The Knight's New Order

The Batmobile silently pierced the curtain of waterfall spray and came to a steady stop on the central platform of the Batcave. When Bruce stepped out of the cockpit, the lingering heat of battle and killing intent had yet to fully leave him. His cold Arkham Knight Armor still radiated a suffocating sense of oppression beneath the cavern's dim lights.

As always, Alfred was waiting for him, holding a steaming cup of black tea rather than champagne. He knew that for Master Bruce now, celebrating victory was meaningless. Only the next relentless step of the plan mattered.

But today, there was someone else in the cave.

Slade Wilson, codenamed "Deathstroke," the world's greatest mercenary, had not immediately left after completing his assignment. He had removed his signature helmet, revealing short gray-white hair and a weathered single eye. He did not sit anywhere; like a silent statue, he simply stood beneath the Batcomputer's shadows. His orange-and-black tactical suit still carried traces of gunpowder and rain.

He was here partly to fulfill the final part of the contract—waiting for the remaining payment—and partly out of the pure curiosity of a top-tier warrior. He wanted to see for himself what the man who had overturned Gotham's entire underworld in a single night with thunderous force intended to do next.

Bruce ignored everyone and walked straight toward the Batcomputer, the pinnacle of the world's information technology. He did not even remove his helmet. Standing before the main console, his hands flew over the holographic keyboard.

"Alfred, connect me to the encrypted channels I specified. Targets: 'Harley Quinn,' 'Poison Ivy,' and 'Deadshot.'" His emotionless, metallic voice, altered by the voice modulator, echoed through the cave.

"At once, sir."

Soon, the main screen split into three separate windows.

On the left was Harley Quinn. She seemed to have just taken a shower and changed into an oversized T-shirt and shorts. Clutching a huge teddy bear, she huddled on the couch with lingering terror written all over her face. When the screen lit up, her whole body jolted.

The center window showed Poison Ivy, Pamela Isley. She was in her greenhouse, surrounded by strange flowers and exotic plants. Her expression was terrible, and her eyes were full of undisguised resentment and wariness. Her arms were folded across her chest as though she were resisting some invisible chill.

On the right was Deadshot, Floyd Lawton. He sat in a safehouse, meticulously wiping down his beloved custom sniper rifle, his expression as professional and indifferent as ever.

"Looks like all of you had a rather 'fulfilling' night." Bruce's voice was icy enough to seem capable of freezing their blood through the screens.

"B-Batman..." Harley's voice trembled with tears, making her sound pitiful. "We did everything you told us to! Y-you aren't going to arrest all of us, are you?"

Bruce ignored her question. His faint blue electronic lenses locked firmly onto Harley Quinn.

"Joker. Where is he?"

The moment the question came out, Harley's body visibly stiffened. The fear on her face seemed to deepen as she desperately shook her head. "I don't know! I really don't know! Puddin'... he disappeared before Bane came into the city! He said he was going to prepare 'the greatest joke ever,' and then he vanished. I haven't been able to reach him since!"

Bruce watched her silently. Beneath the mask, his eyes used a high-precision microexpression analysis system to determine that Harley Quinn was not lying this time.

The greatest joke ever... Bruce sneered inwardly. He had none of the original owner's twisted obsession of loving and killing each other when it came to that incarnation of chaos.

A piece of trash that only creates pain and death. A clown who only hides in the shadows and manipulates people's hearts. Once I have time to spare, I'll have plenty of ways to make you stop laughing. The electric chair, a lobotomy, or simply tie you to a rocket and launch you into the sun... I have no interest in playing your stupid, endless game of chase.

"Very well." Bruce's voice revealed neither pleasure nor anger. "We'll put this matter aside for now."

His gaze slowly swept over every person on the screen. That cold, almost tangible stare made Harley shiver uncontrollably, made Poison Ivy instinctively take half a step back, and even caused the ever-composed Deadshot's hand to pause almost imperceptibly as he wiped his gun barrel.

"Listen. Tonight, Gotham's old order died."

"I don't care what you've done in the past, how many people you've killed, or how many crimes you've committed. From this moment on, it is all wiped clean."

The three of them wore expressions of utter disbelief.

"However," Bruce's voice suddenly turned harsh, filled with unquestionable authority and killing intent, "if, under my new order, I catch any one of you causing trouble in Gotham again, even if it's just robbing a convenience store..."

He paused, allowing the atmosphere called fear to ferment and swell in the silence.

"...then Blackgate Prison will not be waiting for you. Nor will Arkham Asylum. I will personally bring you back and let you experience what a true, endless hell is. Believe me, I have many new ideas, and I would be delighted to try every one of them on you."

Even through the screens, an icy chill that seemed to rise from the deepest abyss truly enveloped every one of them. They did not doubt that this Batman would do exactly what he said. His faint blue eyes seemed to have pierced through the screens and were coldly watching every move they made from behind them.

"Meeting adjourned."

Bruce gave them no chance to respond and cut the communication directly. The main screen returned to darkness.

The cave fell silent once more.

Deathstroke slowly applauded, a hint of amused approval in his single eye. "An excellent speech. More effective than any wartime mobilization. Then my work is done."

He put on his helmet and turned to leave. He needed to visit Wayne Medical Center to see his son, Jericho. Though Bruce Wayne had promised to cure him, as his father, he had to confirm it with his own eyes.

"Your son is fine." As if seeing through his thoughts, Bruce spoke while walking toward the changing room. "Wayne Medical's team of specialists is giving him a full physical examination. The best neurosurgeons and gene therapy experts are already on standby. You don't need to worry that I'll harm him, Slade. You're still useful to me."

Deathstroke stopped and turned around. His voice beneath the mask gave away no emotion. "Oh? You still want to hire me?"

"Not hire." Bruce had already entered the changing room and disengaged the armor's locks. The sound of metal clashing came from within. "I need a mentor."

"A mentor?" Deathstroke froze. He had considered countless possibilities, but never this one. The world's greatest mercenary becoming Batman's mentor? It was utterly absurd.

"Yes." Bruce's voice came from the changing room, restored to his natural tone. It had lost some of its metallic chill and gained more of Bruce Wayne's magnetism and gravity. "My combat skills still have plenty of room for improvement, especially when it comes to weapon use and battlefield strategy. And you are the foremost expert in the world."

Deathstroke fell silent. He felt as if his brain could not quite process this. This man had just planned and ended a citywide riot in an almost crushing fashion, and now he was saying he needed a mentor?

"Of course, you needn't worry about the pay." Bruce's voice carried a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "I'll pay you by the hour. The rate will be your highest quote for assassinating an African president. How does that sound?"

"..."

Deathstroke's eternally expressionless poker face finally twitched beneath his mask.

He wanted to refuse. This was ridiculous. But reason told him that this offer... was simply impossible to refuse.

This damned rich man! He was offering far too much!

"...I'll consider it." In the end, Deathstroke forced the words through clenched teeth, then strode toward the secret passage leading outside without looking back. He feared that if he stayed another second, he would not be able to stop himself from accepting that absurd request.