DC: Rise of the Kryptonian Tyrant

Deathstroke remained silent.

Bardi's remark—"You're very smart"—felt less like a compliment and more like a veiled insult.

If he were truly smart, he wouldn't have failed twice in a row against Bardi.

This only proved one thing: Bardi was better, stronger, smarter, and far above him.

What right did Deathstroke have to boast about being smart when he had been reduced to this humiliating state?

The room was spacious and brightly lit, almost sterile. The harsh white lights were slightly blinding. There was no furniture, only white walls, a white floor, and even the landline phone mounted on the wall was white.

The air felt stagnant, the only movement coming from the quiet breeze flowing through the window.

The silence between the two men was palpable. One sat paralyzed in a chair, while the other stood tall and imposing, as unshakable as a javelin.

Once, their positions had been reversed. But now, the tables had turned completely.

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, Deathstroke spoke. "Not as good as you," he admitted quietly.

His voice was steady, but his words carried the weight of reluctant acceptance. He glanced at Bardi, his expression betraying a hint of unwillingness, a struggle to come to terms with the truth.

Two defeats had left no room for doubt—he was indeed inferior to Bardi.

Some people, he realized, simply couldn't be matched.

Bardi raised an eyebrow, observing Deathstroke thoughtfully.

For someone like Deathstroke, a military genius accustomed to victory to encounter someone far superior to himself must have been deeply discouraging. It was the kind of realization that forced a man to confront his own limitations.

This, too, was a necessary part of growth.

To face oneself. To acknowledge inferiority where it existed.

But for Bardi, defeating Deathstroke held no meaning. He didn't care about him. Deathstroke was merely another obstacle in his path.

"How many people know about my alien identity?" Bardi asked, his tone calm but firm.

Deathstroke's momentary despondence vanished, replaced by a sharp glint in his eye.

Failure was a fact he could accept. That he wasn't as good as Bardi was also a fact. But admitting defeat didn't mean he would give up.

Failure was a lesson. One learned from it, adapted, and prepared for the next opportunity.

As long as he was alive, the possibility of victory still existed.

But first, he needed to survive.

"My life?" Deathstroke asked coldly, seeking assurance of his survival.

"You won't die," Bardi replied. His tone carried a rare hint of respect.

Deathstroke was indeed a remarkable individual, one of the most exceptional people Bardi had encountered. Killing him would be a waste.

But that didn't mean he would allow him to live freely.

Deathstroke stared at Bardi's indifferent face, the weight of Bardi's presence bearing down on him.

"I'll leave here," Deathstroke said, his voice cold. "And I'll keep your identity a secret."

Bardi's expression remained impassive. "Yes, keep it secret for ten years. That's enough," he said, agreeing without hesitation.

Deathstroke narrowed his eye, his sharp gaze scrutinizing Bardi. His swift agreement seemed too easy, too casual.

It didn't feel credible.

But Deathstroke wasn't worried. He had his own contingency plans in place, ensuring his survival even if Bardi tried to double-cross him.

"General Vic is in the southern suburbs of Metropolis," Deathstroke began. "He's laid a trap for you. So far, he hasn't reported your alien identity to the U.S. military. If you deal with him and his men, your identity will remain a secret."

Bardi's expression didn't change, but his eyes gleamed with interest.

"So, the military base I destroyed previously… All the materials were destroyed as well. General Vic's knowledge of my identity is his only leverage," Bardi mused, his tone thoughtful.

Deathstroke nodded. "That's right. He's at the end of his rope. His only chance to salvage his position and power is by capturing or killing you."

Bardi nodded slowly, contemplating the situation.

He could imagine the immense pressure General Vic must have been under. The catastrophic losses at the military base, tens of thousands of soldiers dead would have been enough to end most careers.

The fact that Vic hadn't been removed from his position yet spoke volumes about his remaining influence.

But that influence was waning.

It was clear that General Vic's last, desperate gamble rested entirely on capturing or killing Bardi.

"These details alone aren't enough for me to let you go," Bardi said suddenly, his sharp gaze fixing on Deathstroke.

Did Deathstroke really think such basic information would be enough to secure his freedom?

"Hmm?"

Bardi's brows arched, and in that instant, his entire demeanor shifted.

The air seemed to grow heavier, and his upright stance radiated an oppressive aura.

His eyes, deep and impenetrable like black holes, bored into Deathstroke.

"You have other arrangements, don't you?" Bardi said, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of menace. "Well, that's not surprising."

The sudden pressure in the room caused Deathstroke's breath to hitch momentarily. It felt as though the very atmosphere was crushing down on him.

Suppressing the rapid pounding of his heart, Deathstroke forced himself to speak.

"When you fell to Earth, a reporter captured photos of your spaceship and you," Deathstroke said, his tone steady but grim. "The film is in my possession."

Bardi remained motionless, his eyes cold and unyielding. He stood like a colossus, his gaze piercing through Deathstroke.

"Speak!" Bardi's voice cracked like a whip, sharp and commanding.

Deathstroke took a deep breath before continuing. "The film is set to be delivered at 9:00 p.m. Unlike General Vic, it will be handed directly to the U.S. military."

Bardi's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as a dangerous glint flashed through them.

In an instant, he turned his head to the side, his vision piercing through the walls, steel beams, and floors of the laboratory building. His gaze settled on the clock hanging by the staircase on the first floor.

7:49 p.m.

"Ten minutes," Bardi said, his tone cold and clipped.

He turned his gaze back to Deathstroke, his expression unchanging.

"That's enough time."

The tension in Deathstroke's body eased slightly. His gamble had paid off.

This threat was real.

And for the first time, Bardi had been forced to acknowledge it.

"I arrived at the lab at 6:00," Deathstroke continued, his tone calm but firm. "I was unconscious for 1 hour and 49 minutes. That leaves enough time to act."

"Let me go. Stop that film. Or the U.S. military will learn everything about you."

Deathstroke's cold voice cut through the silence in the stark white room.

The stillness that followed was oppressive, the kind where even the sound of a needle dropping would be deafening.

Suddenly, Bardi's expression shifted.

There wasn't a trace of urgency on his face. Instead, he looked calm and indifferent.

A chill crawled up Deathstroke's spine, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. Bardi's demeanor had changed too quickly.

Moments ago, Bardi had shown hints of tension, even eagerness, as if anxious to keep his alien identity concealed. Now, his gaze was icy, detached, and devoid of concern.

It was the gaze of someone who wasn't afraid of someone who didn't care.

Does he no longer care if his alien identity is exposed? Is he planning to kill me anyway?

The thought made Deathstroke's chest tighten. How could he have miscalculated so badly?

Bardi's voice broke the silence, smooth and cutting like the edge of a blade.

"So, the film can be intercepted within one hour and eleven minutes. It's not a phone call; it's an action. That means the person you entrusted with the film… is in Metropolis."

A faint, mocking smile tugged at the corner of Bardi's lips.

Deathstroke's face stiffened, his one eye narrowing sharply. Bardi's deduction was terrifyingly accurate.

"Do you know where your biggest flaw is, Deathstroke?" Bardi asked, his voice low and deliberate.

Deathstroke didn't respond, his body tense, bracing for the verbal blow that followed.

"The difference between us is simple," Bardi continued, his gaze locking onto Deathstroke with an intensity that seemed to pierce through him.

"You are human."

"And I… am not."

***

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