pamela and Ted were the two strongest right now — naturally they couldn't both leave. Harley wanted to tag along with Pamela, but with only one gun, she'd be useless without one, so she gave up in the end.

"Grab my arm," Pamela said at the door to Tim. "We're taking the underground."

Plant roots lace all of Gotham. Pamela used them to carve a path, moving through the whole city like the wind. Her powers completely unrestricted meant she remained among the most powerful metas, so she arrived fast.

Only someone got there faster. Charles's brainwaves linked directly into Constantine's mind. Constantine zoned out for a split second and saw a blue-eyed young man in a corner of the church.

"Professor Xavier?" Constantine, already forced back near the pulpit by monsters, said in shock. "How are you here?"

"Looks like you're in over your heads," Charles said. "Everyone's converging here. Relax your mind; I'll ensure these monsters' mental attacks don't touch you."

Constantine took a deep breath. He slowly eased his taut mind, then dropped his mental defenses — couldn't do that before, because the monsters besieging the church were the kind that zero your sanity with a glance — finally able to focus on offense.

Shiler stood behind him, looking like he was spacing out. Charles's brainwave avatar circled him a few times and said with a hint of wonder: "You never cease to surprise me, Shiler. You've done a lot exploring how to link all your traits together. The concept of making you work in concert to achieve progress has become an embodied trait. Bishop... or should I call you 'Death'?"