"Harley!"
The middle-aged man stumbled forward, ignoring the pain in his injured leg as he rushed into the store. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with urgency. He dropped to his knees beside the girl on the ground, his hands trembling as he pulled her into his arms.
"Dad!"
Harley clung to him tightly, her voice shaking with emotion. Neither of them had expected to survive. In that moment of absolute despair, when everything had seemed lost, something had answered.
The man quickly looked her over, panic still lingering in his expression. Aside from her torn clothes and disheveled state, she appeared unharmed. The realization hit him like a wave, and he let out a long, shaky breath.
"Thank you… thank you, Blood God… thank you, Judgment Council," he murmured repeatedly, his voice filled with gratitude.
Overcome, he turned toward the dark street outside and bowed his head again and again, his forehead striking the ground without hesitation. Each movement was heavy, filled with relief and reverence.
Behind him, Harley slowly lifted her head.
Her eyes drifted across the ruined shop, lingering on the blood that stained the floor. There was no fear in her gaze anymore. Instead, something unfamiliar flickered beneath the surface, something quiet and strange.
She extended her pale fingers, brushing lightly against the dark red stains she had been staring at for so long. For a moment, she hesitated. Then, almost unconsciously, she brought her hand to her lips.
A faint, unfamiliar taste spread across her tongue.
Something shifted inside her.
A faint crimson glimmer flashed deep within her eyes before fading just as quickly. Behind her, her father was already gathering scattered items, completely unaware of the subtle change taking place.
…
Fifteen minutes later, shadows moved swiftly through the streets.
Figures in black slipped between alleys and rooftops, converging silently on an abandoned industrial building. Their movements were sharp, disciplined, and purposeful.
Inside the empty structure, the atmosphere was tense.
A man knelt on the ground, his head lowered. In front of him stood another figure, tall and imposing, a long sword strapped across his back.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A series of brutal kicks struck the kneeling man, each one powerful enough to send him crashing backward into the wall. Bricks shattered under the impact, dust and debris falling as his body embedded into the surface.
He didn't fight back.
He didn't even try.
"You lost your nerve because of his presence?" the swordsman said coldly, his voice cutting through the silence. "You didn't even dare to face him?"
The man coughed up blood, his expression filled with shame.
Just as the swordsman stepped forward again, a slender hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
"Enough," a woman's voice said calmly.
The hall fell completely silent.
The woman in black stood beside him, her posture relaxed but commanding. Every other figure in the room lowered their heads instinctively, not daring to interrupt.
"The organization still needs manpower," she added.
The swordsman exhaled sharply before sliding his blade back into its sheath. He turned away with a cold snort, clearly dissatisfied but unwilling to argue further.
The injured man forced himself forward, kneeling again despite his condition.
"Sir… that wasn't a fake," he said quickly, his voice strained but urgent. "His strength is far beyond the one we faced before. He stood there and took bullets head-on. And… the aura he gave off… it didn't feel human."
"Bullets?" the swordsman repeated, narrowing his eyes.
He glanced at another man nearby. Without hesitation, the man raised his gun and fired.
A flash of steel cut through the air.
Clang!
The bullet split cleanly in two, fragments falling to the ground as the swordsman lowered his blade. The sharp metallic echo lingered in the air, and several of the black-clad figures couldn't hide the admiration in their expressions.
"As expected," the woman said softly, her gaze shifting toward the ground where the deformed bullet casing lay.
Cutting a bullet mid-flight wasn't something an ordinary human could achieve. Even among them, only a handful could do it so cleanly.
"And yet… he took them without even reacting," the kneeling man added, his voice carrying a hint of lingering fear.
Silence followed.
"Do you think the Judge went into hiding after our attack?" someone asked hesitantly. "We should've finished him that night."
The swordsman let out a sharp laugh, cold and dismissive.
"You really think the one you surrounded that night was him?"
The question hung heavily in the air.
The woman turned her head slightly, her expression shifting as well. Clearly, they both knew more than they were saying.
…
That night.
A sealed container was placed on a metal table under sterile lights. A man handed it over to a doctor dressed in white, who examined it with curiosity.
Inside was a small sample—a drop of blood, deep red and unusually dense.
"This…" the doctor muttered, adjusting his glasses as he prepared a slide. "The composition is different. Completely different. And yet… there's something extraordinary about it."
He leaned over the microscope, his eyes narrowing as he observed the sample closely.
"This isn't from the same source," he said slowly. "But it's even more… fascinating."
The swordsman frowned slightly, his suspicion confirmed. He had questioned the sample from the moment he received it, but he still chose to verify it.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"It's not the same blood," the doctor replied, his voice growing more animated. "This is something else entirely. Something… better."
His tone shifted, excitement creeping in.
Under the watchful eyes of the others, he carefully separated the blood from the surrounding mixture. Then he drew it into a syringe and turned toward a small cage nearby.
Inside was a white mouse, old and sluggish, barely moving.
Without hesitation, the doctor injected the blood.
For a brief moment, nothing happened.
Then—
A sharp, piercing screech erupted from the cage.
The tiny creature convulsed violently, its body blurring into afterimages as it slammed itself against the glass walls. The sound it produced filled the entire underground facility, far too loud for something so small.
Everyone stared in shock.
It took multiple people to restrain the mutated mouse. Even then, it struggled wildly, its body undergoing visible changes. Its teeth elongated into sharp, jagged fangs, its movements growing faster, stronger.
"Remarkable," the doctor whispered, awe filling his voice. "Simply remarkable."
He adjusted his glasses, his eyes gleaming with obsession.
"This mouse was already near the end of its lifespan. But after injection, every organ in its body has begun reversing… rejuvenating. And beyond that, it's evolving into something else entirely."
He paused, watching the creature thrash inside its confinement.
"I'll need more time to observe the full effects," he continued, "but one thing is certain. The value of this blood… exceeds anything we've seen before."
A strange light flickered in his eyes as he spoke.
…
Back in the present, a cold wind swept through the unfinished building.
The swordsman stepped toward the edge, looking out over Gotham's dark, chaotic skyline. His gaze was deep, calculating.
"It seems," he said slowly, "we'll need assistance from local forces."
He turned his head slightly, meeting the woman's eyes. No more words were needed.
They both understood.
…
Elsewhere, on a quiet street, Locke's figure shifted.
The towering Blood God form shrank rapidly, the crimson robe retracting as his body returned to its normal human shape. He rolled his neck, the sharp crack of bone echoing faintly as a satisfied exhale left his lips.
His body was intact.
Not a single wound remained.
A faint smile crossed his face as he glanced down at himself. The bullets he had taken earlier hadn't been an act of recklessness—they had been a demonstration.
A message.
His gaze lifted, locking onto an abandoned building in the distance. Even from where he stood, he could make out the faint outlines of figures hidden in the darkness.
So many of them.
He reached up, removing the blood-red robe completely, examining his flawless skin with quiet approval.
This was exactly what he had planned.
After the ambush, he had realized something important. Being the Judge alone wasn't enough. It inspired fear, yes—but not the kind that stopped enemies from acting.
What he needed was something greater.
Something unknown.
Something that couldn't be measured.
So he created it.
The Judgment Council.
A name. A concept. A force hidden in the shadows, vast and unknowable.
Locke understood this world well enough to know one thing—power alone wasn't what controlled it. Even someone like Superman could be brought down under the right circumstances.
This world was deeper than it appeared.
And now, he had decided to become something even deeper.
....
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