Requiem of Death

Gotham's night was no longer a carnival for criminals.

Tonight was their requiem.

In the Batcave, Bruce Wayne sat elegantly before the enormous console like a cold-blooded conductor. On the holographic star map before him, the three-dimensional map representing Gotham City slowly rotated, while the dense, glaring red dots that represented the core members and strongholds of Bane's forces went dark one after another at a visible pace.

He had not even set foot on the battlefield himself.

His will, his tactics, and his mind far beyond its time had traveled through an encrypted quantum communications network, becoming the most precise scythe in Death's hand as it silently harvested the city's evil.

Alfred approached soundlessly with a silver tray. He gently set a steaming cup of Earl Grey beside the console, not disturbing Bruce's concentration.

His gaze swept across the violent, almost artistic combat footage constantly returning on the screens—slow-motion sniper rounds piercing skulls, criminals strangled alive by vines, strongholds reduced to ash in explosions...

A profoundly complicated, indescribable emotion flickered in the kindly old butler's eyes. He knew this was not the Bruce he knew, the young master who returned after every battle covered in wounds and consumed by pain and inner conflict. The Bruce before him was efficient, ruthless, devoid of personal feeling, like a perfect war machine operating toward the single goal of "victory."

But for Alfred, as long as this man was still Bruce Wayne, as long as he could see him sitting here safely at dawn, that was enough. He silently stepped aside, guarding his young master like a faithful shadow.

The overall coordinator of this symphony of death was Deathstroke, seated inside a heavily modified command vehicle that resembled a mobile fortress.

Slade Wilson's single eye watched dozens of split screens before him like a hawk. Some of the information on those screens came from the broad citywide data Bruce shared through the "Sky Eye" satellite, while the rest came from intelligence agents Slade had planted throughout Gotham, disguised as vagrants and addicts. Through old-fashioned shortwave radios that were difficult to trace, they continuously relayed real-time intelligence from the front lines.

His biological brain, enhanced by super-soldier serum, combined the macro-level strategic directives sent by Bruce with the scattered frontline intelligence. It rapidly processed, analyzed, and integrated everything before breaking it down into tactical assignments precise to the second, even the millisecond, and issuing them to the "performers" scattered throughout the city.

"Lawton," his voice sounded cold and professional in Deadshot's ear through a bone-conduction earpiece. "Target A, 'Butcher' Boris, Bane's weapons supplier, is riding in a modified armored personnel carrier. He's about to pass beneath Cloverleaf Bridge at sixty kilometers per hour."

"My informant reports that, to avoid a GCPD inspection, he'll choose to pass beneath the bridge. In three seconds, a tanker truck I arranged will have its front-left tire remotely blown, creating a half-second opening for a turn. That's your only chance."

"Your bullet needs to pass through the three-millimeter seam in the bulletproof glass of his left window. Don't disappoint me."

Atop an abandoned clock tower two kilometers away, Deadshot Floyd Lawton lay flat on the cold concrete like a corpse. His customized, absurdly long-barreled sniper rifle, engraved with the words "I am the Light, the Way," was as steady as stone.

He did not even use his scope to search for the target. He trusted Deathstroke's instructions completely. His entire mind was immersed in the perfect rhythm of breathing and heartbeat.

Deathstroke's countdown sounded in his ear like Death's pendulum:

"Three..."

"Two..."

"One..."

"...Fire."

The trigger was gently squeezed.

There was no deafening gunshot, only a faint shriek like cloth tearing. A custom armor-piercing round made from depleted uranium alloy carved a trajectory through the air so straight it was utterly impossible to see with the naked eye.

Beneath Cloverleaf Bridge, the tanker truck's front-left tire suddenly blew out just as predicted, and the massive vehicle lurched out of control to one side. To avoid it, the armored personnel carrier behind it instinctively yanked its steering wheel.

In that instant of lightning speed, too fast even for high-speed cameras to capture, the bullet of death precisely drilled into that nearly nonexistent gap in the glass as if it were alive!

Pfft!

Inside the armored personnel carrier, 'Butcher' Boris's fat head exploded into a red-and-white mist like a watermelon smashed by a heavy hammer. Chaos erupted inside the vehicle, which immediately lost control and crashed headlong into a bridge pier, bursting into flames.

"Beautiful." Deathstroke's praise was sparing but genuine. "Next."

"Target B, 'Mouthpiece' Marconi, Bane's intelligence chief. He's cautious, hiding in the underground cold storage of the Iceberg Lounge with thirty armed guards around him. Harley and Pamela will throw a grand 'plant party' through the front entrance in five minutes, drawing everyone's attention."

"My informant will cut the cold storage's backup power amid the chaos, opening the emergency ventilation shaft. Your firing window is only one second. Shoot through that ventilation duct from the rooftop of the building opposite him. I've already calculated the angle for you."

Deadshot licked his slightly dry lips, excitement blazing in his eyes. He swiftly packed up his sniper rifle and shifted positions like a ghost.

His entire life had been devoted to pursuing this ultimate art of shooting, turning the impossible into possible. And tonight, Batman—or rather, the mysterious commander behind him—was giving him the most perfect, most magnificent stage.

Tonight, he was no longer an assassin who killed for money.

He was a performer, an artist composing a magnificent requiem of death with bullets.

And Deathstroke was his conductor.

As for the Dark Knight in the Batcave, the one controlling everything... he was the devil who had composed this forbidden movement.

Overnight, twenty-three major gang leaders who wielded enormous influence in Gotham's underworld and had been entrusted with important duties by Bane died sudden deaths in every corner of the city, through bizarre, strange, and even scientifically inexplicable means.

Some died in their homes, silently strangled by vines hanging from the ceiling. Some were precisely shot in the head by bullets that came from nowhere while speeding down the road.

Others, despite heavy protection, were dragged into the sewers along with their vehicles by giant crocodiles that suddenly burst in...

For the first time, Gotham's night was completely shrouded by a terror deeper, more unknown, and more despairing than crime itself.