"Gurgle!"
Accompanied by a sticky slithering sound, the flesh and blood beneath the huge pit seemed to turn into red syrup. The Old Man, his face full of displeasure, rose from underground and touched his face.
"Ah, how annoying. Couldn't you have been a little dumber? You suddenly punched me like that—what about my dignity? I'm a god!"
"Ha, since you insist on reciting lines, I'll start too, then. Ahem! What a weak god!"
Apparently amused by the other party, Deathstroke shook his head as he made a joke no one else understood. Yet unlike the smile on his face, the hand behind his back kept making gestures, signaling everyone to be ready to close their eyes at any moment.
"I'm very curious. How did you discover me?" The Old Man walked out of the pit, stepping through thin air as though invisible stairs lay beneath his feet. "I told you I was from another Parallel Universe, and I imitated Constantine perfectly. Where did you spot the flaw?"
As he spoke, the flesh on his body twisted violently. Before long, his human shape turned into a mass of Black Mud—or rather, a black shadow.
"You almost fooled me. Almost." Deathstroke casually held up a tiny gap between his fingers, lowered his head, and lit a cigarette. "Putting aside all the other details, the finger-guessing game alone exposed you. You were too good at it."
"Constantine is an old-school mage, and he likes drinking. He's drunk all over the world. What's wrong with me being good at finger-guessing games?"
The black shadow gradually took on a human shape, like asphalt being molded by invisible hands. It tilted its head, expressing its confusion.
"Constantine is indeed good at all sorts of drinking-table games, both the ones where you take your clothes off