Generally speaking, "a thousand cuts" was only a rough figure. In Chinese culture, Lingchi meant exactly 3,357 cuts—there was a set number—and the tools used were tiny blades, not high-tech weapons like Lightsabers.
But Deathstroke was a practical man. If he said ten thousand cuts, then he would definitely make ten thousand cuts. As a result, many of the slices shaved off were thinner than paper, even more transparent than clear tape.
The process could hardly be called bloody, because black water had been continuously gushing out of The Old Man's body. It did not resemble blood at all; it was more like puncturing a garbage bag and letting the fermented liquid from kitchen waste spill out.
Kitty crouched on the man's shoulder, curiously observing the scene from up close. After learning that this was a punishment humans had invented to torture their own kind, it even sighed that humans really knew how to have fun.
Elaine, still floating in the sky, could not bear to watch any longer. She simply went over to help the lions, making it a case of out of sight, out of mind.
Deathstroke truly was capable, but his methods were too dark and cruel. Although she knew that grinding her grandfather's bones to ashes and scattering his soul was the safest approach, reason and emotion were difficult to reconcile.
As someone who considered herself human, she truly could not stand the sight of this.
Little did she know, that was one of Deathstroke's goals. If she had continued watching without caring, he would have needed to devise a countermeasure plan specifically for her.
As a human, feeling discomfort upon seeing this was the normal reaction.
After testing her, he sped up his movements. Speed Force lightning flashed over his body, and he finished the