Like a meteor falling from the sky, or a zipper sliding down fabric, Deathstroke dragged the enemy down with a crash, throwing the city covered in flesh tumors into turmoil once more as suspicious, foul-smelling slime splattered everywhere.
But that was all. The decaying city began healing itself, flesh and blood filling the breach at an even faster rate, as though it warmly welcomed outsiders.
"Impossible! How could you grab me? I clearly entered your body!"
The shadow struggled, only to find Deathstroke utterly unmoved. At the same time, colorful paint spilled from his mouth, forming a sinister voice.
"Yes, but it was my soul that grabbed you. My physical body is still in the reality of the Fifth Dimension. And in a dream, your form of existence is similar to mine—we're both outsiders. Isn't it perfectly normal that I can catch you?"
"What kind of evil art is this? What kind of filthy world is this?! Sinner, release me!" The shadow twisted even more violently, but it was useless. The colored paint flowed through the air as though an invisible brush had drawn it into a rope, directly binding it in a Turtle Shell Restraint.
Tying up a cloud of smoke with rope sounded like a joke, but in dreams, it could be done.
Any abnormal, counterintuitive thing could become real in a dream as long as one dared to imagine it. That was the power of imagination.
And he had TOAA's friendly sponsorship to thank for it. Without his paint, Su Ming really would not have had a suitable tool to bind something almost on Lucifer's level.
This thing was not a ghost, an energy being, or a manifested concept. It was even less a human, god, angel, or devil, so it could only be called a thing.