The God Among Men Descends

Slade dropped the broken half of his sword and drew a large-caliber pistol from his thigh holster.

It was loaded with depleted-uranium armor-piercing rounds. He didn't expect them to hurt his opponent. He only needed the recoil to put some distance between them so he could detonate the flash-smoke grenade on his chest.

If he could blind his opponent for even a tenth of a second, he could dive into the sea below and escape.

Chu Men reached out with his right hand.

The hand filled Slade's vision. He pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck Chu Men and crumpled into a lump of scrap metal.

Slade tried to dodge sideways, but his body couldn't react in time.

Chu Men's fingers closed around Slade's throat.

Slade stood six foot five, weighed over two hundred pounds, and wore heavy tactical armor.

Chu Men held him by the throat with one hand, his arm perfectly straight.

The air let out a shrill whistle.

Chu Men drove Slade forward through the air.

An abandoned steel crane stood behind them, its structure rising dozens of meters into the rainy night.

Their bodies slammed into one of its load-bearing supports.

Boom!

The first thick I-beam buckled into an inverted V, and the violent impact made Slade cough up blood.

Chu Men didn't stop. He kept driving Slade forward.

The second support snapped. The screech of twisting steel rang out across the night sky.

The third support shattered.

The crane, weighing hundreds of tons, lost its supports. Rivets burst from its base one by one and punched deep dents into the surrounding shipping containers.

The steel boom crashed into the sea with a heavy rush of air, throwing up a column of water over ten meters high.

Seawater surged into the abandoned dock.

Rain mixed with rust poured down all around them.

Chu Men stopped in midair.

Slade hung from his hand, his feet dangling.

After being driven through three steel supports, the tactical armor on Slade's back had warped beyond recognition. Shards of composite material had pierced his back.

His organs were damaged. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth and seeped into his black mask.

His airway was clamped shut.

Slade grabbed Chu Men's arm with both hands and summoned every ounce of strength he had.

He punched Chu Men's forearm.

A dull thud sounded.

Chu Men's arm didn't budge.

Slade raised his knee and drove the alloy spike on his armored kneepad into Chu Men's abdomen.

Crack!

His kneecap snapped, and his entire right leg fell limp.

He pulled a high-voltage stun baton from his belt and pressed it against Chu Men's wrist.

Blue arcs leaped wildly as a tremendous voltage surged out.

Chu Men didn't even blink.

Slade's movements slowed. Lack of oxygen left him dizzy, his vision blurred in his one eye, and his bloodshot eyeball bulged.

He had used every weapon he had.

The combat skills he took such pride in were useless against this one hand.

Chu Men quietly watched the man struggling in his grip.

"How much did someone pay you to kill me?"

"So you're the one they call the First Mercenary?"

Chu Men's fingers slowly tightened.

The composite armor around Deathstroke's neck had warped badly. Its internal supports snapped one after another with a grating metallic screech.

The world's top mercenary's face turned reddish purple. His one eye bulged, and a thin hiss escaped his throat.

His cervical vertebrae ground together under the strain.

He listened to his own bones groan as oxygen deprivation made his head spin.

For the first time, he knew how helpless an ant was before a giant beast.

It would take barely any more force.

If Chu Men tightened his grip just a fraction more, he would tear that priceless head clean off.

Suddenly, a vast hole tore open in the clouds high above.

A deafening roar drowned out the rain over the sea.

The sound of air being forced aside was like hundreds of bombs exploding at once.

A vast white sonic boom cloud spread across the night sky, slicing the thick storm clouds in two.

The immense force blasted the curtain of rain apart, leaving a brief empty space.

A red-and-blue blur hurtled straight at Chu Men with the terrifying force of a falling meteor.

Boom!

It landed ten paces from Chu Men.

A violent shock wave swept across the ground, driving the seawater that had flooded the dock more than ten meters back and rolling up layers of white foam.

Rusted shipping containers weighing dozens of tons flipped like cardboard boxes, tumbled through the air, and finally struck a distant concrete breakwater, leaving massive dents.

Muddy water mixed with rust splashed in every direction.

As the filthy water came within three feet of Chu Men, his invisible Bio-electric Field pushed it all aside. It slid down an unseen barrier.

Clark Kent hovered above the shattered concrete.

His blue bodysuit outlined the bulging muscles beneath it. The "S" on his chest, a symbol of hope, stood out in the darkness.

His bright red cape snapped in the fierce wind.

The god of Metropolis had descended upon Gotham.

Iceberg Lounge, underground chamber.

Penguin stared at the surveillance monitor and sprang from his cushioned chair.

With his remaining left hand, he snatched up a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the table. He was so excited that he spilled liquor all over it, soaking the expensive carpet, but he didn't care.

"Superman from Metropolis! He really came!" Penguin grinned, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth. Even his voice trembled.

He had thought that after Deathstroke failed, he would be next to die.

He hadn't expected the news he had spread to lure in such a big catch.

Superman would never tolerate someone slaughtering people in Gotham under his name.

Once Superman attacked, that tyrant would be lucky to get away with his skin intact.

Penguin picked up a clean glass and filled it to the brim.

The glass tapped the bottle's mouth with a clear clink.

"Come on, a toast to our soon-to-be-dead master!" Penguin raised his glass toward the screen and drained it in one gulp.

The liquor burned its way down his throat and into his stomach, driving away the fear that had built up over the past few days.

He was already plotting how, once Superman beat Chu Men half to death and took him away, he would cut the word "slave" from his forehead, skin and all, and find a chance to stick it on Chu Men's face.

Wayne Manor, the underground Batcave.

Bruce Wayne sat at the console, his left arm still encased in a heavy cast.

On the enormous holographic screen, satellite images and data from long-range acoustic detectors refreshed at a frantic pace.

A waterfall of data reflected across his grim face.

Alfred stood beside him, frowning at the fluctuating red line in the upper-right corner.

Bruce said nothing. His right hand gripped the control lever tightly.

The data from these two beings appearing together had already exceeded the Batcave computer's normal capacity for calculation.

One was a god among men who ordinarily stood for justice; the other, a brutal dictator who treated human lives as worthless and did whatever he pleased.

If the two fought here without restraint, this stretch of the East End coastline would be wiped off the map in seconds. The death toll would be astronomical.

"Activate every backup satellite. I want to monitor their every move in real time," Bruce ordered.

He could do nothing but watch, and that helplessness hurt worse than his broken arms.

At the dock, the sea wind whipped the rain around them.

Clark's gaze settled on Deathstroke, hanging from Chu Men's hand.

"Stop!"