The wind passing through the town was a little boisterous. Perhaps a sandstorm was coming, and the sky gradually darkened.
"You lost."
The two guns in Deathstroke's hands spun twice before sliding back into their holsters with a whoosh. The Mercenary walked straight toward Saint Killer, not worried in the slightest that the other man might bend down to pick up his guns.
The outcome was obvious. Saint Killer was indeed a cold-blooded murderer, but he had his pride. Sneaking an attack after victory or defeat had already been decided was not in his nature.
Even in all his past killings, he had never shot someone in the back. He only closed in on his targets step by step, then killed his prey with a single shot face-to-face. Often, he even asked whether they had any last words.
That was the spirit of the Wild West.
The Acolyte's hands dropped to his sides. He looked up at the gray sky and let out a long sigh, one that sounded both mournful and relieved.
"I lost."
"My name is Deathstroke. This so-called fight over a title was only a joke, and I'm not here on God's behalf to eliminate you." Su Ming picked up the two guns from the ground, turned them around, and offered their grips to Saint Killer. "I'm here to make a deal. I need you to help me kill someone."
Saint Killer turned his wrinkled face toward Deathstroke, and a flicker of understanding passed through his weathered eyes.
He neither refused nor agreed. He did not even take the guns. He merely shook his head. "This is Hell. This is Nightmare. I don't know how you got in, but I can't get out. Without an angel's or God's permission, I can't leave."
"Don't worry. I've already prepared