A month ago, extraterrestrial invaders descended upon Earth, clashing with Superman in an apocalyptic battle that ravaged multiple cities and regions. The conflict was so intense it caused the planet to tremble violently, leaving scientists monitoring the event convinced the world was ending. Gotham City bore the brunt of the destruction, with Wayne Tower cleaved in half and countless lives lost or shattered.
Superman, however, emerged from the chaos unscathed and more active than ever. He appeared frequently across the globe, saving individuals and groups with tireless determination. The explosions and flames Hong Fei witnessed that night weren't acts of retribution but of rescue.
The incident made headlines, and speculation suggested Clark had detected the disaster while driving to New York. He abandoned his car, flew to the scene, and returned afterward, only to encounter Hong Fei walking along the road the next day.
Though Superman had repelled the alien threat, few knew the invaders had come specifically for him. His relentless heroics and indiscriminate acts of rescue earned him unprecedented popularity. In one city, plans were already underway to erect a statue in his honor.
"Less than a year and a half left," Hong Fei murmured.
Superman and Batman would inevitably clash. But resolving it with something as trivial as "Martha" felt rushed. Master Hong wanted something grander. A year and five months was ample time to prepare. This wasn't just a fleeting image or a lazy "18 months later" transition between films.
If the unsealing proceeded smoothly, the confrontation would unfold naturally. If not, Hong Fei would eliminate Lex Luthor and force the conflict at his own discretion. The latter was merely a contingency plan, born of his "assume the worst about the enemy" philosophy. He doubted he'd accomplish nothing in nearly a year and a half.
Putting away his phone, Hong Fei stared absently at the dashboard and called out softly, "Arthur."
"Sir."
"Report your findings."
"Very well, sir. Using the names, general descriptions, and approximate locations you provided, I've identified several individuals."
"Go on."
"First, Floyd Lawton, known as 'Deadshot.' He's the most sought-after professional assassin in the world, with a lethal range of up to 4,000 meters. His expertise spans 9mm pistols, Gatling machine guns, revolvers, flare guns, potato cannons, M1 carbines, rocket launchers, large-caliber short-barreled pistols, Uzi submachine guns, grenade launchers, .44 caliber Desert Eagles, muskets—"
Hong Fei's interest sharpened, particularly at the mention of large-caliber weapons. Those were his favorites, even after ascending to the title of Dragon King. But Arthur's recitation dragged on.
"Arthur, get to the point."
"Very well, sir. Deadshot's mastery of a vast array of weapons has earned him the nickname 'Human Arsenal.' Based on the Louisiana address you provided, I've located a highly secure facility. Officially labeled Belle Reve Prison, it operates independently of external systems. Through analysis of the supply transport system and satellite monitoring, it's clear this is a heavily guarded special zone. After infiltrating the private devices of its employees, I discovered references to 'Floyd' and 'Deadshot,' confirming his incarceration there. It's effectively a prison."
Hong Fei raised an eyebrow.
"Very good."
"Then, with your assessment of their strict management and heavy defense, can I take them down with my current abilities and equipment?"
"Yes," Arthur replied without hesitation.
Hong Fei beamed, "Very good. I think you've become a little smarter. You've 'upgraded' from an amoeba to a cnidarian."
"Thank you, sir. But there is no upgrade relationship between protozoa and cnidarians."
Hong Fei's smile remained superficial, "I know. It seems you are still an amoeba. Continue!"
"Floyd has a daughter and an ex-wife. I discovered that his family is currently under close surveillance by a special department."
"Keep an eye on those who are monitoring them, investigate thoroughly, and infiltrate this department."
"Understood."
Family is Deadshot's greatest weakness, especially his daughter. If the safety of his family cannot be resolved, even if Hong Fei pulls him out of that prison, the other party could use this to threaten him into walking back. Hong Fei's understanding of DC is very average, far less than his knowledge of Marvel. Why does he remember this Deadshot? Because the guy looks exactly like Will Smith.
Master Hong focused on martial arts in his previous life, but besides playing games, he watched movies on weekdays. Right now, Hong Fei's own energy has been sealed, and his Eyes of Death cannot be used. Relying on his excellent eyesight, powerful body control, and the basics of sniping he heard from Frank, he sniped a district councilor and gang leader who was stacking people, driving a train, and making a sandwich from hundreds of meters away. This is a very dazzling record, but compared to Deadshot's 4,000 meters, it is far behind. This is not a relationship of distance multiplied by several times; as distance increases, the difficulty also rises exponentially.
Secondly, the other party is proficient in the handling of many weapons, and in the future, many skill cards that are conducive to improving Master Hong's gun-firing ability can be drawn from him. Finally, he needs a super killer to create some cases that can attract strong public attention.
"Next."
"Sir, the name you mentioned, Harley Quinn, has not yielded any clues matching the description so far. However, another woman named Dr. Harleen Quinzel has been found. She is a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum."
"Eh?"
Hong Fei's tone suddenly rose, "Are you sure she is still a Doctor now? I mean, have you noticed if she has started to become different from before, whether it's sudden deep depression or going crazy?"
"Sir, I have hacked all her personal devices and home cameras. Based on comprehensive analysis of her facial expressions, behavior, and chat history, there are currently no symptoms as you described. However, she has indeed encountered trouble recently; she often stays up late for a patient."
"Patient? Joker?"
"Yes, codename J."
Hong Fei moved his eyebrows downward, and after a while, said, "Make an appointment with her for me."
"What time?"
"My off-duty time, as soon as possible."
"Understood."
"Next."
"Digger Harkness, nicknamed 'Captain Boomerang.' Australian. He has visited every bank in Australia at least once. He has arrived in the United States and is currently planning a bank robbery in Central City. Chato Santana, nicknamed 'El Diablo.' Former gang member. He possesses the ability to control fire on the human body. He once burned down a house where local gang members were gathered during a debt collection, but discovered there were some innocent women and children inside. Filled with guilt, Chato surrendered to the Police and was sentenced to death. He is currently also at Belle Reve Prison."
"Waylon Jones, nicknamed 'Killer Croc.' His body was cursed with an atavistic disease—scales constantly spreading across his skin until he resembled little more than a human crocodile. Currently, Belle Reve Prison held him captive."
Hong Fei nodded at the report.
"So Belle Reve's got Deadshot, El Diablo, and Killer Croc. Captain Boomerang's in Central City. Harleen Quinzel's rotting in Arkham."
He scratched his itching arm, one hand still draped over the steering wheel.
"What about the key piece?"
"June Moone. Archaeologist. Under Amanda Waller's direct supervision."
"Location."
"Washington, D.C."
"Monitor Waller's every move."
The voice on the line hesitated.
"Sir, her security protocols are extreme. I'm infiltrating slowly to avoid detection."
"You're too slow."
"With more servers, I could work faster. Learn better."
"You'll get them. But my money's still in the bank."
Hong Fei exhaled sharply. June Moone—an unremarkable archaeologist hiding a devastating secret. The Witch lurking inside her could shred Superman with phantom fangs at full power. But this Witch was freshly awakened. Strong by most standards, mediocre by his.
He mentally ranked them: Witch, Harleen, Deadshot, Killer Croc, El Diablo, Captain Boomerang. Not by strength—by usefulness. Logically, the Witch topped both lists. Snatch her first by carving out her heart from Waller's clutches, and half his problems would solve themselves. But strategy demanded patience.
Waller was a valuable pawn. Her government connections applied pressure in ways brute force couldn't. Wasting her now would be shortsighted. Practical steps first: spring Deadshot's crew from Belle Reve, extract Harleen from Arkham's chaos, and stop Boomerang from getting himself killed in Central City. The Witch could wait.
The passenger door clicked open. Officer Cora slid in, tossing a map into Hong Fei's lap. Red lines spiderwebbed across several blocks.
"Our patrol zone. Move out," she said, buckling up.
Hong Fei scanned the map, then started the engine. Few in the Marvel Universe had ever enjoyed him as a chauffeur. This cop had no idea how lucky she was.
They cruised through the designated streets until Cora pointed ahead.
"Park at that supermarket intersection."
After parking, Cora climbed out.
"Wait here. Zone's quiet, but stay sharp."
She strode into the store without looking back.
Hong Fei leaned against the car, arms crossed, watching the foot traffic. The difference was palpable. Civilians glanced at his uniform with the same disinterest they'd show a street performer—present but irrelevant, best ignored until needed. The epitome of "out of sight, out of mind."
That mentality only applied to white faces, of course. His gaze locked onto a young Black man across the street. When they glance casually, it feels like they are seeing a suspect instead of an officer—instinctive tension in every muscle.
The man instantly raised both empty hands from his pockets, pulling off his hood in one smooth motion. He kept his hands visible at all times, posture carefully non-threatening as he approached. Good. You can breathe now. Hong Fei thought without changing expression.
As soon as Hong Fei looked away, the man exhaled sharply. Such a tiresome ritual. Over a century of anti-discrimination policies, and the tension never faded. There was truth to that saying—the more attention paid, the more lacking things became.
Nowadays, anti-discrimination had become an obsession—and the obsessed groups had grown equally fanatical. They'd fought for equality, sure. But their struggle amounted to nothing against the forces arrayed against them. Even ignoring modern industrial developments—how could one-tenth of the population stand against nine-tenths? With pretty words? Playing victim? Weakness? The ghosts of Native Americans watched their every move. Rights were never won through pleading.
Every privilege they currently enjoyed had been handed down by real power players seeking greater benefits. Put plainly, it was a chastity archway—a moral facade erected by the powerful using their existence. All for show. Behind that glittering monument? Rot. Hypocrisy. Another name for it? Human rights. The American brand.
"What's on your mind?" Cora's voice snapped him back. She thrust a grease-spotted paper bag toward him.
"Patrol's not easy. Can't stay put, can't always drive. Gotta walk to catch the hidden dangers."
Hong Fei nodded silently, taking the bag and falling into step behind her.
"Lucky you. Checked the stats—security here's decent. Just forty-some incidents last year, nothing major. Might not even need that gun."
Forty cases a year. Hong Fei couldn't judge if that was good, but he'd take Cora's word for it. This district sat just two blocks from the hotel bombing site.
They wandered for hours without spotting anything unusual. By dusk, half the donuts were gone—all eaten by Cora while Hong Fei's share sat untouched.
"Not hungry?"
She spoke through a mouthful, frosting smeared on her chin.
"No."
"Not tired either?"
"No."
Cora's eyes lit up with something resembling approval.
"Good stamina. That'll help with chases or combat ops."
Hong Fei nodded. His gaze dropped to her flat stomach. He worried for Neil. This woman would balloon in size someday, and Neil might get smothered in his sleep. Though given Neil's own padding, maybe there'd be enough cushion to survive.
At precisely 8 PM, their shift ended. They returned the squad car to the station. Outside the locker room, Cora added, "Come early tomorrow. And... decent work today."
"Thanks."
Ten minutes later, Hong Fei changed into a suit and left. He'd barely stepped onto the sidewalk when Constantine's head popped out from an alleyway, gesturing wildly.
Hong Fei stepped into the shadows.
"What?"
Constantine's face spasmed.
"Officer Hong! We're at least half-partners here—"
"Employment. Not partnership."
"Where's the intel I asked you to investigate?" Hong Fei demanded.
The other man sighed. "Come on, you know I was locked up all day. Barely cleared my name before they cut me loose from the station. When exactly was I supposed to investigate?"
"Then go now."
"Yeah, that's the plan. But first..."
The man flashed a grin.
"How about we get properly introduced?"
Hong Fei's eyes narrowed to slits.
Constantine's chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.
"My treat at a bar. What do you say?"
When Hong Fei didn't immediately refuse, he pressed, "Three seconds to decide."
"Fine."
"Now that's what I call efficient!"
Constantine clapped his hands together.
"Hop in!"
He moved to sling an arm around Hong Fei's shoulders, only to find empty air as Hong Fei sidestepped.
"Keep your hands to yourself."
Hong Fei knew Constantine's reputation—the man played for both teams, with a string of ex-lovers spanning genders, species, and moral alignments. As an exorcist who occasionally dabbled in demonic affairs, Constantine's bedmates could be comrades, enemies, or things that weren't human at all.
"Touchy, touchy."
Constantine pocketed his hands, unfazed, and led the way to a rusted sedan that looked three payments past repo.
The moment Hong Fei opened the car door, a wave of stale protein stench hit him. His nose wrinkled.
"What the hell have you been doing in here?"
Constantine didn't bother turning as he laughed, the sound downright indecent. "Yes."
Hong Fei's glance at the backseat revealed a graveyard of stockings, lace underwear, and crumpled tissues. He rolled down the window, sucking in clean air.
"Doesn't this disgust you?"
"Why would I be disgusted by my own handiwork?"
"Tell me those stockings and bras aren't yours."
"Can't claim them, but I can't recall whose they are either."
"You drive this junk heap and people actually get in?"
"Ugly blokes need wheels to get laid."
Constantine winked.
"Luckily, I've got other charms."
"You're poor and ugly."
The exorcist shrugged.
"Call me what you want, but the ladies screaming their lungs out back there didn't seem to mind."
Hong Fei shifted in the stained seat.
"You've managed to disgust me. Congratulations."
Constantine's laughter shook the car's frame.
They reached the bombed hotel street soon enough. Passing the police cordon, Constantine shot Hong Fei a raised eyebrow. Hong Fei's expression never flickered. Once clear, Constantine gave an approving thumbs-up.
"Ballsy move, honestly. I've wanted to send that fat cow to hell for ages. Though was tossing my phone in there really necessary?"
"Yes."
Constantine's grin faltered. He'd expected denial, excuses—not this brutal honesty.
The alley they entered swallowed all light. Constantine rapped a pattern on the iron door before ushering Hong Fei inside. The stairwell dumped them into a sensory assault—throbbing bass, shrieks of laughter, and air so thick with sweat, smoke, and cheap perfume it felt chewable.
Wine-red lights stained everything. Bodies packed every inch—standing where no seats remained. All eyes locked on the central stage with its poles, cages, and chains. Scantily clad dancers were posing seductively, drawing waves of howling from the audience. As the music progressed, they wore less and less, and sooner or later, there would be nothing left. Constantine immediately joined the catcalls and whistles, looking more at home than Hong Fei had ever seen him.
The waitress in her skimpy uniform barely passed by when his hand darted out—a quick pinch to her backside followed by a folded bill slipped into her palm. No cash meant no flirty eye-roll; just a stinging slap across his smug face. After three successful grabs, Constantine turned with a grin.
"So? This place growing on you yet?"
"Spare me."
Hong Fei's gaze swept over the stage dancers and passing servers without the slightest flicker of desire.
"Christ, you're dull."
Constantine shoved through the crowd toward a private room, the noise dropping to a murmur as the door sealed behind them. Plush sofas framed a low table stocked with liquor bottles.
Constantine snatched a bottle, cracked the cap with his teeth, and took three long gulps before collapsing onto the cushions. A satisfied belch echoed through the room as he fished out a cigarette. The lighter snapped open with metallic precision. He inhaled deeply, releasing the smoke with a groan that spoke of pure, unrepentant indulgence.
Hong Fei shrugged off his suit jacket, ripped his tie loose with one sharp tug, and dumped both into the nearest trash bin. Constantine bolted upright.
"The hell? That thing's worth more than my car!"
"Ten grand. Pocket change."
Constantine hissed through his teeth, launching across the room to rescue the garments. He brushed imaginary dust from the lapels.
"If you're tossing designer wear, throw it my way! We're practically the same size."
Hong Fei loosened his collar and sank into the opposite sofa.
"Forgot the tie."
"Don't need it."
"Seven thousand dollar silk."
Constantine's knees hit the floor. As he arranged the discarded items on the cushion like sacred relics, Hong Fei cut to the chase, "A man of your talents shouldn't be hurting for cash."
A bitter laugh.
"That your billionaire logic talking?"
"People pay fortunes for problems only magic can solve."
"Sure—if the desperate had fortunes. Rich folks hire professionals. Besides..."
Constantine tapped his temple.
"Magic always collects its due."
"You really that obsessed with money?"
"Who isn't? With enough cash, I'd live here permanently."
"You could do better."
"This is better."
Hong Fei adjusted his cuffs with a derisive smirk.
"Really? How about limited edition Bugattis?"
Constantine's cigarette hung forgotten between his fingers.
"Women come in varieties. Stage dancers, cocktail waitresses... then there's supermodels, actresses, CEOs, politicians, scientists—even war heroes. You telling me the first two are your ceiling?"
Constantine's pupils dilated.
"Same with liquor. Ten-dollar swill versus vintages that cost more than houses. Cigars rolled by Cuban masters. Gambling—counting pennies so you can afford ramen, or lounging in a gold-plated casino with a harem and a pyramid of chips?"
"Enough, you bastard!"
Constantine's voice cracked. He paced like a caged animal, agitation rolling off him in waves.
"Yeah, okay! This place is good but not the fucking pinnacle! Shut up already!"
Hong Fei chuckled, shaking his head. Truth was, apart from the homemakers, researchers, and soldiers, he'd never bothered with the rest either.
Constantine couldn't resist boasting. Sure, he hadn't actually done those things himself, but he'd seen them firsthand. That made him an expert by proxy. His confidence made his claims ring true, and no one doubted him—certainly not Constantine, who stubbed out his cigarette, downed his drink, and scrubbed his face roughly with both hands.
When his hands fell away, his expression hardened.
"What are you?" he demanded.
Hong Fei raised an eyebrow.
"Why do you ask?"
"Your aura," Constantine said, leaning forward. "Everyone in this world leaves a trace—a trail of energy wherever they go. But you? You're a ghost. Your aura just appeared out of nowhere on Gotham's outskirts, then followed you all the way to New York. That's it. That's your whole story."
Their eyes locked.
"That's impossible," Constantine said.
"Nothing's impossible," Hong Fei countered.
"You're not from this world," Constantine pressed.
"So where are you from? Heaven? Hell? Are you an angel? Or a demon?"
Hong Fei's mind flashed to the "Angel Wings" fusion card—six pairs of wings, originally meant for Dr. Helen Cho. He'd brought it with him when he crossed over, a last-minute addition to his deck.
"What do you think?" Hong Fei asked, his tone light.
Constantine smirked.
"I think... you're no demon, and you're definitely not an angel."
"Reason?"
"I suspect," Constantine drawled, "you've got a demon on your tail."