There is no Batman in Gotham City comics.

Chapter 90 Interlude: Thank you for your teaching

As he slammed open the rooftop iron gate, Floyd lunged forward, a bullet grazing his scalp and leaving a stubble in his beautiful flaxen hair.

He landed and rolled, fired a shot in retaliation, and three bullets scattered and hit the door frame, falling into the stairwell at different angles.

The crisp, melodious sound of the snapping object was clear and pleasant.

Deadshot didn't expect such an attack to work; his main purpose in coming to the rooftop was to retrieve his weapon pack. He could dodge the Mongoose, but Mr. Slade Wilson certainly couldn't cut through the M82A2 bullets.

This thing has a more widely known name – the bullpup Barrett anti-materiel sniper rifle.

He pressed the scalding gun barrel against his severed index finger, using the burning method to temporarily stop the bleeding, and pulled out the weapon pack from under the huge exhaust fan unit.

But just then, a cold glint flashed in his eye from the corner of his eye. Slade's longsword dragged a long trail of sparks on the ground, and the wind it stirred up seemed capable of cleaving the dark clouds that covered the sky.

The exhaust fan unit was neatly cleaved in half, and amidst the burst of electric sparks, Deathstroke leaped high into the air, using the momentum of his spinning body to deliver a horizontal slash towards Freud's waist.

The bouncing bullets ignited Slade's fighting spirit. He instinctively wanted to stop and treat the adorable Floyd like a kitten, but the destructive urge seeping from his bones compelled him to reach out his hands toward the kitten's throat.

Strangle him!

He's so funny, I can't help but want to strangle him!

Floyd was completely unable to cope with the oncoming attack, except to hold the weapon pack in front of him.

clang!

A large bag of weapons saved him from a fatal blow; the blade nearly severed the entire backpack, stopping less than half an inch from his waist.

The drastic act of cutting off his own arm bought Floyd time to draw his gun and fight back. The Mongoose fired its last two bullets, temporarily forcing Deathstroke to retreat.

Lightning illuminated the sky, and torrential rain poured down without warning, filling every crevice between heaven and earth.

Perhaps moved by his stubborn spirit, Lady Luck finally smiled upon Freud. Unpacking his weapon bag, amidst a pile of broken parts, the intact Barrett M82A2 lay quietly in the pond.

As the sole survivor of the slashing attack, the conspicuous knife marks on the black gun link it to the fate of the Death Shooter.

"Old buddy, it's just you and me left." Stroking the gun, he slammed the magazine back into the barrel.

The crisp sound of a gun bolt being pulled back pierced through the cacophony of rain and reached the ears of the death knell.

"The flavor has changed; there is no prey in this hunt, or everyone is the prey."

Pressed against the outer casing of the exhaust fan, Deathstroke stared at the distorted reflection in the pond, stirred by raindrops.

The final battle began with a bullet that pierced through the chassis. Taking advantage of the moment when the Barrett raised its muzzle, Deathstroke leaped out to the side, unleashing a barrage of bullets from both guns at Death Shooter.

Floyd dodged and rolled in the rain. Although his opponent's marksmanship was inferior to his, his physical skills were also far inferior to Deathstroke's. The mischievous bullets caused him considerable trouble. However, his advantage lay in his ability to fire in all sorts of bizarre and unpredictable ways.

While dodging the sniper rifle, just as he was about to take cover, Floyd suddenly lowered the muzzle and drew a shot with remarkable stealth.

Deathstroke dodged on the ground in a disheveled manner, and almost simultaneously, a head-sized gap was blasted open in the cement bricks behind him.

The sniper bullets are too fast for him to cut, and even if he manages to hit one by chance, the bullet will damage the blade first due to its powerful kinetic energy.

This meant that Deathstroke could only anticipate when the bullets would arrive by using the action of firing dead.

But Freud's shooting motion was too secretive.

The two exchanged fire for more than a dozen rounds. Although neither of them was injured, the rooftop was riddled with holes.

The downpour showed no signs of abating, growing even heavier. The scales of victory tipped in death's favor once more; the sound of the rain concealed his footsteps, while Freud's vision was severely obstructed.

Using cover to maneuver, Slade's figure drew ever closer. If he were to get close again, Floyd would surely die.

It seems like this is the only way.

As Freud stared at the "mongoose" grip peeking out of his pocket, a near-suicidal plan began to take shape in his mind.

……

Closer, even closer!

Floyd climbed to the top of the exhaust fan unit to get a better view of the situation, while Deathstroke, like a patient assassin, used cover to slowly approach his opponent.

In his eyes, Freud's abandonment of the bunker was tantamount to suicide, which made him even more cautious in dealing with the situation.

Risking exposure to ambush a skilled marksman?

No, no, no! Victory that's within his grasp should be held even tighter. He'll launch a sneak attack, he'll utterly destroy his opponent in one blow, strangle him in despair, and praise him for the thrilling hunting experience he's given!

The ghostly figure drew ever closer, but Freud remained oblivious, wiping the water from his face as he searched for his target.

It's now!

Deathstroke grabbed the edge of the outdoor unit, flipped himself up, and delivered a low sweeping kick that brought Floyd to the ground.

But Freud was not one to be trifled with. The moment he lost his balance, he didn't think about regaining his footing. Instead, he turned his gun in mid-air and pointed it at Deathstroke.

Yes, that's it! Struggle as much as you want!

Deathstroke couldn't help but burst into laughter, gripping the wakizashi tightly and thrusting it into the muzzle of the gun.

With a bolt of lightning striking the lightning rod, a sharp blade pierced through the muzzle, and like raindrops falling in slow motion, it gracefully peeled away the barrel and tore through the gun body, silently annihilating the bullet before it even left the barrel.

The blade pierced Floyd's shoulder blade, pinning him to the machine casing.

"Kid, the game is over. I must say, you are perhaps the most formidable opponent I have encountered in the last decade."

"Is this... a compliment?"

Floyd, his hand pressed against the hilt of a knife, was blinded by the heavy raindrops that pelted his eyes.

"Tell me before my patience runs out. If I kill your employer, it will remain a secret forever."

"You've got it wrong... I wouldn't... be bound by any bullshit industry standards!"

Freud grinned, revealing a large, white smile.

"I'm not betraying my employer because he has to pay me...that's a fucking 1.8 million US dollars!!!"

What kind of utter illogical nonsense is that?!

Deathstroke, who had never run errands for such a small amount of money, was taken aback.

This guy is about to die and he's still thinking about making money? Is it because I showed him mercy several times that he mistakenly thought he could turn things around?

Slade felt insulted.

But the next instant, a gunshot from behind made the top mercenary look incredulous.

Someone's behind me? When did they arrive?

He looked behind him, trembling.

There was never a third person.

In the crevice of the air conditioner's outdoor unit, Cohen's "Mongoose" gun barrel, its dark muzzle echoing with a piercing laugh, had a transparent rope attached to the trigger, the other end of which was tied to Floyd's severed left index finger.

Mr. Slade's good fortune ran out; this time, the scabbard failed to stop the bullets coming from behind him.

He clutched the back of his neck and was kicked off the outer plane by Floyd amidst a dizzying spin.

The moment he landed, Deathstroke drew his pistol and aimed, ready to unleash a furious counterattack if Floyd dared to stick his head out.

But he had overestimated Floyd. The young Deadshot was too weak to finish him off. Clutching his bleeding wound, he stumbled and pushed open the rooftop door.

"Thank you for your instruction. I will remember to take the elevator this time."