"Yes—at least until we can get some kind of straight answer out of him," Alex said. "I've known Shelim since he was a thirteen-year-old with glasses thicker than my fingers and braces that filled out his mouth. He's always had an exit strategy. He's persistent like that."
"Like a roach," I grunted.
"Yeah," she agreed. It confirmed what I'd always suspected about the man, though it hardly filled me with confidence about our plan.
"His boss makes Lex Luthor look like a saint," I said. "He won't stay alive for long after he rats her out."
"Let me worry about that for now," she replied. "You should focus on Deathstroke. We're fifteen minutes out."
"You got the communication jammer ready?"
"As soon as you give the signal, it goes up," she said. "Nothing you do or say will make it back to his employer."
"Good." I nodded. "And I'll need a vow from your security team if they're going to be waiting in the wind. Nothing heavy—they just can't ever speak about what they've seen or are about to see."
She exchanged a look with the man in charge, a muscled ex–Delta in his forties with a greying beard and intense green eyes. He nodded.
He swore the vow, and the others followed. We continued our conversation while I prepared. Bone pushed through my ribcage, thickening and interlocking into a proper breastplate and shoulder guards. The watchers' reactions were a mix of disgust and horrified fascination.
Tendons stretched into straps as I shifted focus to my limbs: shin guards, gauntlets with articulated, claw-tipped fingers. Finally, I formed a half-mask from bone grown along my collarbones and poked enough holes in them to ensure I could breathe easily and protect my identity.
When the armor was complete, I floated every drop of blood from the pool, shaping and compressing it with raw Cursed Energy before storing it in my inventory.
Copy (Blood Manipulation has reached level 3)
Alex and one of the special forces guys had vomited by the end of it. I pulled on fitted black clothes, layered the new armor on top, and twirled my blades. On a whim, I made one final adjustment: hollowed the hilt and filled it with my own blood.
Why? So I could call it back, of course.
"You're absolutely disgusting," Alex muttered as I stepped outside with ten minutes to spare. We were about five minutes from the deadline.
"Oh, I know," I said without looking back. We'd set up in a small residential home she'd emptied with the promise of a cash reward. She handed me an ear-radio, and I sent my blades into my Cursed Inventory before leaping onto the rooftop and crouching.
"I'll radio you when I sense him," I said. Alex craned her head up.
"What do you mean exactly by 'sense' him?"
"Nothing you need to worry about. Just keep the jammer ready."
I spent the next five minutes silent on the rooftop, playing with the blood in my sword hilt and flexing my perception field. The blade turned in lazy arcs, each motion amplifying my Blood Manipulation and giving me ideas on how to make the technique deadlier.
Surprisingly, the copied technique didn't level up. Seventh Sense did.
Seventh Sense has reached level 5
I stretched my awareness to the limit, cataloguing every noise, rustle, footstep, voice, and animal sound. The sphere of perception expanded far beyond what my perception stat should've made possible—until I realized Seventh Sense was chipping in. It granted a flat 50% boost to all perception feats.
The plane arrived late, and just as the contact said, someone dove out. He was little more than a darker shape against a moonless sky, but I knew it was him—or someone dressed like him. Tactical armor. Orange and black suit.
"The plane just passed. Did somebody get off?" Alex asked on the radio.
"Yup," I said. "But there's something else." A car had just entered the neighborhood. The driver's heartbeat was fast and irregular—exactly what enhanced people and sorcerers sounded like.
I shared the suspicion with her.
"Which one should we focus on?" Alex asked.
"Both," I said. "I'll take the car. You keep an eye on the flyer."
"I'll get my boys on it
"Keep one of them with you at all times," I warned. "This could still be an overly complicated trap."
I cut comms and moved, leaping off the roof and landing on the pavement. I pushed forward with raw stat, blurring through corners and vaulting over houses while flexing Stealth, Parkour, and Seventh Sense. I managed to remain unnoticed. I perched on a fence, hidden by Curtain, and peered into the SUV driving by.
The driver wore Deathstroke's armor.
Ernest's Cursed Whip appeared in my hand. I wrapped it around a wheelbarrow in someone's yard and flung it through the SUV's windshield. He swerved—too slowly. The car veered off the road. Someone tumbled out before the crash, landing in a roll, strapping on a dual-blade harness, and firing mid-flip with two Desert Eagles.
I stepped off the fence, slipping through the hail of bullets with my enhanced perception predicting every trajectory. Deathstroke stopped firing instantly and drew his blades.
"You're new," he said.
"And you must have something else planned," I replied. The diver was obviously a fake out, something obvious to draw our attention, and he was supposed to leave a one-man ambush. Still, the legendary Deathstroke didn't strike me as somebody who left much to chance. "Tell me there's a third layer to this assassination plot."
He laughed. "And here I thought simple misdirection was plenty."
I shot forward and ducked. His blade skimmed my hair as my palm slammed into his chest. He blasted through a fence, crashing into an open flame and knocking over a grill. A family enjoying a late barbecue scattered.
I followed them into their yard as I spoke through comms.
He was playing at something, something that probably required his verbal say-so. I decided to strip him of that option just in case. "Throw up the dampener now, and give me an update on the flier."
"He's landed, but he's slippery," she answered.
"Press him," I ordered, "I'm on my way."
Cursed Energy rippled from me, forming a Curtain that hid us from the outside world. I summoned my blades and gave them a cursory twirl.
Deathstroke rose theatrically, making a show of shaking off his injuries. "Not bad, kid. I knew I recognized the voice. Julius. Different face, but the same magic."
"I've been looking forward to this," I said.
"Can't say the same." He cracked his neck.
He blurred forward, swinging. I parried with the short blade with my dagger and stabbed at his eye with the longsword. He brushed it aside and slashed downward. I stepped back, disengaging briefly, then stomped on the side of his blade, bending the metal. He abandoned it and danced back, throwing a smoke grenade—likely laced with poison to obscure my vision and stagger me.
He advanced with both hands on his remaining sword. I dodged, feigning weakness, and hurled my parrying dagger. He dodged with ease, bringing his blade down on mine. I made a show of being overpowered, dropping to my knees, and tugging the thrown dagger mentally. It flipped through the air, slashing at his back.
He recovered quickly, twisting to parry, leaving his back open for a fraction of a second.
It was a second too long.
My blade plunged deep, exiting his abdomen. I twisted and ripped it out, nearly bisecting him.
"That was for shooting me in the head, you fucker."
I grabbed his helmet and dismissed it into my inventory, leaving me staring at the grey-haired, trembling mercenary. His skin had gone ashen. Blood filled his mouth. His body tried to stitch itself together, but he was too far gone.
Whatever variant of Blockbuster he'd used wasn't enough.
"Now that this farce is over," I leaned forward, "tell me what your bullshit backup plan is, and I might let you die on your own terms."
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