Slade Wilson was in his temporary hideout, preparing for his upcoming "surgery" like a surgeon.
The room was empty, save for cold tactical gear and scattered parts.
He didn't turn on the lights; the neon glow of New York outside was enough to cast mottled shadows across his mesh-woven metal tactical suit.
He started with the girl codenamed "Gothic Lolita."
Mental attack, breaking down the will.
Slade's tactical database contained hundreds of countermeasures for mental control, from electroshock therapy to chemical blocking, but he chose the most direct—and most brutal—one.
He opened the chest plate of his tactical suit, revealing the intricate circuit board inside.
He carefully attached a micro-sensor to the skin of his chest, the other end connected to a hair-thin tube, which ended in a micro-syringe filled with amber liquid, secured next to his carotid artery.
This simple system would monitor his heart rate in real-time.
Once his heart rate dropped below a preset danger threshold due to external influence—for instance, losing the will to live due to extreme depression—the system would automatically trigger, injecting the specialized neurotoxin into his body.
The toxin wasn't lethal, but it would instantly ignite every pain receptor in his body.
It was an agent used specifically for interrogating elite spies, capable of making even the toughest hard-man experience the agony of having their bones crushed inch by inch.
Using extreme pain to combat mental collapse, using a hell of physical sensation to awaken the instinct to survive.
Slade didn't mind using such methods on himself; victory was worth any price.
Next was the "Pickpocket Boy."
Telekinesis, forced disarmament.
Slade picked up his high-frequency vibration sword and used a micro-screwdriver to pry open a hidden compartment in the hilt.
He skillfully embedded a grain-sized piece of plastic explosive inside, connecting it to a micro-pressure sensor and a countdown chip.
His handgun, spare magazines, and even every key armor plate on his tactical suit had undergone the same treatment.
This was a surprise prepared for the guy codenamed "Pickpocket Boy."
Slade's brain had simulated this countless times; that "stealing" ability which ignored physical laws was impossible to guard against.
Since it couldn't be blocked, he would make the opponent afraid to steal.
Any equipment that left his body for more than five seconds would turn into a lethal firework.
As long as that boy dared to steal, what he took wouldn't be a weapon, but a death warrant capable of blowing him to pieces.
He looked forward to seeing what would happen the second after that boy's face lit up with surprise upon stealing a sword.
Finally, there was the "Slothful Silver-Hair."
With the least amount of information, he was the most unpredictable.
Exceptional physical combat skills, sword skills unknown.
The power that erupted instantly from that lazy posture reminded Slade of some top-tier fighters he had faced before.
The best way to deal with such an unknown melee expert was to not give him a chance to get close.
Slade checked his M4 assault rifle and loaded the magazines with specialized armor-piercing rounds.
He would first eliminate the two support characters, then from a distance, use absolute firepower superiority to completely erase this final threat.
He put on all his gear, finally donning that iconic two-toned helmet.
The red eyepiece on the left eye lit up, and everything in his field of vision turned into a cold World composed of data and thermal imaging.
Everything was ready. The hunter stepped out of his lair.
At ten o'clock at night, the Yorozuya trio finally finished the last bit of repair work on their new shop and walked back to their temporary lodgings, dragging their exhausted bodies.
"I'm starving to death," Kazuma complained listlessly.
"The money spent on wall putty today would have been enough for three luxury pizzas. Perona, it's all your fault for insisting on tearing off that wallpaper, saying the color made you sick."
"Holo-holo-holo," Perona walked in front, holding her small parasol and taking elegant, pigeon-toed steps.
"This princess's aesthetic taste shall not be sullied. Besides, if the money is gone, can't you just go 'fundraising' again?"
"Do you think gangsters are like chives—you cut one crop and another grows back?" Kazuma rolled his eyes.
"We've already swept through the gangsters' territory; going back would be walking right into a trap."
"Ah, I really want a chocolate parfait—" Gintoki followed at the back, hands behind his head, looking like he might fall asleep on the side of the road at any moment.
"I feel like the sugar levels in my body have already fallen below the danger line."
They were walking down a relatively quiet street lined with parked cars.
This was the path they had to take to get home; having walked it for several days, they were already familiar with every manhole cover and every street lamp here.
Just as they passed an old Ford sedan, Gintoki's footsteps suddenly faltered. His perpetually sleepy, dead-fish eyes narrowed slightly, and he glanced across the street.
Almost at the same instant, as if Kazuma's off-the-charts luck had sensed something, the hair all over his body stood on end, and an inexplicable sense of dread made him stop instinctively.
It was too late.
"BOOM—!!"
A violent explosion instantly engulfed the entire street. The Ford sedan beside them and another car across the street simultaneously turned into two huge fireballs.
A scorching wave of air, mixed with countless metal fragments, swept over like a storm of steel.
At this critical moment, Gintoki and Kazuma reacted in perfect unison.
Gintoki grabbed the back of Perona's collar, while Kazuma lunged over to grab her waist.
Without a single word of communication, they displayed astonishing tacit understanding, working together to hurl the still-stunned Perona into the side alley.
Immediately after, using the momentum, the two of them—one with a side roll, the other with a clumsy lunge—narrowly escaped into the alley entrance.
"Rumble—"
The shockwave of the explosion followed, and the swirling air current sent the three of them rolling several times along the ground.
Scorching air, pungent smoke, and the "clanging" sound of metal fragments hitting the walls instantly filled their senses.
"Cough, cough, cough—"
Kazuma was the first to crawl up from the ground, his face covered in black soot, his ears ringing.
"What the hell? Did a gas pipe explode?"
"My new dress!"
Perona sat on the ground, looking at the tears in her Gothic dress and the dust covering it, so angry that tears were about to fall.
"Which bastard did this! This princess will make him kneel on the ground, crying and wishing to go home to raise pigs ten thousand times over!"
Only Gintoki stood up without a word, brushing the dust off his body.
His lazy demeanor had vanished without a trace, replaced by the alertness of a Beast.
His hand was already gripping the wooden sword "Lake Toya" at his waist, and his dead-fish eyes were staring coldly at the thick smoke outside the alley entrance, illuminated by the firelight.
From the smoke, a tall figure walked out slowly.
He wore grey and black tactical armor, and on his full-coverage helmet, one side was a deep black, while the red eyepiece on the other side flickered with cold light like a demon's single eye amidst the dancing flames.
The menacing-looking assault rifle in his hand still had faint blue smoke curling from the muzzle.
Deathstroke.
He didn't say a word of nonsense, nor did he give the prey any chance to catch their breath.
After seeing the three soot-covered figures in the alley, he immediately raised his muzzle.
"Da-da-da-da-da—!!"
The dense gunfire sounded suddenly, like the roar of the Grim Reaper.
Orange tongues of flame spat from the muzzle, countless bullets traced lethal trajectories, tearing through the air and sweeping wildly toward the alley where the three were hiding.