American comic book: Transmigrated into Dior and adopted by the Wayne family

Chapter 36 The Death Knell

in the real world.

The sharp claws and lively eyes instantly became empty, as if something had been taken away from them.

The hand holding the silver needle, along with the needle piercing her forehead, fell limply to her side.

Dior, who was not far away, slowly woke up, as if he had just had a dream that was both good and bad.

I couldn't say I was in pain, nor could I say I was happy; I just felt extremely dizzy.

"This is..."

He inadvertently caught sight of the slender silver needle at his feet, and memories from his inner world instantly flooded back.

"My Stand World? Wait a minute!"

Dio's pupils contracted, he flipped himself to his feet, and aimed his revolver directly at the claws on the ground.

one second.

two seconds.

three seconds.

Claws knelt on the ground, motionless.

If it weren't for the slight rise and fall of his chest, he would be practically dead.

Dior frowned slightly, sensing that things were starting to get strange.

The spider sensed no stinging sensation, and the medical knowledge he had learned these past few days also told him that although the person's eyes were open, there was no conscious response to external stimuli.

This is a person in a vegetative state.

He holstered the gun at his waist, bent down to pick up the silver needle, and wrapped it in cloth.

The stamp at the end of the needle is covered with hallucinogenic substances, and the eerie symbol on it is the key to the mental realm.

Claw probably never expected that Stand users existed in this world.

He thought that with his specially trained mental strength, he could easily crush a 12-year-old child.

However, he never expected that the Stand user's mental power was so strong that it could condense into a form. When his mental power rushed in, it was directly crushed.

"Hahahahahahahahahahaha! Cough cough cough."

This seemingly hopeless situation was cleverly resolved. Dio laughed heartily, but the laughter aggravated his wounds, causing him to cough twice.

Moreover, having learned from past mistakes, out of caution, Dior poured out a viscous solution from the glass jar to firmly fix the claws in place.

After observing for another minute, it was confirmed that there was no error.

Claw seems to have indeed become a kind of vegetative state.

But then a problem arises.

How do I deal with this hot potato?

Dio stroked his chin, seriously considering how to get revenge—no, how to deal with him.

Claw's body, modified with Amber Gold and inferior Dionysus Factor, is virtually immortal.

A headshot wouldn't work, and he didn't have any of the chemical poisons from the Court of Owls that specifically countered regeneration.

It seems that freezing is the only solution.

"Hopefully Alfred won't be scared to death when he comes back."

Dio stepped over the unconscious Bruce and dragged his claws toward the cold storage on the basement level.

The freezer, modeled after the large cold storage of a cruise ship, was more than enough to freeze a claw.

He threw all the T-bone steaks out, stuffed his claws back in, then plopped down on the freezer and began to plot.

If left unchecked, the Court of Owls will learn of his special nature.

If we manage it, how should we manage it?

"Should we find someone to take the blame?"

Once the thought popped into my head, I couldn't suppress it anymore.

Yes, find someone to take the blame.

Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant; the key is that both sides have a way to save face.

The Owl Court has confirmed that something is wrong with him. How should the two sides get along from now on?

We need a scapegoat. I'll step down first, and then the Owl Court will step down.

Perfect!

The problem is, Gotham's go-to scapegoat, Jim Gordon, was just tricked into working as a security guard at Arkham, and no one else has the fighting ability to do that.

To deal with the claws sent by the Court of Owls, you need a tough opponent.

If only we had a skilled mercenary.

This mercenary must be shameless, greedy, money-oriented, and possess formidable fighting skills.

A name surfaced from the depths of my heart.

Slade Joseph Wilson, the death knell.

Dio glanced at the time; it was only a little past nine. He promptly dialed Peter's number.

Beep----Beep----Beep----

"Hey boss, what's up? I'm just getting ready to kick off my nightlife."

Peter's voice sounded exhausted.

He's been incredibly busy lately, not only reorganizing the flea market but also working as a street detective.

If it weren't for the fact that the Franklin that Dior gave him was too dazzling, he would have been paralyzed long ago.

"With great power comes great responsibility, Peter."

Dior stepped out of the cold storage, locked the door, and began to deceive.

"I know someone who's an information broker. Help me find someone's contact information."

"Get me someone's contact information, or have that person contact me."

"Yes, boss."

Peter on the other end of the phone nodded, decisively sat up in bed, and his expression became even more serious:

"What's the name of the person you're looking for?"

"Slade Joseph Wilson, the death knell."

"Deathstroke? Sounds like a tough guy. Okay, I'll give it a try."

Dior hung up the phone. There was still a long night ahead, and he wasn't planning on going to sleep anyway.

This is a small test for Peter. If he can really contact Deathstroke, it will prove that he is capable.

If he can't contact Deathstroke, then asking Alfred will surely allow him to do so.

Next, all that's left is to wait.

-----------------

Moonlight peeked in through the gaps in the blinds.

Deathstroke sat on the edge of the bed, holding a piece of velvet in his hand, slowly wiping the blade.

The bloodstains remaining on the knife had dried and were peeling off piece by piece as the velvet cloth moved.

The mask was taken off and placed on the bedside table, revealing half of the face, with nothing in the right eye socket.

The intact eye stared at the blade, its pupil reflecting its own face, expressionless, devoid of any emotion.

The blade is clean.

He sheathed the knife back into its scabbard by his leg and was about to get up when his phone on the bedside table vibrated and then lit up with its caller ID.

"lady."

"Slade".

The voice on the other end was languid, with a hoarse quality honed from years of smoking and drinking.

"There's a job out there, it's simple, and pays well. Want to take it?"

"How many."

Three million.

"Three million?"

The tolling stopped, and he slowly leaned back against the headboard, his remaining eye narrowing:

"What kind of work?"

"In other words, people want to buy your word, to buy peace of mind."

"Three million for a single word from me."

Deathstroke's lips twitched, but it wasn't exactly a smile.