The environment was dim.
The sky rumbled endlessly, and the dark clouds churned like a beast, growling in unrest.
On Tesco Verier Island, over 90% of the year was spent under this kind of turbulent sky—rolling clouds and relentless flashes of lightning that carried an ominous, bone-deep unease.
Now, with Bruce's lightning rod in place, electrical charge rattled across its frame. Silver arcs crackled around it, the magnetic field turning unstable. The weeds on the grass stood upright, affected by the force. The chaotic buildup of magnetic charge seemed to be calling to the dark clouds above.
Boom, rumble…
The arc of electricity gathered near Barry stirred the thunderclouds overhead. A pale light flashed inside the thick clouds, like a ghostly beast trying to claw its way free. It was terrifying.
Cold wind howled, sweeping through their disheveled hair.
Boom!
A bolt of lightning crashed down, its pale flash lighting up the entire forest.
It struck in the distance, blasting rock, bursting soil, and leaving behind a charred crater. Sparks leapt across wet grass, igniting it briefly.
The pale light reflected off the faces of Bruce and Constantine.
"John!"
Bruce's voice was low. The wind whipped through his black hair, the chill biting at his skin like needles. His eyes were filled with regret and a calm, simmering rage.
This wasn't the John he knew, the foul-mouthed magician.
What stood before him now was a young English gentleman, elegant and charming, his handsome face defined. Though the wind tousled his blond hair and flared the hem of his trench coat, it only made him look more refined and charismatic.
"I don't know you that well. Please, call me Mr. Constantine."
Constantine smiled gracefully. The cigarette between his fingers flickered in the cold wind. His trench coat flapped behind him, the golden hair gleaming faintly, his posture gentlemanly and poised.
Bruce's expression grew colder. A chill rose in his chest. He hated what Bardi had done to Constantine.
He had twisted everything—people, identities, even the hearts of heroes.
This was not Constantine.
Everyone knew Constantine as a bastard—unruly, sloppily dressed, stubble on his chin. A cynical drifter, the type of man whose rugged charm drew in curious women. That was Constantine.
And now? What was this gentleman nonsense?
In truth, Bardi had found Constantine's image intolerable. Under his rule, everything had to follow order, and behavior had to be proper.
Bardi, obsessed with control, couldn't stand a rule-breaker like Constantine. His mere appearance made Bardi want to slap him dead on the spot.
So he took Constantine at age twelve, guided by magic from an early age, and subjected him to spiritual manipulation. Seven years of twisting, bending, confusing, and guiding—until he had shaped him into an obedient gentleman.
Thus, the charming, disciplined, and thoroughly reformed Constantine was born.
"It's over."
Constantine maintained his gentlemanly smile. The cigarette between his fingers flickered before the wind caught the sparks and blew them into a growing flame, swelling rapidly into a half-human-sized fireball.
The fireball radiated intense heat, dispelling the cold air around them. In an instant, searing light bathed the gloomy scene in fiery red.
Bruce felt the scorching heat immediately. The exposed skin on his face stung, tiny facial hairs curling and burning under the intensity. A faint smell of singed flesh rose into the air.
The moment the fireball expanded, Bruce's eyes narrowed coldly. The folded bat wings on his back sprang open. He ripped them free and hurled them toward the fireball.
His whole body tucked and rolled.
Bang!
The bat wing met the fireball, triggering a violent explosion. Though covered with a fireproof membrane, the wings were no match for magical force. They were instantly torn to shreds and scattered like rags. The intense heat wave erupted outward, carving a charred crater in the grass and sending sparks flying in all directions, igniting the damp weeds nearby.
The shockwave flung Constantine's trench coat wildly behind him, forcing him a step back, his eyes narrowing.
Bruce tumbled with the force, his armor absorbing most of the impact. Some of it pressed against his body, but he endured. Mid-roll, he pulled two Bat-darts from his waist and hurled them at Constantine.
The darts were off-target, but they forced Constantine to pause. They whizzed past and shot into the sky.
When Batman stood up from his roll, he already held two modified black pistols, firing BB-like projectiles at Constantine. These weren't toys. They exploded mid-air, releasing a cloud of gray-green smoke around Constantine.
Fear gas.
In future memories, Bruce had faced Scarecrow, captured him, and learned the formula for the gas.
Crack, snap, snap.
As Bruce rose, Constantine raised an eyebrow. He tossed the cigarette into the air and snapped his fingers three times.
A crisp sound rang through the space, echoing in both their minds.
The roiling cloud of fear gas, churning, froze in place just five centimeters from his body.
Time seemed to stop.
Time frozen.
Bruce, the gas, and the very air all stood still. Nothing moved.
In reality, it was only air manipulation magic, nowhere near actual time-freeze.
But the air instantly became heavy, pressing down on Bruce with crushing weight.
Hoo…
In that moment, Bruce dropped to one knee.
The air had turned to pressure. Even with the strength to deadlift and press 800 pounds, Bruce couldn't resist it. His muscles tensed, veins bulged under the skin like writhing serpents. Under his chin, arteries pulsed visibly beneath the kevlar armor. He knelt, face soaked with sweat.
His heart felt like it was about to explode. The rumbling in his ears drowned out everything. He could hear nothing but his own blood, his heartbeat painfully loud. He couldn't breathe. Suffocation closed in.
No matter how straight his spine, it couldn't withstand the crushing pressure. He was pressed to the ground. Capillaries burst, eyes bulged, blood vessels broke in the whites of his eyes. Sweat mixed with blood seeped from every pore.
Constantine stood above him, looking down coldly at Bruce, who was flattened under the spell of compressed air.
Bruce couldn't speak. His teeth clenched tightly. He couldn't resist the gravity of this magic. Not even enough strength to move a finger.
Under this pressure, five seconds was enough to kill even the strongest human through internal organ rupture.
But in the second second, behind Constantine, the pair of Bat-darts already sparked with blue electric arcs. They crossed paths in midair and spun toward his back.
Above, the thunderclouds stirred. Lightning roared and churned, drawn by the signal from the Bat-darts.
(To be continued.)
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