Multiverse: Deathstroke

He stood atop the rooftop of the skyscraper, the sleepless city beneath his feet illuminated everywhere, with neon lights blooming in the night sky, dyeing the thick steam emerging from the manhole covers on the roadside red.

It was an early spring night, and the bustling city was shrouded in smog, with a slightly cold wind carrying the scent of industrial waste and sewage.

What his eyes saw was a scene built on wealth, fame, and power—luxury and debauchery.

But in the distant darkness, beyond the reach of the eye—perhaps in a dark alley piled with trash cans, or in the sewers where the homeless hid, or under the overpass where gangs gathered—

Those randomly discarded guns and corpses, the eerie laughter and screams in the dark, the black, dried bloodstains—constantly reminded anyone who came here that beneath the city's glossy exterior lay endless evil and madness. Anyone who underestimated it would be ruthlessly devoured.

Where was this place? Perhaps just by quietly listening to the residents' descriptions, someone could guess.

The inhabitants of this city liked to describe it with the names of the villains they were familiar with.

Some said it was like Killer Croc, because it always lurked in the darkness, suddenly swallowing people whole, leaving not a trace, not even a bone shard. Maybe only a ripple or bubble would emerge, but no one cared.

Some said it was like Two-Face, because its merciless choices, whether justice or evil, order or chaos, were constantly flipping, like a coin tossed into the air, falling again and again, leaving people powerless.

Some said it was like Scarecrow, because no matter what beautiful dreams you had before, it would suddenly turn into a nightmare, digging out your deepest fears, driving you mad, until you drooled and wandered the streets aimlessly.

Some said it was like the Joker, because this city—it was insane! Ha-ha, ha, ha-ha-ha!

Of course, there was a high possibility that the next moment, this citizen would suddenly lash out, stabbing a pencil or fork into the eye of an outsider, then widening their eyes in confusion, extending their neck to curiously ask the twitching corpse:

"Why so serious?"

As an outsider from another world, he didn't need to ask any resident. Just by looking up at the bright beam of light in the night sky casting a bat-shaped shadow on the clouds, he knew where he was.

"Gotham."

He muttered.

In the next moment, a sudden downpour drowned out his figure.

The grey rainwater, tinged with a slight sourness, obscured everything he had seen and heard before, covering all the evil, leaving only the sound of the rain and a coldness that came from within.

But this cold wasn't from the rain. He was fully armed—his head and body were both covered by finely crafted metal armor.

A full-covering helmet, a tight chainmail covering his entire body from the neck down, and another layer of armor-like shoulder guards covering his chest, shoulders, and limbs. All of this told him that, at this moment, he was no longer an ordinary person.

He had once been an ordinary person, living an unremarkable life.

Night warehouse keeper was just a fancy way of saying security guard. He wasn't the tall and strong, intimidating type, but he was young, with a bit of youthful courage.

"The process? Why am I here? I don't remember."

He reached out to touch his forehead, but the thick tactical gloves completely cut off the sensation and temperature of the helmet.

Indeed, as a young man, he had seen all sorts of stories about transmigration in literature.

In novels, he had read about people transmigrating after their computer exploded, choking while eating, getting hit by a car while saving someone, or even falling into a toilet. But why did he end up here?

He looked through the curtain of rain toward the distance, trying to shift his attention away from the bat signal, staring blankly at the dark clouds on the horizon, trying hard to recall.

The neon lights on the countless skyscrapers became blurry in the rain, everything seemed so unreal.

He only remembered getting off work, answering a call from a middle school classmate inviting him to a wedding.

Then... he played on his computer? The old laptop sounded like a tractor when he pressed the power button.

Yes, he liked those fantasy worlds—they allowed him to momentarily forget the monotony of his real life.

He didn't recall any explosion, nor any strange light or sound. It was just a brief lapse, and he found himself here, standing on the rooftop of Wayne Tower, the tallest building in Gotham, inexplicably feeling the night breeze.

He had been standing there, dumbfounded, for five minutes, gradually accepting this reality, and then he became confused.

As for who he was, he knew that as soon as he realized he had transmigrated into the DC universe. Night shifts were boring, and he had read a lot of novels, later becoming fascinated by American comics.

Even as a security guard, he had heard the younger employees talk about how "Avengers 2 was awesome" or "Guardians of the Galaxy was funny," and female colleagues saying "Cap and Bucky are the best ship" or "Iron Man's just a sidekick."

At first, he didn't understand at all.

To fit in and have something in common with his colleagues, he started watching movies on his old computer and thought they were pretty good—American blockbusters were thrilling.

Later, he used the office Wi-Fi during his shift to catch up on some comics. Although at first, he couldn't tell Marvel from DC, after reading more, he could even remember the names and powers of hundreds of heroes and villains, as well as their important stories.

Though he had only read translated comics, it was enough to chat with his colleagues casually.

At this moment, his helmet only gave him vision in the left eye. He lowered his head, looking at the small puddle forming at his feet. In the ripples, he could see his current appearance.

A black and yellow metal helmet, shaped like a hockey mask, with two long fabric straps fluttering in the wind and rain, like Rambo's headband. The left eye of the mask was a red diamond-shaped lens, while the right half of the mask was completely black, without a single gap.

He had become Deathstroke.

Real name: Slade Joseph Wilson, one of the greatest mercenaries and assassins in the DC universe, a master of strategy, tactics, combat, and weapons.

Originally, he was an enhanced soldier for the U.S. military, with 90% brain development—just slightly below the protagonist of Lucy. He also had a physique that surpassed the human peak and the ability to heal most wounds.

Later, because his superior betrayed a friend of his, causing his friend to be captured by the enemy, although Deathstroke rescued him and fought his way out, he inevitably fell out with the military, turning him into a mercenary. Using his superpowers, he did dirty work to make a living.

The key was that he inherited everything from Deathstroke, except the memories. At least, body memories like English, driving, and using firearms—he had learned them for free.

He was like an outsider, observing his own reflection in the water from a third-person perspective. Everything he knew about Deathstroke came from comics.

At first, discovering he had gained superpowers made him quite happy.

Becoming Deathstroke wasn't bad at all. With preparation and planning, he feared no one, not even Batman, DC's golden child, whom he could defeat with over a 50% chance of success.

As a villain, he could easily crush Robin and the Teen Titans. In the recent New 52 comics, he even went head-to-head with Wonder Woman in hand-to-hand combat, and without kryptonite, he still escaped from Superman.

But after the initial excitement, the pressure began to mount.

Why?

Because Deathstroke was a mercenary, working for money, no matter the task. So, no matter which world, he had almost offended every superhero and supervillain in the DC universe—working for Penguin against Two-Face, then for Two-Face against Black Mask, and sometimes even taking jobs to fight superheroes.

To Deathstroke, there was no distinction between superheroes and supervillains—they were just clients and targets. They were all people.

Whoever gave him the job, as long as there was money to earn, he took it.

"This is going to be troublesome."

His name before transmigrating was Su Ming. The old workers at his job called him Xiao Ming1. Whenever someone called him that, he always felt like he had made a bunch of mistakes—like not washing his hands before eating, not looking at the traffic light before crossing the street, or being late to class. In elementary school textbooks, the one making mistakes was always him.

"First, I need to confirm which parallel universe this is in DC, and then confirm the timeline, figure out where the story has progressed." He sighed and wanted to smoke a cigarette, but his mask blocked him: "There are many worlds in the DC universe with Gotham and Batman. If this is the movie universe, the power ceiling isn't that high. In the recent Justice League movie, Steppenwolf got beaten like a doll. But if it's the comic universe, no matter which one, the danger increases significantly."

"Earth-0, the main universe in New 52 comics; Earth-3, the world where all heroes and villains have swapped identities; Earth-10, the world ruled by Nazis; Earth-38, the original world of DC comics."

Su Ming wiped his mask. Rainwater pooled beneath his feet like a stream. There were no clothes under his armor, and now he felt cold, his whole body soaked in water.

But he had never felt his mind so clear. Even settings from the comic world he had only glanced at before were now being recalled perfectly. Was this thanks to Deathstroke's super brain? But the memories should come from his soul, right?

His current body was full of explosive strength—something he had never felt before. It seemed like his soul had possessed this body—Deathstroke's original body.

The problem was, although Deathstroke had regenerative abilities, they weren't that strong—they couldn't regrow limbs, so his right eye would always be blind.

When the rapid regeneration kicked in, it would also consume a lot of his stamina, even causing him to lose his mind.

Deathstroke was already in his fifties, with a son and daughter who had become superheroes, always wanting to kill him. He also had an immortal father, a telekinetic supervillain who wanted to kill him too.

Fortunately, Deathstroke was strong enough that they couldn't kill him.

"A young man in his twenties, becoming someone in his fifties... I finally have a family, but the relationships aren't great."

Su Ming shook his head helplessly. Deathstroke was powerful and intelligent, but clearly lacked emotional intelligence.

"By the way, why did he come here earlier? Did he receive a mission? Fully armed, he must have been planning something."

Su Ming gave up thinking any further. Although his body was enhanced, he still wanted to find a place to hide from the rain. Not only was the early spring rain too cold, but Gotham's industrial pollution was so severe that the rainwater had a nasty, sour stench he had never experienced before.

Leaving the edge of the building, he turned to leave. Even though he carried a glider pack, he decided to take the stairs. He had never used a glider before, and it would be ridiculous if he died from falling.

'World-renowned mercenary jumps to his death in Gotham last night, suspected to be related to an emotional entanglement with Batman.'

Su Ming could already imagine the headline of The Gotham Gazette if he fell and died. He didn't want to die, not even after transmigrating to such a dangerous world.

Let alone the fact that he was a pure straight man. Although he didn't discriminate against Joker and Batman for their constant displays of affection, he had no desire to get involved.